She was the first thing Scott saw as he walked out onto the terrace, after his eyes adjusted to the light of the more-or-less midday sun. He had been forewarned, but the sight of her, unclothed from the waist up, auburn hair loose and long, down to her naval, shielding her nipples, still came as a surprise. Her only item of clothing was a pair of cut-off stone-washed denim shorts. Her feet were bare. The woman sat in the centre of a manicured lawn, surrounded by scattered yellow rose petals, and before a small pool of amber-coloured liquid, which she was tending languidly with a wooden rod.

The tip of his tongue still stung from the hot tea which had greeted him at the front door of the mansion. He had been taken aback by the grandeur of the place, although, if he was honest, he hadn’t known what to expect. His task had been clear (at least in principal): collect an amulet from the address written on a folded piece of pink paper. His Fridays were usually spent collecting dry cleaning and finalising any travel plans required for the master’s weekend appointments, but these particular instructions had been communicated by the master in person, behind the locked door of his study, rather than, as was normally the case, in a tersely worded email. The master had held onto the message as he passed it across his walnut desk, forcing Scott to meet his eyes. ‘The woman who holds the amulet will be nude. This, amongst other things, will intrigue you, but don’t let anything which you may see there distract from your purpose. Get in and get out. Do as you are told, but it’s important that you don’t stay longer than an hour’, said the master. Scott nodded and started to pull again on the outstretched piece of paper. ‘I mean it, Scott. Don’t fuck it up.’

The rest of the garden came into view as he approached the edge of the pillared terrace. The central lawn was a preternatural shade of forest green, as if the contrast had been turned up high. The seated woman was framed by two towering rose bushes with trunk-like branches and blooms the size of footballs. The lawn was also edged with topiary unlike anything he’d seen before as the sculpted trees were shape shifting between wildly different forms. As he watched, a shooting star studded with tiny white flowers finished its descent, and then its points elongated and multiplied becoming a headless mass of writhing tentacles. This bizarre display was repeated up and down the verge at the edges of his vision. The place was awash with magic, but not the practical kind he was used to.

A set of stone steps curved down from the terrace to the lawn where a great white wolf sat, between him and the semi-nude woman, watching. There was fierce intelligence and, he reckoned, amusement behind the creature’s eyes. As he placed a foot on the top step, the wolf rose on all fours, as if summoned, and approached the woman, nuzzling the hand which she slowly presented to him. It circled her, rubbing its head and flank against bare skin, too much like a pampered cat than a wolf. The woman responded, grabbing handful after handful of its thick fur. The scene was oddly sensuous; at one point, Scott was sure that the wolf licked a nipple which was exposed, briefly. The scene was unsettling, but Scott was mesmerised.

The woman spoke then for the first time, in a voice soft but resolute: ‘You have come for the Amulet of Erya. I am disappointed that your master sent an underling rather than face me himself, but his cowardice is renowned. It is with some regret that I return the Amulet to its rightful owner. It has sadly been of no use to me, other than as a pretty trinket.’ She beckoned him closer. Scott glanced at his watch as he descended the steps; it seemed impossible, but it was already 12:45. The master’s words came rushing back: he had just 15 minutes to retrieve the Amulet and get out of there.

As he approached, the woman immersed her arms into the pool at her feet and drew out the Amulet of Erya. She stood and raised the Amulet to her lips, the amber liquid pouring down her arms, dripping from her mouth and running over her chin; the smell was sickly sweet and spiced. She whispered inaudibly to the piece of jewellery before offering it to him, ‘It’s his. Now go.’

Inspired by Laure Prouvost’s exhibition at The Whitechapel Gallery (Max Mara Art Prize for Women). 

At the dark end of the pier, beyond the clattering arcades, lies The Dressing-Up Box. A faded sign on the painted white door reads, ‘Cast aside the everyday grind and step into the shoes of another life’. So far, so good, right? Who doesn’t long to lose the humdrum, to escape, if only briefly, the shackles of daily existence? To those of you who responded with a resounding ‘Yes, sign me up!’ a word of caution: this outwardly harmless establishment isn’t all that it seems.

