RULES FOR VANISHING x SAWKILL GIRLS
18-year-old Willow has a knack for wire, just like the father that abandoned her. After returning to Scotland to find him, Willow begins to unearth sculptures– wire figures she doesn't remember making. Suspecting they relate to local legend, Willow fears her father has become trapped within an extinct forest. As her sculptures assume monstrous lives of their own, the forest threatens the search for her father, her budding romance, and Willow’s reality itself.
The worst part about losing your memory is losing your boots with it. Second worst part is that the sheep look chummy about it. There’s a line of the beady-eyed bastards on the hillcrest, but they’ll scatter the second I muster the willpower to pull myself from the heather. Cause it’s happened again.
This time it’s over before Jackie finds me– I ought to thank some saint of small blessings for that. Grass seeds cling heroically to my socks, and fog blankets the moor where I lie, prelude to the sickly sunrise that’ll do bugger-all to dissuade the damp. Something’s writhing within my jacket pocket– phone call. At five am, I’ve got only one suspect.
I thumb aside mud to expose the flashing screen, and answer. “What?”
“What kind of way,” comes a sandy drawl, “is that to answer the phone?”
I sigh, slouching into the heather. It’s her, I mouth at the sheep; maybe threatening them with Dr Murphy will scatter them.
“Usually I’m polite, Murph. But since it’s you, why bother?”
Across the line, Murphy scoffs. I picture the old grouch in her chair, stirring her finger through the cold coffee she brews at night but forgets to drink til morning.
“There’s a stink,” the doctor bemoans. “A stink in the air, Willow. Like,” she pauses, rasps, “something’s rotting.”