Once upon a time lived a little bear named Bear. In a town of only a few citizens, he lived isolated in a quaint little cottage uphill of Cranberry Road. A home near a silent pond and silent trees. The quiet stray dog scratched on the door once a month at the same exact hour, begging to let him inside for warmth and comfort. For whatever reason, that dog never barked. The little friends in the chicken coop always gave him company. A silent dog, a silent chicken coop, all next to the field of tall grass, who whispered amongst themselves as the wind blew right through them ever so slightly. That same tall grass which gifted young Bear no sleep whatsoever. Chortling. Gossiping. All . . . night . . . long . . . but it didn’t matter to him. During the day, the grass would keep his mind at bay.
That same stray dog had returned by the time Bear arrived back home. The white wooden door was patiently distorting into a muddy shade of brown for every time that dog peeled off the bark with his sharp clawing nails. Bear was not happy with this. He approached the little mutt, pulled him back by his left ear, and spanked him. A whine, a faint--sad, maybe--whine freed from the wild animal’s lips.
“There’s nothing for you here,” he scolded. “Go along now! Shoo!”
His grip loosens and the dog goes running off into the tall grass from which he came.
Bear watches his skinny long tail disappearing into the field.
Bear takes off his shoes and allows his little feet to make contact with the cold tile floor. His fur rises. The cottage has been abandoned for three days. And during those last three days, Bear went on a long journey alone to purchase some rare golden fabric from his favorite shop in a busy town miles and miles away. He always met ubiquitous strange faces at every street corner. The townsfolk all stared at him, sometimes whispering “Where’s your mother?" and "Are you lost?"
Because it wasn’t normal for someone his age to be traveling alone, every adult had their right to be concerned. But Bear always said, “Thank you, but I can manage.” And proceeded to do everything on his very own.
The lonely little bear goes to his living room and lays the golden fabric down by the dusty sewing machine. He sat down and placed the fabric under the needle. His mother used to sew, too. She taught him how to make clean stitches. X-stitches, zigzag stitches, even satin stitches (which took him two months to figure out).
Early jazz played from the radio as he continued to work. The disc spun as normal but the audio crackled here and there. Bear didn’t seem to mind this. He hummed the playful tune and swayed his feet to the rhythm. Working with running thoughts is very much painful, he thought. Bear needed sound despite how quiet Cranberry road was. Maybe that explained why the long grass field was so alluring to him. Every morning, he would sit by his kitchen window and gaze out into the field, eavesdropping on nature’s daily gossip.
The long-lasting tranquility was pleasing until a loud thud from above caused Bear to jump. His focus was disrupted, making his last stitching pattern go a tad bit crooked. His index finger slipped under the needle. The sharp point dragged across his skin as he jerked his hand back. A bit of crimson seeped from his finger and dripped onto his gold fabric in the process. Bear squeezed and hissed in pain.
THUD!
The second disruption angered the poor little bear, who was just recovering from the first. He ripped the fabric out with all his strength and dropped the sewing machine to the carpet floor. A third thud. A fourth. A fifth. The more thuds there were, the louder they got.
Looking up, the ceiling began to crack in one long broken line. Little bits of powdered cement fell from between the cracks like snow. The room felt colder all of a sudden. And completely bizarre as a small circle began to form, dulling the white ceiling to a shade of gray. Some liquid dripped to the bridge of Bear’s nose and raced down to his furry little neck. Must have been a leak from upstairs. That can’t be, Bear thought. The bathroom is directly above the kitchen.
He reached out for the broomstick and approached the stairs with a wary glance. His hands started to moisten as he held it tightly in front of his body, the end of the handle slightly outward. And then slowly, he ascended. Water began to seep through from his shoe to his socks. Bear trudged through the long hallway of the flooded second floor. He passed by the long forbidden doors. Forbidden doors that he promised to never enter. It stinks, he thought every time he passed. I can’t handle that smell.
Towards the end of the hall and past those doors was his mother’s bedroom. He entered the room for the first time in a while and his eyes dug to the back of a little white mouse sitting upon her bed. Bear gripped onto his weapon tighter. Since the mouse was turned around, he took this chance to swing with all his might but something struck him instead. The little bear lost his strength and fell upon the crimson-stained sheets. He slowly tried to lift his hand but some kind of force kept it down against the bed.
“What is this?” he growled at the mouse.
The rodent turned around and began to chuckle. He removed his little top hat and took a bow as if he had just finished an astonishing performance.
“Why aren’t you a little cruel?” he pointed at him.
“Why can’t I feel anything?” Bear grunted, as he attempted to move his stubborn body. It felt as if he was being stepped on by a giant and his limbs had gone numb from the pressure.
The mouse put his hat back on and snapped his fingers. Bear could feel himself again but instead of trying to whack the intruder, he sat on the bed for a moment.
“You cannot hurt me. I am made of magic,” the mouse said.
“Magic?” Bear scoffed. “No such thing as magic.”
“No such thing as magic, hm?”
He chuckled again and the young bear shook his head in disbelief. He did not think for one bit that this was funny. His house had flooded, the living room ceiling had cracked, and his patience had gone short.
