Short Story: Papercut

A lonely teenage boy living with his strict Jehovah’s Witness mother is visited in dreams by a mysterious paper girl

Hi Everyone - I know this short story hit your inboxes a few years ago, but I gave it a slight polish ahead of its inclusion in my new fantasy anthology, The Dark Forest Within. Therefore, I’ve decided to send it out again, deleting the previous version from the Substack archives, so it matches the version in the collection. If you’ve not read this before, I hope you enjoy it.

Created by author in Canva.

The Paper Girl is here again.

She stands in the centre of my bedroom, staring right at me. I ought to be afraid, but I never feel scared of her. Nor do I ever question how she got into my house in the middle of the night. Instead, I stare at her beautiful face, completely mesmerised. Her eyes are blank, like a statue. Long strands of paper hair flow down her back — not white, but cream-coloured, like the kind of paper you get in novels. Why does she keep appearing? I sense she wants to tell me something, but what?

She reaches out a hand towards me. I have an overpowering urge to touch her face.

‘Gabriel! Your breakfast is getting cold!’

My mother’s voice booms up from the kitchen, ripping me out of the dream and into the dull morning. I really should stop hitting the snooze button on the alarm clock.

I throw on the trousers, shirt, and tie I am supposed to wear for Saturday’s outreach. Ties are so uncomfortable. I’ve always hated them, and it seems particularly unfair that I should have to wear them outside of school. I’ve tried reasoning with my mother, saying I can hand out Watchtower literature in the village square without wearing a tie, but she insists Jehovah’s Witnesses should look smart.

I rush downstairs as my mother shoots me her menacing ‘You’re late’ stare that used to be much more effective when I was younger. Her six-foot height and stern face add to the effect, but these days I find her less intimidating.

My mother indicates a plate of scrambled eggs and toast on one side of the table. I sit down, staring around the cramped, spare kitchen that has always been my home. I fantasise about telling her I’m sick of spending Saturdays trying to harass passers-by into conversion. Mother says I’ll go to hell if I don’t put effort into getting people saved, but her guilt trips have also been less effective in recent months.

‘We’d best wrap up warm,’ she says. ‘It snowed last night.’

‘A white Christmas,’ I mutter.

‘What did you say?’

The sharp edge in her voice is a familiar warning, but I recklessly disregard it.

‘Nothing… Just that it doesn’t often snow at Christmas.’

‘It’s not Christmas for another ten days, and pagan festivals are nothing to do with us, so there’s no need to reference them.’

‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well, don’t just say. Get on with your breakfast so we can get out there and do the Lord’s work.’

I shovel the toast into my mouth. I hate this time of year. All the trees, decorations, and glittering lights feel like a parallel world of paradise I can never enter. I’ve been brought up to believe that those who celebrate Christmas are deceived and sinful, but a part of me has never quite believed it.

My father used to send me Christmas cards before he died. I would keep watch on the letterbox, checking the post first thing in the mornings to see if one arrived. I suspect he did it partly to antagonise my mother after she left him, but the messages inside the cards were always deep and heartfelt. I know my father loved me, and no matter how much my mother went on about how he was an unrepentant sinner from whom she had to disfellowship, a part of me longed to live with him instead.

Sometimes my mother would find the Christmas cards first and destroy them before I got a chance to read them. But from time to time, I managed to intercept one. On these occasions, I would rush back upstairs and hide the cards beneath a loose floorboard in my bedroom, underneath a part of the carpet in the corner of the room that peeled back.

I hide a lot of contraband here these days, not just old Christmas cards from my father. I’ve written diaries, poems, streams of consciousness, and various other things I know my mother would disapprove of. She doesn’t think we should question the will of God, but I can’t help it. Does God really disapprove of Christmas? Why doesn’t he want us to have fun?

Shortly after breakfast, I put on a woolly hat, scarf and gloves, as well as my thick coat. Bibles and literature in hand, my mother and I leave the house. We trudge along our lane of semi-detached houses at the edge of the village, before reaching the main road.

I trip on a lace.

‘Just a minute…’

I pause to kneel and retie my boots. Having done that, I look up beyond the outskirts of the village at the surrounding bleak landscape, staring at the jutting rocks and tors amid the snow-covered slopes. I imagine the Paper Girl standing there, blending into the hills of Dartmoor, watching me. A strange longing rises within me that I cannot understand.

Photo by john hayward on Unsplash

‘Come on, Gabriel!’

