9 ~Aromas~


The walls smelled like peppermint tea and dates. It would have been almost pleasant, if not for the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh permeating from the wooden floor below. Droplets of dark red blood were spattered in a mad array of quick gushes. So dark in fact, was the blood, one might mistake it for black tar.

My face remained plastered against the old floral wallpaper, ripped and decaying in many areas. The old scent of peppermint and dates was fading fast. My hands were firmly clasped behind my back. An old, itchy rope tied them together in an unnatural position. The throbbing in my fingers was surely caused by the build-up of blood, blocked by the tight restriction of my vulnerable wrists.

The small room, hexagonal in shape, was dark with only slight rays of moonlight escaping through the boarded up windows. It broke through like laser beams, highlighting small particles of dust. They danced around wildly and slowly like tiny stars riding along invisible waves. There was a meditative beauty about it, as though I too could ride the glittery waves to safety.

The force that pinned me to the wall was invisible. Invisible and strong. So strong in fact, my breath was swiftly leaving me. The pressure against my chest was agonizing. I could feel my ribs slowly cracking as though this cruel entity intended to break them in slow motion.

Perhaps the cruellest thing of all was my desire to scream. It was a gift not even god himself could grant me. Not a whimper was able to escape my throat. Oh how I desired to cry out. A small gift it would be indeed.

All I can do is pray for my end to arrive quickly. My eyes dart downwards, glimpsing the bruised and bloody hand at my feet. It was as though he had tried to reach me. One last touch before the end.

8.~The Disappearance of Vincent Akamatsu~


Vincent Akamatsu loved to paint portraits of flowers. It did not matter what species the flowers were. He had no particular preference. For him, there was just something so spectacularly thrilling about capturing the slight changes in colour and form. Ever since he was small, Vincent would wander around his grandmother’s backyard finding the perfect subject. For him, nature provided the most wonderful aesthetic. A garden in his mind was already a painting.

His mother and father learnt quickly to indulge his hobby and bring all sorts of flowers home on a weekly basis. It kept the house colourful and Vincent happy. Mr Akamatsu did not even mind the sneezing fits he would have to suffer through, especially in the summertime. The family delighted in calling him Rudolph when his nose became a giant red mess.

When the Akamatsu family first moved to Godwin manor in 1986 they did not hesitate to hire a landscaper. One who would fill the empty earth around the large manor with an array of life. It was a place in dire need of colour and Eleanor Akamatsu was happy to oblige her teenage son’s wishes.

At fifteen years old, Vincent was a reasonably content young man. He went to the local Catholic school in town and gained popularity very easily due his obvious wealth. None of his peers seemed to disregard his hobby as strange or too ‘feminine’ a thing to do. No one could deny that his art was especially beautiful. Sometimes he would add his friends to the paintings, their faces pressed into the petals of purple Tulips or the leaves of a yellow Sunflower. The most memorable of Vincent’s paintings was that of a blue Rose. A bright vibrant blue against a dark blackness. It radiated a certain warmth that seemed unusual for such a colour.

“I don’t recall ever seeing a blue Rose before,” exclaimed his father, staring at the painting that was leaning against the doorframe of Vincent’s bedroom.

Vincent smirked “well they don’t technically exist in nature”

His father looked at him curiously “so what inspired you to paint it?”

Vincent shifted uncomfortably where he stood and shrugged. His eyes gazed towards the old mirror that hung on the wall opposite his bed “just something that came to me one day”.

Mr Akamatsu sensed the hesitation in his son’s voice. It was something he had never sensed from him before. There was an unease about him, a weariness behind his eyes. Looking back William Akamatsu would regret his decision to ignore this moment, to have brushed it off as nothing incidental.

Before William left for work, he turned to his son “and what do you call it?” he asked.

Vincent blinked.

“Jules” he said in a direct manner without much thought or consideration.

“Why Jules?” his father asked said curiously.

Vincent frowned. He stared at the painting as though in a trance.

