Black Forest Bungalow & Treehouse

Today I finally found the place I'd been searching for: 

Near to the edge of the forest there remains a derelict bungalow, an old building with no postal address and no known history. The insides are entirely gutted and burnt out. The heavy roof has partly collapsed, scattering rubble and leaving a few rooms exposed to the elements. Bugs have infested the devastated area which might have once been some family’s kitchen. Ivy’s crept in, and weeds peep through cracks in the concrete flooring. An eviscerated wood dove lies dead on a bed of brick dust and bird shit. It’s beautiful. The place is all that I’d hoped it would be, and much more besides.

To the rear of the building a long strip of land lies fenced off from the forest around it. A path of shattered flagstone disappears into a dense mass of overgrowth- long grass and nettles in a tangle of wickedly barbed bramble. At the end of the path there stands a single, veteran oak. Nestled snugly in the tree’s crown, barely visible from below, there can be found a humble little tree house of hobnailed timber. Although the structure is ramshackle, it still remains relatively intact. There’s no ladder to be seen there, perhaps lost somewhere in the undergrowth. A tyre swing hangs, its thin rope frayed and unsafe to scale. Anyhow, I’m a decent climber and the tree itself is sturdy enough, so I figured that it might be worth the effort; it turned out that I was right.

Thick swathes of web spanned the entrance until I swept them aside and ducked through, causing tiny spiders to spill forth and cling to me. Winter’s chill wind whistled in through the gaps between planks, first stinging and then numbing my bare face and hands.

Inside the den I discovered a large, featureless mannequin of polished wood, sat propped up there with her back against the far wall. Well, I say ‘her’ only because of the ankle-length dress of torn and stained white satin which drapes the neutral thing. Her sandy golden wood grain seemed to suddenly assume a sickly green hue as the clouds parted and dappled light beamed in through the open entrance. Most likely the tint is nothing more than a fine dusting of spores, given both the state of her mould-flecked dress and the abundance of bracket fungi on the trunk of the tree.  

By the mannequin’s side there is placed a faded red pencil case upon a wooden tray. Between her splayed legs is placed a leather-bound book, a diary comprising of only five short entries. 

Although I’ve vowed to take nothing and to leave each site as it was found, in this instance I did feel sorely tempted. Regardless, I transcribed the curious diary entries to my phone before I left.




‘Wooden Girl’ Diary Entries


 April 4th 1998
 
Most kids play at being knights, princesses and space explorers. Most kids play with dolls. I never play- I just pretend that I’m a doll myself. I pretend to be cold and wooden. Honestly I wish it.
If I didn’t feel anything, he couldn’t hurt me. 


April 5th 1998
 
When I hear a whisper I lie rigid with my eyes scrunched shut, imagining the wooden girl to be there in my place. It sounds silly I know, but it does kind of help.. a little bit.
 
I picture her as a plain thing, as short and skinny as I am. Her face is crudely painted to resemble my own, yet always holding a perfectly vacant expression. She’s not a pretty doll, but she’s tough. She never breaks under his weight. Her sanded skin feels no sensation. Inside there’s no emotion, only hard, dead heartwood.
 
Whenever I cry the illusion’s broken. She wouldn’t ever cry.


April 10th 1998

I see things slightly differently now. I look into the mirror and it’s still her simplistically painted face, a mockery of my own image staring blankly back.. but then she flashes a crooked grin. 

Perhaps the heartwood isn’t dead.. perhaps it’s rotten with change, rife with life. Maybe there’s a trove of termites, woodworm, fungus, all kept secret deep inside.


April 11th 1998
 
He got a jabbed by a splinter or something, and I guess it must’ve gotten infected. I try to think about how I might be feeling, and I just see the painted grin flash before my eyes. It’s not mine, I’m just numb.


April 1998?
 
I put him in the garden for the weeds to feed on. I look to the mirror and I’m faceless.. maybe it’s broken. Any life inside is resting now. All of the beetles are sleeping. I’m tired, stiff. I’m so cold.

I think I’ll just sit here for a while longer