‘Sorry. Miles away…’

We turn right and make the ten-minute walk to the centre of Chimney. There, we take up our usual place on the pavement at the three-way road intersection, around the triangle of grass with the war memorial. The typical Saturday morning figures walk in and out of local shops, and I groan inwardly at the thought of yet again trying to persuade them to join our Kingdom Hall meetings in Plymouth.

Icy air blasts my face as I tug the hat over my ears and adjust my scarf. I clutch the stack of Watchtower leaflets and stand next to my mother, ready to pass them out. At first, we get the usual smattering of polite no-thank-yous and a few rather more aggressive refusals. Presently, my mother gets entangled with Brian Matthews, the local butcher.

‘Freya, I do wish your lot wouldn’t always stand outside my shop passing out leaflets. You put off my customers.’

‘We aren’t directly outside your shop, Brian,’ my mother replies, ‘and we have just as much right to the pavement as they do.’

‘You’re a bloody nuisance, is what you are. How many times have you stood there, trying to convert people? No one here is interested.’

‘What about you? Have you read the Bible at all?’

‘Not all of it. And not your Jehovah’s Witness version of it. But I’m not interested. I just want you to leave my customers alone. They aren’t interested either.’

Whilst my mother debates with Brian, I glance across the street and catch sight of a girl I recognise from school.

Clio Mills.

I’ve often wanted to speak to Clio. She has a kind face, but is really quiet and keeps to herself. She’s always got her nose in a book, and I don’t like to interrupt. Besides, I’m worried I’d get teased by other people in my class if I tried to talk to her. People at school can be so idiotic.

Clio goes into the newsagent, and I see her at the counter buying a magazine and a packet of sweets. Then she leaves the shop and pauses outside, tucking a curious leather book into one of her pockets and putting a sweet in her mouth. She sucks on it, parting the curtain of hair that covers much of her face, and glances across to where I stand.

Our eyes meet.

All at once, I feel foolish, standing here in the freezing snow with my wad of Watchtower leaflets. I don’t want Clio to see me. I try to hide my religious background at school as much as possible, but several people are aware of it now because I don’t celebrate birthdays, Christmas, or much else that’s fun. There are endless films and television programmes that I’m not allowed to watch, books I’m not allowed to read, music I’m not allowed to listen to, and so on, all of which make me the object of ridicule at times.

I wonder what Clio will make of me, now she’s seen me trying to pass out Jehovah’s Witness literature at the centre of Chimney on a Saturday morning. Is her kindness only skin deep? Will she be like the others at school and laugh? I desperately want to go across the road and talk to her, but my throat is dry. Still, our eyes remain locked onto one another. I wonder what she could be thinking.

The moment passes. Clio walks away. Brian gives up trying to persuade my mother to move, and we continue to hand out leaflets for the remainder of the morning.

After returning home for a brief, austere lunch, my mother and I head out again. This time, going from door to door, yet again harassing the residents of Chimney, trying to persuade them to attend our Sunday service at Kingdom Hall in Plymouth. As usual, pickings are slim. We get into theological conversations with a few people, but most of the time, doors are slammed in our faces. It’s deeply dispiriting and to my mind a complete waste of time, but my mother insists we will not earn our salvation without doing this service to God on a regular basis.

Photo by Erica Marsland Huynh on Unsplash

Eventually, we knock on a door a few streets down from where we live, on a road we haven’t visited often. The door is answered by an irritable man in a suit who takes one look at us and grimaces.

‘Let me guess: Jehovah’s Witnesses?’

My mother puts on her special religious smile. ‘Would you be interested in reading our literature?’

‘You can’t be saved if you’ve had a blood transfusion, right? We’ve all had blood transfusions in this family. Now bugger off.’

The man is about to close the door. A figure appears on a staircase behind him. A teenage girl.

Clio Mills.

Damn.

Obviously, this is her house, and presumably, my mother is talking to her father. I shuffle to one side, trying to get out of sight, but it’s too late. Our eyes lock, and Clio begins to smile.

I feel mortified.

The following day at the Sunday meeting in Kingdom Hall, I can’t focus on what the preacher, Edwin Small, is saying. Edwin is an overweight, bulging, balding figure in a cheap grey suit. He has been a leader in the Plymouth Jehovah’s Witness community for as long as I can remember, and the tone of his sermons has always been severe. I used to be scared by them and often had nightmares about burning in hell for not evangelising to enough people. But recently I find him an absurd, almost comical figure. The flecks of spittle that fly from his mouth always amuse me, though probably less so those sitting on the front row in the congregation.