“Who are you?” Bear crossed his arms. “What are you doing in my house?”
The little mouse had gestured for him to lean down so he could reach his height and hear him speak more clearly. Bear did as he was told and waited for his words.
“I am Sir Freddy,” the mouse said. “But that is not what’s important. What matters is that someone out there wants to punish you. ”
Bear jerked back against the wall in shock. He stuttered his words, confused and scared.
“Wha--how do you know my name? Am I in danger?”
Sir Freddy leapt from the bed to the nightstand. “You must seek forgiveness, my friend.
You have made a terrible sin.”
Bear knew exactly what he did wrong. He spent his days denying his actions and living through the hauntings. Sometimes, it hurts for him to fall asleep. The mouse knows, Bear thought. He had been watching me for the past few months.
“Only you can fix what you have done,” Sir Freddy continued. “You can do this. You can do this on time before the clock strikes twelve.”
Bear scrunched his nose. The little white mouse put him in a simple, yet difficult dilemma. Still, he nodded his head and accepted his journey.
“What must I do?” Bear asked. “There must be a lead. Anything can help.”
Sir Freddy stroked his chin, pretending to think. “Hmm . . . you follow your instincts and they will take you forward.”
“Wait, what instincts? Can you just tell me where I have to go?” Bear rushed his words before the mouse scattered away and disappeared into a small hole on the other side of the room. He was given no more clues.
By nightfall, Bear laid on his bed to think about what Sir Freddy had said. He wanted to be at peace and contemplated what to do. At first, Bear thought this was going to be difficult, but he followed the path that was hiding in plain sight.
The very next day, Bear came back from school. He walked into the kitchen of their quaint little home and turned on the flickering yellow lights. He looked around the dead silent, poorly cleaned household.
“Mommy?” he called out.
No answer.
“Mommy!”
His mother wasn’t home as usual. Instead of her voice, the floor began to rumble and the
ceiling began to crack. Bear repeatedly called out the name of his only loved one, only to get no answer in return. By the fifth call, a loud thump came from the room from above. Bear dropped his bag on the floor and headed upstairs towards the sound, hoping to find another clue. Passed those very same doors and down the very same hallway. Into his mother’s bedroom, Bear kneeled towards the bed. On top of the bed laid a trinket that his mother used to wear everyday for the years she cared for Bear. It wasn’t there before.
Perhaps this was Sir Freddy’s doing.
Bear clasped his hands and closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and managed to speak
the very words that he had held deep inside him.
“Dear mom. I've been a coward,” Bear cried. “I’m sorry for hiding away when the
monsters came to hurt you. And being too afraid to call the police. I’ll do the right thing.
It will all be okay. I promise.”
Once Bear finished his sentence, the house stopped rumbling and the world fell back into silence. He took the trinket with him on the way back down the stairs. He picked up the phone and dialed the police like he should have done long ago.
The phone rings.
“Hello?” a voice from the other side.
“Hello. This is little Bear from the little cottage on Cranberry Road.” Bear tried to hold
n his tears but ended up cracking at his words. He explained to the police everything that happened. From the day the intruders came into his home and robbed him of his family’s money. The golden fabric was what made his mother’s clothing business rich. And when Mother Bear refused to let go of what she held dear to her, the intruders hurt her while Bear hid cowardly in the closet of her bedroom. And to this day, Bear was afraid to speak of anything. She remained there. Rotting. Existing. In the silence that Bear tried to mask.
A few moments later, red and blue lights danced through the windows of Bear’s kitchen where he stood, grasping the phone. Sirens wailed from outside. And for the first time, Bear allowed another soul to enter his home. Men in uniform walked right in. Another takes him out of the home to comfort him. In the distance, the wild dog that had been scratching at bear’s door everyday stood and watched as his mother’s body came rolling out of the little cottage and into a big ambulance.
Bear sniffled. Would everything be normal now? He wasn’t so sure. He would be completely alone now, wouldn’t he?
Everything turned out to be alright for Bear. Years later, he would be sitting in the cottage, taking over his mother’s clothing business and stitching away with the golden fabric that made it special. It meant a lot to her so it would be an honor. The radio had been fixed so he could enjoy the jazz music without any interruptions. The wild dog now wears a collar and becomes a new part of his family. Sir Freddy helps Bear around once in a while with cleaning and groceries.
“Bear, how do you like your eggs?” said a voice from the kitchen.
“Sunny side up! Like all things should,” replied Bear.
His wife returns with two plates of breakfast and Bear stops sewing to eat with her.
Music playing. The dog came to sit with them.
He wasn’t lonely anymore. Bear realized that it was time to be a stronger person. Be
honest with himself, accept what has happened. And keep pushing forward because he deserved to live a happy life as well. That is what Bear needed to build himself a healthier future.
The End.
Angelina Pril is a Freshman studying Fine Arts at the School of Visual Arts. "I aim to merge storytelling with art to create more meaningful works as a form of therapy and human connection," Angelina says. "My short story is written in the style of a children’s fairytale, tackling heavy subjects such as grief and guilt."