Under ordinary circumstances, the proprietess (rarely a proprietor) of a fairground fancy dress booth will relieve you quite happily of a tenner in exchange for a 30 minute rummage amongst the costumes. The clothes may be stale and a little moth eaten, but in the denuded wardrobe you can indulge your inner fairy princess or become the Egyptian queen of your dreams. Then, once the initial excitement fades and awkwardness descends, the moment is captured for posterity, all sepia-tinted and yours for just £7.99. After reluctantly parting with your cash, you leave the proprietess, her costumes, and perhaps your dignity, behind.

But not so at this establishment: the proprietess of this particular seaside shack not only wants your cash, she also wants your soul. Now, it may surprise you to hear that in the East Sussex area there is a rather buoyant market in the sale and purchase of living dolls. For the uninitiated among you, a living doll has every appearance of a regular child’s doll, but behind the glass eyes and within the stiff limbs lives the soul of a woman who has been tricked, trapped and then sold to the highest bidder. The proprietess on the pier draws her victims with promises of temporary escapism, a bit of a giggle, but her intentions are entirely evil.

Once the unsuspecting women hand over their money, they are led through to a deceptively cavernous wardrobe. The artificial light is kept low to hide fraying seams and unsavoury stains. The women spend a few minutes (their last as free souls) browsing the rails, looking for a costume which captures the eye or inspires the imagination. After they have chosen, the proprietess coaxes them out of their ordinary clothes while she weaves her spell over the selected garments. Once they are dressed, the curse is fixed, and the terrible transformation begins. First, the clothes and the women began to shrink until they stand no more than a foot from the ground. The next, and most unpleasant stage, is the hardening of the skin. The look and feel of plastic is important to her clients and the witch has refined the spell over the years, the only imperfection being a faint smell of burnt rubber which accompanies the whole process and lingers always afterwards. The final step, and the most difficult to behold, is the transformation of the eyes, a terrifying process of calcification. The spell is then complete. The proprietess gathers her victims in her arms and places the living dolls in boxes ready for sale, making room for her next hapless victims.

Inspired by a trip to Brighton Pier and my cousin, Christine. 

It was an evening in early spring and I was taking the slow bus home from my shift at the hospital. I gripped the metal rail in front with both hands and flexed each finger, noting a painful hangnail and resolving to trim it later. There were no other passengers and outside the sidewalks too were deserted. It seemed like the driver and I were the only two fools awake in the city. The bus pulled into each stop along the route, opening its doors to the swirling litter. Before continuing on our way, the driver would check his mirror to see whether I had decided at the last minute to get off. He looked faintly disappointed each time when I didn’t move from my seat. We paused at each empty stop for a few minutes and I imagined ranks of spectres filing on and off the bus, jostling for space and seats, and avoiding their warm blooded commuter. Then we were off again.

I was stifling a wide yawn (the long Sunday shift had taken its usual toll) when something red on the street outside danced in the corner of my eye. I looked over my shoulder and saw her, wearing the crimson coat she always wore. I wrenched frantically at the cord hanging above my seat and tore down the aisle to the front of the bus. The next stop was only fifty or so yards away, but the short distance seemed to stretch out like a cruel trick of perspective as we crawled to a stop. I gave the driver a dark look before leaping down the steps onto the sidewalk and I turned back up the street to see the tail of her long coat whip around a corner. She was heading for the abandoned house on Carrer Lleona, the place we’d imagined living, as a family, with our children. 

Inspired by Berta Vicente’s entry to the Sony World Photography Awards.

My poor Juliette, what have they done to you? Your day started with such cheer: presents exquisitely wrapped were torn open to beaming smiles and yelps of delight; Pierre the dog bounced with confused excitement around your perfect room as Mama and Papa doted and wished you a Happy Birthday. Then, you were off, a new emerald green scarf slung around your shoulders, running towards the rest of the day ahead, without a backwards glance, leaving me, as always, behind.

But now you’re back in front of me wet face held in tiny hands. You are too good for them, Juliette, they are not worthy of your shuddering tears. I long to comfort you, to rest a consoling hand on your tiny shoulders; I know that I could make your troubles fade, if I were only given the chance. But, no, this cold glass prison, my window into your life, keeps me from you, a doomed observer, forever. If only you could hear my voice I would offer such words of comfort that your fears would vanish in an instant. I will whisper them anyway, Juliette. I hope they reach you.

Inspired by an amazing blog post by Jenny Colgan on terrifying French children’s books! 