“Because that is its name”.

His father thought he could detect a hint of confusion in his son’s voice, and with that, he left, not knowing it would be the last time. For one can never imagine outliving one’s own child.

Note: This is a continuation of Winifred Pickle & The Ghost of Godwin Manor. I will now be identifying the chapters by name.


7.Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



I did not scream, nor look away. The sight was as fascinating as it was terrifying. My neck crooned upwards and my eyes fixated on the sight.

Brown leaves with specks of gold fluttered in unison like a swarm of bees. It was as though the sound of the winds’ fury has subsided and was instead replaced by the crackling of dead leaves. They molded together to form the frightening figure of a tall woman.

She hovered before me in the center of the room. She did not have a face exactly. The leaves however were placed in such a way, that the small dents and slight changes in colour formed the appearance of facial features.

Suddenly the window behind me snapped shut. I jumped to my feet and backed into the wall. My hands scraped against the ugly salmon wallpaper as though searching for something to squeeze. They simply peeled at the rotting paper; small bits of plaster crumbled and fell at my bare feet.

The leaves had somewhat settled in place now. The figure was no longer a sporadic collection of swirling shrubbery. Instead she softly swayed, every leaf forming an important piece to her puzzle.


‘It speaks’, I thought to myself. A surge of panic slithered through my stomach and I had a sudden urge to call out to Julian.

Winifred Pickle” she muttered again, her voice soft and strangely welcoming.

“How do you know my name?”

I had decided not to call out or scream for help. There was something about this moment that was completely reserved for me and I did not want to give it up.

She did not answer my question. The woman continued to stare at me (or at least I think she was staring. It was hard to tell without actual eye balls).

Suddenly the figure moved. In one giant whoosh she glided towards me and froze and inch from my body. A small yelping sound escaped my lips.

“Curious” she laughed “The first words you utter. I would have thought your first remark to be-“

She paused, her ‘face’ surveying me up and down “-something different”.

“Sorry” I whispered, quite sincerely.

She laughed again; a rather icy laugh.

“Don’t be sorry. Sorry is a word reserved for men only, thrown around as often as we change our shoes, just as meaningless, really”

She spoke rather quickly as though she were talking to herself as well as me. She began to slowly twirl where she hovered, taking in the sight of the room it would seem. Her body of leaves swayed up and down as though she was struggling to keep herself upright. There was something about the small quivers in each leaf that made me uneasy.

Curious” she said softly “It hasn’t changed one bit”

“You’re a Ghost” I coughed, dust getting caught in my throat. As the words escaped me I realised how stupid I sounded. Of course she was a ghost.

She whipped back around, no longer focusing on the room. I could almost make out the shape of a smile.

“You’re a bright one” she spat with a heavy tone of sarcasm that turned the fear I was feeling into a deep annoyance.

“Now!” she shrieked.

I stumbled backwards slamming into the wall.

“Shall we get started?”







Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



The cold wind hammered against the unstable window. With every howl, the barrier between my room and the night air grew thinner and thinner. I could not begin to understand what possessed my father to give me this room. The look on his face suggested he believed he was doing me a favor.

The fact that the walls were an awful shade of salmon pink only offended me. My favorite color was blue; a fact he never appeared to comprehend. I once asked Julian what his favorite color was. He shrugged. I didn’t persist.

The mattress to my delight was surprisingly soft. I sunk into it like a cloud. Perhaps that should have been enough to get me to sleep. Perhaps if that damn window would stop rattling, I might just.

I closed my eyes and pictured rain, falling softly in slow motion. The tiny droplets spattered around me like tiny little water fireworks. I loved the rain, the soft dreary kind. The sound it makes when spattering on the roof creates a unique kind of music.

I opened my eyes and glared over at the fragile window, still rattling away. The moon created a luminous glow. It lit up the frosty window like a flash light on low beam.

