The Moors

‘Don’t go out on the moors,’ said the mistress of the house. She giggled and flounced away.

For a long time, she didn’t, instead frowning out of the glitter-framed windows at the rolling flower-filled fields.

But when she finally caught the person skulking the halls at midnight and they winked and disappeared in a blast of confetti, she had no choice.

She was dragged back again, of course. Made to play out their Pastelgothic Horror.

This microfiction was inspired by the 100th Curator Prompt on

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