The Wild Hunt raced down the hill on their powerful horses, to the place where the bell that was in the wrong story lay in the long grass.

Without a word they smashed the bell, and a dull DONG rang out across the wild wood, followed by a splintering thud.

But smashing it hadn’t mended the tear that leaked greenery down into the story underneath, and let a little jagged void space seep in and lick around the tree roots. A ribbon of vacuum threaded across the riverbank like black stitches.

The broken bell fell through the tear, and then from its own story it could be heard ringing once again.

 

This was published on ‘The Drabble’ blog a few years ago.