There was no rain tonight. The sky was not sad. By my estimation it was simply furious.  It was a dry, tear-less fury; the most dangerous kind. It was a kind of rage that far surpassed the simplicity of sorrow. I thought of Julian and the tears I have never seen him shed. BANG.

I sat up straight with a start. The inevitable had happened. The window was open and rattling wildly as gusts of wind blasted through my room. The leaves that covered my floor began to swirl around wildly.

My feet hit the ground and were quite startled at how cold the floorboards were. I ran to the window while icy air and dead leaves continued to slap me in the face. I tried to shut it but it was hopeless. My arms were too weak against this kind of fury.

Suddenly I found my legs give way as the wind knocked me backwards to the hard wooden floor. I landed with a thud upon some leaves that had melted there. My hands could feel the sticky combination of rotten leaves and dust.

I managed to lift myself up onto my elbows and what I saw next could not be explained away by the wind.

The leaves were not flying sporadically around the room anymore. They instead kept to the center, as though they were being pulled together by a magnetic force. They formed a shape that was easily recognizable but hard to believe.

They formed the shape of a woman.


Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



I did not openly object to our move. It wasn’t necessarily my place to question where my Aunt and Uncle had insisted on living. When I saw the house however, a feeling inside my stomach told me that Freddie’s cries of objection were perhaps the most normal reaction a sane human being could have. It was the most intimidating house I have ever seen. It was three stories high and lingered over us as though it was mocking us with its presence.

The exterior walls were a deep, dark grey, almost black in certain areas. All the windows were filthy and closed shut; all except one.

It was on the top floor to the farthest left point of the house. It hung wide open in an awkward manner with dead orange leaves cluttering the ledge. You could see nothing inside though, just a deep blackness. It was as though the house would not dare let the light in, no matter how hard it tried to break through.

I found out later that evening that this was to be Freddie’s room. She complained all through dinner about the hoard of dead leaves covering her bedroom floor.

I stared at her as she demolished her soup. Her copper locks were no longer free flowing like they used to be. Her hair was pulled up into a high bun at the top of her head. I also noticed a hint of eye shadow, a shimmery blue across her lids.

It was difficult to talk to her these days and I couldn’t really understand why. I like kids because they don’t care what people think. I suppose it was easier to talk to her when I had nothing to fear. I now have everything to fear and everything to lose. Something deep inside me lingered like a hidden disease; a trouble I could not name, nor identify.

What I did know in this moment however, was that I did not want Freddie to have that room.



4.Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



It was happening more frequently these days. The nightmares. The flashbacks were so vivid they would follow me into my waking state.

When I first went to live with the Pickles two years ago they were practically strangers to me. I had met them once when I was six. Freddie was only two when I traveled to England the first time. It was also my first time on a plane and it was absolutely excruciating.

Twenty-five hours in the air with thousands of kilometers between you and the sea is not a pleasant experience. I kept asking my mum if the plane was going to crash. After the twentieth time other passengers were beginning to give my parents disapproving looks. The kind of look that says ‘you have failed as a parent’. It was a harsh assessment in my opinion.

I had never really experienced cold before. Winters in Australia could be quite chilly but nothing compared to the feeling that hit me as I stepped off the plane. It was an unfamiliar sensation and I suddenly wanted to be back on the plane. I distinctly remember my dad carrying me as I wailed and smacked him on the back.

I never could have imagined that nine years later I’d be back in that place again, stepping into the cold English frost at Heathrow airport. Only this time the cold didn’t bother me. The numbness was strangely comforting. It seemed to not only dull my fingers and nose, but the tears as well. I didn’t ever want to feel heat again. I wanted nothing more than to curl up within a blanket of snow and let it numb every inch of me.

When I saw Freddie for the first time she was not that gurgling little basket of red curls I remembered. Her hair had faded into a more copper tone, with long waves falling down her back. Her large green eyes stared at me in wonder and there was a tinge of sympathy in the way she curled her mouth. Her ears were like my mothers, only there were no piercings to be seen. She wore a navy blue coat with yellow buttons and white leg warmers that extended beyond her knees.