“You can’t go home again”. Who wrote that? I’m pretty sure it was an American, all cookie-cutter and picket fences. Whoever did, they were right; although I doubt they had nuclear disaster in mind. Today marks my return to Namie for the first time since the tsunami swept our town and lives away. But I am done with mourning. I am returning to Namie today with a single purpose: to find Noboru, my cat.

Until last week I had given up any hope of his survival, irrespective of how many lives he had going spare, but something my neighbour Mrs Nagata said gave me hope. Mrs Nagata and her four sons returned to Namie last week to collect the last of their belongings. Most of the town’s residents, including my family, have made similar journeys home, only to return shattered by the experience. I was there when Mrs Nagata returned to the temporary housing, head held high, clutching a bundle of belongings. ‘Our town is finished’ she said ‘Best leave it to the cats’.   

Inspired (with great respect) by the second anniversary of the 2011 Japanese tsunami. 

My love for him began life a year ago today. We met just once and then a painful nothing until this evening. I remember each minute of that night. Every recruit is required, as part of their training, to guard the Elder Caves which lie deep within the forest beyond the northern border of our village. Although the sacred Caves have always been protected by the Guardian sect, their numbers are supplemented each night from within the ranks of recruits. My time as a recruit was almost over then; the date of my testing had been finally set. Still, the path ahead was hidden from me, so I volunteered for duty that night to still my mind.

I arrived at the meeting point a little after dusk and was joined shortly afterwards by five other recruits. As spoken communication is forbidden after dusk, we waited in silence for one of the Guardians to arrive, exchanging nervous glances in the receding light and exercising our muscles on the spot. Two of the recruits were female novices (their rank marked by a single white band worn around the bicep); the others were male and of varying rank. One of them was, like me, an elder recruit, although from one of the outlying villages. Unusually for our kin, his eyes were green, rather than yellow or brown. After a short wait, a Guardian approached through the darkness and beckoned for us to follow. We crossed the barrier out of the village and took the forest trail that led to the Caves.

The darkness of the forest was complete; not even sunlight would have penetrated the densely woven canopy. To avoid losing one another during the march, we held the right shoulder of the recruit in front. As the most senior recruit that night, I took the back position, the darkness seeming to stretch on forever in our wake. The Caves sit like an island in the centre of the forest, over an hour’s walk from the village. Our small party made swift, uniform progress, breathing and moving in unison. The routine of the march ordinarily provided solace, but I was not myself: my hand on the shoulder of the other elder recruit felt clumsy and hot.

Upon reaching the Elder Caves, the group was separated: the 2 novices were to accompany the Guardian who’d brought us from the village; a second Guardian would be responsible for the 2 males of middling rank; and, given our experience, we two elders were expected to form an unsupervised guarding pair. Our task was uncomplicated: to attend one of the sentry posts which punctuated the perimeter of the clearing and protect the Caves at any cost.

Our post was on the opposite side of the clearing to the entrance to the Caves. The Elder Caves are sacrosanct. Whispers tell of a vast network of passageways and halls where our ancestors once lived, but entrance to the Caves is forbidden to all save the Ordained, who alone possess true knowledge. Reaching the post, we took stock of the equipment. The possession of weapons is strictly controlled within the villages, but a necessary part of Guardianship. We are taught that threats to the sanctity of the Caves come in many forms, including from within ourselves. The post, a hollowed tree trunk, was equipped with a store of long bows, quivers filled with arrows and stone-tipped spears. Food and water rations were also provided. We carried out the check in silence and then took our places side-by-side in the dark.

The assault came from the forest just before dawn. The first spear split the dry ground at my feet; the second spear pinned his shoulder to the post. He didn’t make a sound. In that moment the purpose which had been instilled in me since birth no longer mattered. Grasping the spear with my left hand and the trunk with my right, I eased the spear out of the splintered post and through his shoulder. Calm green eyes met and held mine before he sunk to the floor. I stooped to pick him up; he was light like a dream but tough as oak. I carried him a few yards before he was taken from me by a Guardian, to safety, down into the Caves. That was the last time I saw him until tonight. I don’t even know his name.

Inspired by the lines “You are light as dreams, Tough as oak” from the poem ‘Words’ by Edward Thomas.