The Dark Forest: A Collection Of Erotic Fairytales(154)
Books
The Invitation
Security Binds Her (Thalia Book 1)
Striking a Balance (Thalia Book 2)
Salvaged by Love (Thalia Book 3)
Christmas at Purgatory (Thalia Extra #1)
Fae (Daughters of Eltera Book 1)
The Rite
Reunited
Of Fog and Fire
Tara (Daughters of Eltera Book 2)
Taken by the Enemy
Lethal Sin (Dangerous Games Book 1)
Early Sins (Dangerous Games Book 0)
Social Media Links
Website - http://jenniferbene.com/
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Nightmares in Wonderland
An Alice in Wonderland Tale
Addison Cain
Nightmares in Wonderland Warning:
How deep into the woods are you willing to stroll? For the story ahead is truly dark and twisted. The horrors of thorny thickets and poisonous swamps await. You’ve been warned.
This is where the romance ends and the nightmares begin.
Love,
Addison Cain
Publishers warning:
This story is not a romance. It is a wonderfully written tale of horror.
Chapter One
Every childhood memory, every last horror over the years held one object in common: a stuffed white rabbit. Since I was a baby, the snowy toy sat on a shelf above my reach, high atop the nursery’s sprigged walls. I had many playthings I was not allowed to touch lining that shelf, the china faces of dolls with golden ringlets like mine in plenty. My mother was the one who told me to only look, never touch—that like me, these dolls were expected to remain immaculate and beautiful.
There were other rules: I was not permitted to muss my frock and pinafore, nor was I ever allowed to touch my hair. I was to be always clean, starched, crimped, and expressionless—my overlarge blue eyes lowered in a demure position should someone address me. It was never phrased so bluntly, but even as a small child I understood that, like the jewels of my nursery, my purpose was to serve as a pretty item for others to enjoy.
Often, I was put on display.
When Mama and Papa would throw their soirees, our house would transform into a fairyland—flowers, exotic foods, extra staff bustling about our London brownstone. After dark, the magic of music would seep upstairs, above the crowds of gentlemen in their dress coats and ladies stuffed in taffeta and ribbons. My nanny would spend the entire day preparing me to be seen for five minutes. In my fresh dress, scratchy lace at my throat and at the cuffs of my sleeves, she’d take my hand and lead me down the twisting staircase to where my proud parents waited.
If it were near Christmas or my birthday, before the crowds of Papa’s friends, all eyes on me, Mother would give me a new doll to add to the collection on the shelf. Like clockwork, my arms would reach out and the new toy lain upon them. Always I would thank her for her generosity, tuck the doll carefully under my arm, and then to be sent right back upstairs.
The doll with its cold china face would be taken from me the moment I was restored to my nursery, placed upon the shelf with its myriad counterparts. I never minded the loss of the bauble. My favorite toys were my miniature porcelain tea set and the worn rocking horse at the foot of my bed.
Though I’d smiled as expected when my mother handed me the cursed thing, truth was the dolls’ fixed expressions frightened me... all thanks to the rabbit nestled in their ranks.
Everything goes back to that rabbit.
I could not tell you how long it had been up there, who had given it to me... I could tell you nothing about it.
But I could tell you this: the dolls with their dead stares could be ignored. I could pretend they were not there. The same could not be said of that stuffed rabbit. Black glass eyes followed me wherever I played, when I napped, dressed, did my toilette. I was always watched... and there was no getting rid of it. One autumn morning, I had finally found the courage to climb atop my bureau and reach for the cursed thing. I threw it in the fire before my nanny might notice, and I watched it burn.
That afternoon, I had felt whole. I had not been afraid of the glass eyes or what they would bring when the house was asleep.
But, when I had returned to my nursery after the daily, elegant tea with my parents, my short-lived bravery died. In fact, I think a part of me died, sank right out from my toes and into the floorboards.
The rabbit was back, on the shelf innocently sitting, tucked between the dolls that looked like me. The white of its fur was pristine. There was no soot or rips. The glass eyes had not melted, they shone under the lamplight, glowering at me in judgment.
One look at the thing, and I had screamed my head off. My nanny had come running, and in the end, I’d earned a whipping for my noise. Like all good children, I was to be seen and never heard.