When I approached my aunt and uncle they tried very much not to cry. Aunt Mary was not very successful. She held me tight and it was very warm. It might have been comforting but in truth it wasn’t. This woman was a stranger and all I wanted was my mum to be hugging me. A feeling of resentment twinged in my gut. You are alive and your sister is dead. It was a horrible thought but sometimes you just can’t help how you feel.

It could’ve been all downhill from there. It would have been so easy to let that resentment grow, to let the seed bear fruit. I wanted to let it eat me up until I was no longer my mother’s son. For if I was no longer the son she raised then I no longer had a dead mother.

It wasn’t however, the end of me. I suppose I have Freddie to thank for that. She didn’t hug me or cry. She held out her hand and said nothing. I took it and that was that.

We sat next to each other on the ride to her house saying nothing. For ten whole days after that we still said nothing to each other. While everyone else was pestering me, trying to find out what I needed, Freddie already knew. I needed time and time is what she gave me.

After the tenth day I finally spoke to her. I told her that her coat was ugly. I’ll admit it wasn’t the best first thing to say to her. She just smiled and shrugged.

“What do boys know about fashion anyway?”

I laughed.

3.Winifred Pickle and the Ghost of Godwin Manor




The dead leaves hung onto the summer wind, bringing with them spatters of ash and tiny pieces of yellow grass. The smell of burning trees lingered in the air like an overcooked barbeque that had long outstayed its welcome. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence for this time of the year. With summer comes the heat and the storms. The combination of both gives birth to a yearly terror. Although it was midnight, the sky lit up into an orange haze. Grey clouds were overwhelmed by the smoke and soot. They would merge together in such a way, you could not tell where one started and the other ended.

There was usually a sense of nostalgia on nights like this. This smell was a Christmas day; everyone opening presents, ignoring the inferno that raged in the distance. I remember chasing my neighbours in the back yard, a silhouette of children dancing beneath burnt leaves. Our shadows would make stark outlines against the orange cement. It lit up like a glow worm, reflecting the midday sky.

It wasn’t Christmas however and no one was celebrating. I woke up in blackness. Sometimes I feel like I am still in the dark. When I close my eyes at night I am there again.

My eye lids opened expecting the sun and its usual unwelcoming sting. This time it was an unfamiliar hurt. A whiff of heat caused my eyeballs to instantly dry. Streams of tears began to rush out as my body responded hopelessly to the unfamiliar situation. I did not know the worst was yet to come.

The toxic fumes of black smoke invaded my nostrils and my mouth went dry. The roar of the fire was overwhelming and in that moment I truly believed I was in hell. It’s amazing, the instinct to survive. You’ll never understand it unless you’ve nearly died. It’s such a helpless and terrifying sensation. Your whole body wants to explode in terror and your mouth can only let out a whimper. A small tiny cry that could never fully convey the fear that raged within.

I rolled off my bed and hit the floor with a hard thump. The carpet was still relatively cool and the air more breathable. Part of me wanted to stay here, this place where my mum spent years tucking me in at night. It was a passing thought and nothing more.

I began to crawl hopelessly towards the direction of my door. I had a fair instinct as to where it would be. My body scraped against the carpet; my bare and exposed legs were rubbing furiously, creating a heat of their own making.

When I reached the door I was relieved to find it open. It meant that I could stay low where there was still tiny pockets of air to breathe. My heart stopped however when I discovered why. Just outside my door I felt the lump of a body strewn across the floor.

Her hands were still soft but her hair was rough and singed from the fire. She didn’t move at all. My cries and furious shaking of her body was hopeless.

When I think about her lying there it’s not her death that makes me angry. My mum dying just makes me sad. What makes me angry is the smoke. The dark black smoke that would not let me see her face one more time.

