The inn was a nightmare, not a pirate tavern, not a cosy cottage, not a glowing hearth for a weary traveller. It was cold. He was measly with the logs for the fire. The same four drunks were there every night. The only other visitors were the boys who came from town with deliveries. He called it a hotel, but it wasn’t that either. It was a grim, white little place, with black shingles on the roof and black mould on the ceiling.

No friends, no animals, only soup and endless ale.

Her father had acted like she was going to be a fine landlady, sweeping up staircases, laughing at witticisms, pulling pints. She was hiding in a darkened bar, knees pulled up to her chest, listening for the telltale snoring of the only other person in the building.

She had married him a week ago. She met him a week ago. On the ride from town, through the valley, she had chewed the ends of her hair into rat kings, fractured tangles. He’d caught her eye and smiled. This was particularly repugnant, she thought. He should have yanked the hair out of her mouth, or averted his eyes with disgust, or insisted she stopped. Her father hated the way she ripped herself up – tearing off fingernails, pulling out eyelashes, rubbing her hair between her fingers until it matted like thread. But he had watched and smiled, like the new owner of an ill-trained puppy.

Through the hair in her mouth, noiselessly, she mouthed, “Bluebeard, bluebeard, bluebeard, bluebeard.”

An accusation, of course. She couldn’t tell if he was the sort of man who read.

He hadn’t hit her yet. She slept behind the bar once he had passed out upstairs, and he hadn’t fetched her, hadn’t dragged her up the stairs and thrown her on his bed. But with each new morning, she could see his anger. It wasn’t like father’s, bellowing and horn-like. It was worse, because he smiled through it, because he was only ten years or so older than her, because he looked at her with something like strained patience. The expectation of it all. She refused to speak. She didn’t want him to know she was clever. A dullard wasn’t capable of planning an escape.

Winter hadn’t arrived in earnest yet. She would leave tonight, while the valley was survivable, while the snow stayed on the mountains and not the roads. She unfolds herself upright, soundlessly. She crosses the dark of the bar, laces her shoes, throws on his coat, for she has none. The harshness of her own breath is hard to distinguish from the winds when she opens the door. They’re loud. Loud enough to muffle dwindling snores, then silence.

“Visiting your fairie folk tonight?” His drawl comes from the staircase. He’s got a taper in his hand, no holder, just the slender wax candle, grasped in his fist. It lights that awful, infuriating smile.  She panics, blanches, bolts. He’s heavy set, beer bellied. He’s not as quick as her. His footsteps fall behind, and she can hear him calling her name in the dark, calling her name, like it gives him power over her.

“Fuck off and die!” She bellows, clear voiced, heart racing at the thrill. Let him tire himself chasing her around in the dark. She laughs, stumbles.

She sees it. Across the dark, scrappy and barren moor,  a little white blip. Low down, but not quite touching the grass. It is a face. It is a human face, grinning, eyes wide and bulging out. Like the fat, glass eyes of an ill-done taxidermy.  A smiling face, pushing closer.  A woman’s face. It could be her face. The body must be dark, squat, crouched on the ground, or otherwise not there.

She has gone very quiet. There is no air in her lungs, just crisp, cold air burning her face, her bare hands. The face moves closer, bobbing slowly, merrily, like a buoy at sea. She screams.

The sound startles her, it seems to startle the face. Their bulging eyes lock, a matching pair. They both pause. Then, there’s a voice, high and warbling like a parrot. The lips on the face don’t move, stay grinning, like they’re frozen in fear.

“Baaaaaabbablue, barbelbleu, baarbeblue, ba baaa baaa bleu!”

She cringes, stumbles back, boots getting caught in the too-long overcoat. She is going to die. The face flickers closer, unless the dark limbs underneath it are crawling. She shakes her head, pushes herself off, fingers into mud, and flees. She runs in the direction of the hotel, white under the moon like the face that crows death. She will throw herself on his bed. She will pour his ale and shine his shoes. She collides with him.

His face seems to float in the dark too, but she can grip his shoulders, proving his solidity. He is not a ghost.  His anger has come close to the surface, closer than she’s seen yet. He isn’t smiling. She could kiss him for that.

“Had your fun?” He growls, “Tired yourself out?”

“Move, you boor! Run!” She hisses, grabbing at his arm, using him as a shield, stumbling in tow. He stops her, rights her.

“Afeared of the dark?” He gloats.

“Barbebleue! Barbebleue! Barbebleue! Barbebleue!”

His face twists into a grimace, words dying in his throat. The pair of them clutch at each other, turn wildly about, eyes straining into the dark to see the source of that squawking voice. If she lets go of him, she knows it will bob out of the darkness and into his arms.

“We must get back to the hotel.” She whispers. He nods. They turn.

The face is there, not more than a bed length ahead, low to the ground, grinning. They must move but they don’t, frozen with anticipation. They watch the face. The face watches them, beaming all the while. So long the grass begins to thaw, the promise of a bitter sunrise begins to glow behind the dark mountains in the distance. She doesn’t want to see this face in the light of day.

In the end, they walk past it, ignoring it, heads tucked into their chests, arms linked so their frozen hands fold into their pockets.  They quickly reach the hotel, and look back into the valley. Distantly, it grins at them, smug and maniacal.

“We’ll have to learn to live with it.” She offers.

Featured Image Credit: Сергей Скрынник / Pexels