The Wreath at 33 Lavender Lane

There’s a house at the end of Lavender Lane that we kids avoided at all costs. It was a perfectly normal house, with white siding, a dark shingled roof, and a bright green door. From that door hung a wreath, the same wreath, all year round. A wreath of bones.

It was the wreath that simultaneously kept us at bay and drew us in. The bleached bones glistened cheerfully in the October sun, and the skull at the top watched all those who passed by with the delighted grin that all skulls have. Skeletal hands stuck out on either side, one raised in friendly greeting, the other outstretched, beckoning, welcoming anyone inside. To this day, no one has ever entered.

Except for me. 

It was about 13 years ago, on a brisk October morning, October 30th to be exact, and all of us kids were excited for Halloween. Scary movies were lined up, our costumes were picked out, and a distinct mischief hung in the air, stirring in all of us that innate child’s desire to throw raw eggs at the doors of those we disliked or feared, or in this case, the doors of supposedly haunted houses.  

And so, that afternoon we all stood across from 33 Lavender Lane, shivering despite the warm sun, each grasping a round, fragile egg in our hand. I stood at the back of our group, my grip on my egg so tight I was afraid I’d break it before I got the chance to throw it. Ahead of me, Jared stood, his egg poised to be thrown. He was our leader then, as he played football, and was thus the toughest. But just then, a soft breeze flitted by, stirring that grinning wreath. It swung back and forth so that the raised hand seemed to be actually waving at us. We heard the eerie rattle of bones clacking together. The world’s most unsettling windchime. Jared turned and looked at me. 

“New plan. Jessie, you go knock on the door.”

The rest of them turned to look at me, eyes wide and shining with glee at not being the chosen one. I rolled my eyes to show them I wasn’t affected, that I had no intention of knocking on that door.

“That’s stupid, Jared. I’m not gonna do that. Let’s just throw the eggs.”

I raised my egg to show just how willing I was, prepared to lead the charge. But Jared shook his, his grin widening. 

“Come on, Jessie, don’t be a chicken. Knock on the door. One knock, that’s it. Come on, you’re always so chicken.”

I was so chicken back then. I was always the last one to agree to our schemes. I was the one who worried about getting caught, who worried about getting hurt, and most shameful of all, worried about what my mom might think. The other kids chanted, fists bobbing in the air, voices rising with wild fever. 

“Do it, do it, do it.”

Jared smirked.

“I dare you.”

No child can resist that siren’s call. I squared my shoulders and approached the front gate. 

33 Lavender Lane had a white picket fence surrounding the meticulously maintained front garden. The hedges were perfectly round balls of leaves, each flower bed was devoid of a single weed, and the bird bath was crystal clear, bubbling softly. A few rogue dead leaves tumbled across the manicured lawn. Their rustling sounded like conspiratorial whispers, as though they knew some secret about the house and were trying to tell me. 

The largest crow I’d ever seen perched on the side of the bird bath. Its dark eye was a drop of pure night. I’d read that crows were extremely smart, and I’d felt certain that this crow was looking at me, really looking, trying to figure out what I was doing approaching this place where I most certainly didn’t belong. He sat there like he owned the place. 

I walked through the gate, my feet crunching on the gravel that paved the path to the front door. The front porch was swept spotless, and placed in perfect symmetry was a welcome mat, a hideous orange rubber thing with robust, gleeful jack-o'-lanterns grinning their gap-toothed grins. I wish I had their cheerfulness. Instead, a coil of dread wrapped around my chest, squeezing tighter and tighter as I lifted my hand to knock. 

Thunk, Thunk, Thunk.

My knuckles rapped hollowly on that green door. It no longer looked bright, but rather sickly green, as if infected with some kind of illness. I’d fully intended to sprint back to the safety of the street and my cheering friends. We’d all take off running, laughing and laughing, thrilled that we’d toyed with danger and gotten away unscathed. 

Instead, the door swung open on silent hinges. Darkness and a sweet smell, like caramel and hot cocoa, poured out. I took a step back, but the gentle breeze that had been blowing rushed up behind me in a gust and pushed me over the threshold into that sweet-scented darkness. The door swung shut, cutting off my friend’s screams of terror. Then, I was alone. 