Before I somehow found my way to freedom I took a moment to feel her face in my hands. I traced the funny outline of her slightly uneven nose. I could feel the beauty of her big eyes and deep sockets. They were a unique shade of green, a colour I would never see again. Her lips were quite thin like mine. I had a compulsion to find her lip balm before I escaped. Her mouth was so dry. The ears; tiny little things with multiple earring holes. I wondered how she managed to fit so many.

I started to weep uncontrollably. Water fell from my face as though a fountain had erupted in my chest. My body convulsed and I did not know whether it was due to the smoke or sadness; probably both.


A familiar voice called to me.

I looked up from my dinner plate and saw her staring at me. She has my mother’s ears but nothing else.

2.Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



I stared at Julian from across the dinner table. He was mad at me and made no attempt to hide it. The sound of his fork scraping against the white ceramic plate sent chills through my rib cage and down my spine. His dark brown eyes glared up at me every now and then. I found it extremely irritating really.

Julian was seventeen, only four years older than I. He was my cousin on my mothers side. Two years ago his family burned to death in a bush fire. The hazards of living in Australia I guess. I’ve heard stories about the heat and the dry grass; the mix of both making a deadly combination during the summer months. I often thought about how awful it would be to burn to death, like the witches in Salem we learn about in school. Or the martyrs in ancient times who felt melting under a pyre was worth their cause. I would much rather freeze to death like the old woman in the snow. At least your face would remain mostly intact.

He was mad at me because I told mum about the poorly hidden cigarettes. Smoking is a nasty habit and I’m not about to apologize for helping to extend his life. I probably could have spoken to him first but we’re not that close these days.  It was different once. We use to be closer than real siblings. He would scruff my head and call me his little Pickle.

We’re practically strangers now and I blame the breasts. I don’t feel quite like a woman but I guess I’m starting to look like one.  He doesn’t call me Pickle anymore and so I don’t call him Jules. I wish I could go back to the precise moment, the day it all changed. When I think back it becomes more and more clear that such a moment doesn’t exist. People change in subtle intervals; little moments of difference that can’t be identified. Like dust riding on waves of light, I just can’t catch the right speck. All these moments intertwine and there I am, simply grasping at the breeze with nothing to latch on to.

I suddenly felt a wave of guilt as I continued to watch him stare solemnly at his plate. Something stirred inside me, a feeling that was difficult to explain. The screeching of his fork intensified and soared through my ears at an unnatural volume. The world around me blurred into faint lines. Jules was the only object in focus. It was as though the world was moving in slow motion, everything shapeless and in this moment: insignificant. All that mattered was Jules and his face.

His face was not the face I knew.

1.Winifred Pickle and The Ghost of Godwin Manor



Winifred Pickle was the newest resident that inhabited Godwin Manor. She had moved there shortly after the death of it’s previous inhabitant: Belladonna Godwin. The poor old lady was found in the woods behind the ancient house, frozen in the snow.

Freddie (as she was affectionately called) vocally objected to occupying such a house. Her parents had simply ignored her. Nonsense, they called it. For them, fear of the dead was as illogical as fearing the furniture.
“After all” said Mr Pickle “are chairs not simply dead organic matter carved from dead trees?”.
It was comments like this that made Freddie question the validity of her genetic relation to such  individuals.
“But a woman killed herself Daddy” pleaded Freddie as her father dragged her towards the Manor door. “There is no denying the creep factor that comes with this house” she spat as she was forced to ascend the stone steps.
Suddenly Freddie’s mother appeared behind her carrying the most unfortunate looking turquoise vase.
“Don’t say creepy Freddie” she quipped in a voice that was far too cheery for Freddie’s comfort.
Yearning for normal parents, she darted out of her fathers grasp and proceeded to rip the band-aid (so-to-speak).

As she ascended the stone stairs, a faint chill brushed past her face. It was as though small icy needles had shot through her teeth.

“Creepy indeed” she smirked. Normal children might have been afraid. Freddie however, was  curious.