1

Sarah stood back and surveyed her new lounge. It was full of modern furniture, all carefully placed to allow maximum use of space and light in her new home. The television was of a less than respectable size and would soon be covered in a thin layer of dust, on the off-chance she forgot to dust that week. What she admired most in her new lounge were the large, over-flowing bookcases. There were three. One contained books she had read during her time in college. Fiction, non-fiction, textbooks and ring-bound readers she had needed to acquire her degree in Literature, sub-majoring in writing. One contained large books that told a person how to live their lives. How to cook. How to garden. How to clean mould off your shower ceiling. She had read all of them and they had helped her achieve the status of Expert Home-Maker. The third bookcase contained a mismatched collection of biographies, horror novels, adventure novels, romance novels, political thrillers and educational childrens' books such as A is for Armadillo and Mikey's Misadventures with Metric Measurements. There were no science fiction books, no fantasy, no time-travel or strange worlds. She was quite done with that nonsense and it was the only sort of work she would turn down. And she could turn it down if she liked. Her third bookshelf was crammed full to bursting point, books double-stacked and laying horizontally in spare gaps. She would need to buy a fourth soon.

Because of her success her hourly rate had increased nicely over the last few years, and thanks to the new wondrous invention of e-mail she was able to leave her crowded office and work from home. Home had previously been a neat little apartment. Now in order to reflect her expanding pay packet and desire for a quieter lifestyle, she had moved to this house in the suburbs.

The house had been incredibly cheap. The real-estate agent had bluntly told her that no one wanted it, that she may as well look elsewhere because she wouldn't want it either. Sarah's curiosity was naturally piqued, and eventually she had gotten out of him 'the house had a bad history.' The long-time locals wouldn't even look at it when they walked past. Even those new to town were reluctant to step inside.

Sarah, however, was a sensible person. She insisted on seeing it, and instantly fell in love. It was a three-bedroom home with a sun-room perfect for converting into an office, lots of light, and a garden (though overgrown) just perfect for setting up a reading spot and getting some afternoon sun. She made an offer (exactly what the house had been advertised at, no more, no less) and had enough of a budget left over to do up the kitchen and bathroom.

Once all the work had been done, she had moved in and instantly the house had felt like home.

After a long day of dirty footprints on carpet and boxes scraping walls the movers had left and Sarah found herself in her perfect little home. She wandered through every room, contented, then looked out of her kitchen window and was confronted with a backyard full of weeds.

The time was 3pm. There was plenty of time for gardening before the sun went down, and there was a Lean Cuisine ready for a ten-minute zap in the microwave, so Sarah settled in to spend a relaxing hour or two quietly gardening.

An hour's worth of weeding made her miss her old apartment.

Still she worked, determined to see the end result. And after another half-hour and several scratches she was able to admire her handiwork. She had uncovered a garden bed with several rose bushes that looked like they had potential. She looked up at the sky. There was a pinkish-orange colour in the sky and she considered a cup of coffee may be in order.

Then she spotted it.

She had thought it was a small tree, but it's green, twisted trunk was covered in thorns and dark, jagged leaves were offset by the ugliest (and smelliest) flowers she'd seen since...well for a long time. It reminded her of a place she tried not to think of. A place with a horrible stench.

That weed had to go.

Another half-hour, a shovel, torn gardening gloves and a small hatchet saw the horrible thing ripped out, roots and all, chopped up and placed in the green-waste bin. As Sarah dug around in the loose dirt looking for any stray roots that might re-grow her shovel hit something hard. She thought about digging it up. She really didn't want to find the remains of someone's dearly departed dog, but she had heard of elderly people burying money in their yards and forgetting about it. Curiosity got the better of her. Who knows? She might be able to pay someone to do the rest of her gardening for her! She spent some time digging, and by the time the sun went down she had lifted a dirty wooden box out of the ground. In the dim light coming from her kitchen window she was able to find a latch. Taking a breath and hoping not to find the remains of an unfortunate Chihuahua, she opened the lid.

It was a book.

Laughing with relief, she carefully lifted it out and brought it inside, leaving the box in the yard. She was not bringing that filthy thing in her house!

She left the book on her kitchen counter and went for a much-needed shower. It was only after she had changed into clean jeans and a sweater, heated up her casserole, and poured herself a much-deserved glass of red that she considered it again. Reading material while she ate! This house was fantastic.

She took a few bites of the bland dish and opened the front cover. It was a scrap book. There were faded photographs from several decades ago. She froze, remembering the real-estate agent's words "the house had a bad history". Morbidly curious, she turned the pages. There was a little boy, and a baby. There were photographs of them both. Old and faded. She turned more pages. The boys were growing up. They both had sweet faces. The older boy looked calm and quiet, the younger looked like a hell-raiser. In all the pictures he was either running away from the camera or throwing a tantrum. There were a few photographs with a woman, the boys' mother, in them. She looked tired but happy.

The photos stopped, and the pages were blank. Sarah took a sip of wine and frowned. She turned a few more pages, then towards to back of the book she found newspaper clippings. Headlines that read "Missing child" and "Search Enters 9th Day", and then finally a clipping of a memorial service.

Sarah felt herself tear up for the boy she never knew. She read the stories. The younger child had vanished from his bed without a trace. The mother was never a suspect: She had been too distraught. The older boy had slept through whatever happened. There was no father at home.

"Poor little boy." Sarah said, flipping back to see the last photo of the little one. He was staring into the camera lens with his mouth open, clearly shouting at whoever was taking the photo. There was a hint of a wicked smile in his eyes. He had been a cheeky little thing. He was holding a hideous stuffed toy around the neck.

Sarah finished her wine, threw away the plastic container, washed her fork and glass, dried them and put them away. She contemplated the television, then decided there was nothing good on. Her eyes fell on the book again. She couldn't bring herself to throw it away. She decided to put it on her How to Live bookcase. It was part of her new home's history after all. Poor little...what was his name?

She turned to the clippings at the back and read aloud.

"The memorial service for Jareth Quinn..." Sarah dropped the book. Her heart thumped in her chest and her hands shook. Jareth? It had to be a coincidence. But in her twenty-six years she had never met another Jareth. Her head spun and she kept seeing that horrible weed in her mind. It looked just like those horrible misshapen plants in the Bog of Eternal Stench. She bent down and fumbled with the book, flipping it open to that photo, little Jareth staring into the camera lens. He was pale with blonde hair. Those eyes. One was blue. One was not. And he had that smug, arrogant expression on his face that she remembered so well. Jareth. A very young Goblin King.

Sarah wished she was a fainter. But she just wasn't. It wasn't going to be that easy to get away from whatever was happening here. So instead she found her bottle of wine, contemplated a glass, then took a swig straight from the bottle.

Then another.

Slowly she brought her bottle of wine and her scrapbook full of Jareth's early childhood into the lounge. She sat down in her favourite chair and surveyed her carefully constructed reality she had tried so hard to build over the last ten years. She went through the pages of the book again, drank more wine, and tried to tell herself she was dreaming.

But it was no dream. It was no coincidence. And something would happen tonight.

After nearly emptying the bottle, Sarah fell asleep in her chair, scrapbook open to that photo of little Jareth in her lap, wine bottle knocked over on its side on the floor leaving a red stain on her nicely neutral beige carpet. She didn't hear the sound of thunder in the distance.