I found myself in a small living room, the walls painted a creamy eggshell white and adorned with gilded picture frames holding images of sunny skies, birds with twine and twigs in their beaks, and round shiny eggs in nests. A fire crackled in the hearth, the flames electric purple. Whatever wood was burning gave off that sugar-sweet smell. Every inch of the mantel was covered in shining stones, glinting statuettes, and crystals of various sizes and shapes. No one sat on the brown cloth couch or in the matching armchair. But in the middle of the room, a broom swept furiously across the floor, dust flying from its bristles. 

No one held it. It levitated just above the floor, furiously sweeping at the dust bunnies hopping across the hardwood slats. I stared at the broom, unable to process what was in front of me. I even rubbed my eyes, sure that when they cleared, the broom would be lying still and inanimate on the floor. But when I opened them, the broom was still bustling about, not noticing me. 

Curiosity often gets the better of children, and I was no exception. I wandered through the living room, down the hall with its soft runner rug and cheerful picture frames, and into the kitchen, lit by the open window. A cherry-red kettle sat on the stove, hissing and bubbling as it worked its way towards a scream. I now realize that I should’ve known this likely meant someone was home. But I was a child, and I didn’t think past the delightful teacup with the teaspoon spinning on its own accord, round and round in some dark amber liquid. 

I crossed through the kitchen and found myself before a small back door. It was unpainted, crudely made of the same wood burning in the fireplace. There was no doorknob, and yet I barely had to touch it for the door to swing open, as if it couldn’t wait to show me what was inside. I stepped through into the dimness beyond. 

The smell was horrible, stale and rotten. By the light of a single lamp, I could see that the room was made entirely of stone. No furniture, no pictures on the wall. The only thing in the room besides the standing lamp was a large, cast-iron cauldron. It sat over a small fire, bubbling away, giving off that horrid stench. 

I approached the cauldron, certain something horrible roiled and gurgled inside. Under my feet, something cracked and crunched. Massive black feathers lay strewn across the floor, old and tattered, mixed in amongst shards of bone. A skull, broken in half, stared at me from the mess, tilting to one side. I peered over the pot’s rim.

A viscous black liquid popped and boiled sluggishly, releasing plumes of noxious steam whenever a bubble popped. As I peered closer, I saw something floating in that horrid concoction. Multiple somethings. With another lethargic roil, the liquid revealed its contents. A human hand. It bobbed about, rolling and slapping the gummy surface. I screamed then. I couldn’t help it. It ripped out of my throat unbidden. I flung myself away from the cauldron just as the hand, now with an arm attached, reached out and grabbed the iron lip. 

A second hand soon joined it, and then, as if in slow motion, I watched as a head emerged. The skull was half covered in muscle and skin; the other was gleaming bone. One eye roved madly and fixed on me, electric blue, like the vastness of the sky. A thick chuckle of delight burbled out of the half-formed mouth. Skeletal shoulders dipped as the creature began to heave itself out of the cauldron. 

I ran.

My sneakers slapped against the hardwood floor, and my heart beat wildly in my chest, off-beat, a frantic thumping. I dashed through the kitchen where the kettle had begun to scream, then I pelted down the hall, slipping once on the runner rug and leaving a viscous friction burn on my knee. I flung myself into the living room, slipping past the industrious broom and out into the warm sunlight, back to the real world, to my friends. 

When I leaped out through the vivid green door, I almost sobbed with relief. My friends were gone, maybe to get help, or maybe fear carried them away. It didn’t matter. I wrenched open the gate, and then I was on the other side. The gate swung shut behind me, and the green door eased closed, the bone wreath rocking gently. 

I turned back to watch, waiting for that thing, that unknown horror, to come tearing out after me, shambling and grunting and chuckling, half-decayed hands reaching. But it never did. The perfectly manicured lawn sat still and empty, the only sound the bubbling of the bird bath. The crow still sat there, fixing me with its beady eye again. It was so frightfully large. The dark head tilted, and a raspy croak rang out in the sunny afternoon stillness.

Don’t tell anyone. 

And I never did. Not in the thirteen years that I lived in that little town. I never told my friends about the broom or the teacup. I never breathed a word about the little back room and the roiling cauldron. And I certainly never whispered about the thing that had shed its black feathers, half-formed and born again from the cauldron's womb.