‘At this time of year, we see again the deception so many in the West fall for, regarding Christmas. Christians believe they celebrate the birth of Jesus, when in fact they celebrate a pagan festival. We are often called killjoys for not celebrating Christmas, but Jesus did not command that we celebrate his birthday, or indeed anyone’s. Furthermore, this isn’t just a Biblical oversight, since the only recorded birthdays in the Bible are both celebrated in a negative light. Birthday celebrations are pagan, and the festivals of Christmas and Easter do not celebrate Christ, but paganism.’

I try not to roll my eyes. For a long time, I’ve failed to understand the logic behind the standard Jehovah’s Witness objection to celebrating birthdays and Christmas. A birthday or a celebration of Christmas is surely only a pagan ritual if you include a pagan ritual within it. The last time I checked, when my friends had a birthday or celebrated Christmas, they didn’t participate in any such rituals.

My mind drifts back to Clio, knowing that tomorrow I’ll have to face her at school. Will she have told anyone about our awkward encounters over the weekend? No words were spoken between us, but I can still almost feel her gaze. I can still see her smile. I want to believe she is kind, but bitter experience has taught me not to expect too much of people.

‘Some of our children get upset when we tell them they can’t celebrate birthdays or Christmas,’ Edwin continues. ‘But our children receive unexpected presents at all times of the year. I know there are many here who testify to the sudden delight of receiving a present for no reason other than the fact that someone wanted to bless them. Surely this is more the way Christ would have us live?

‘In the same way, some of our teenagers get upset when they are told they cannot celebrate Christmas by attending Christmas parties or the like. They are upset when we tell them not to associate with those who would practice pagan customs. But this is for their own good, to save their souls. Which is preferable? Temporary upset in this world? Or to suffer the fires of everlasting damnation? Teenagers, if your parents tell you you ought not associate with this or that person, it is for your own good.’

Edwin’s eyes have come to rest on me. I stare back with an innocent, concealing my inward defiance.

‘It is for your own good.’

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

During school the next day, I brace myself for a possible barrage of jokes about my Jehovah’s Witness activities over the weekend. However, no such jokes are forthcoming. It seems Clio really did keep what she saw to herself. I resolve that I will talk to her in the canteen at lunch, if I can find her. If nothing else, I want to thank her for her discretion.

At lunch, as usual, Clio is sitting by herself, reading a book about Greek legends. On the table nearby lies a journal with a leather cover embossed with curious runes. I wonder if it is the same book she had when I saw her on Saturday.

I feel a strange sensation in my stomach, as if I’m nauseous, but I definitely want to talk to her, despite the fact that I’ll be interrupting her reading. I walk across to her, open my mouth, and take the plunge.

‘Do you mind if I sit here?’

Clio looks astonished.

‘I’m just looking for someone to have lunch with. But no problem, if you’d rather be alone.’

‘No. Sit down. Please.’

Clio closes her book on Greek legends.

‘I’m Gabriel.’

‘I know.’

Clio picks up a half-eaten sandwich and takes a bite.

‘You like Greek mythology?’ I ask.

‘I love it.’

‘I do too, secretly.’

‘Secretly?’

‘I’m not allowed to read them. You already know about my religious background, right? My mother doesn’t like me to read anything she considers pagan, and to her, Greek mythology is pagan.’

For a moment, we sit in awkward silence, eating our sandwiches. Then I break the silence.

‘Thanks for not saying anything to anyone about me and my mother over the weekend. It’s really embarrassing having to hand out leaflets like that.’

Clio smiles. ‘You looked cold. I felt sorry for you.’

‘Yeah… It’s not that bad, I suppose. I’ve had to do it all my life, most Saturdays.’

‘What about the Saturdays when you don’t do it?’

‘We do take some Saturdays off. But my mother… She always feels really bad about it, like it might cost us our place in heaven or something. I bet that sounds really stupid to you.’

‘Well, my Mum makes me do all kinds of things I don’t want to do.’

‘Not like this,’ I mutter.

‘How about we meet up on a Saturday when you aren’t handing out leaflets? We could go to the cinema together, or something. You’re allowed to go to the cinema, right?’

The invitation comes out of the blue. I am at a loss for words. Clio looks amused and smiles.

‘It’s alright. You can breathe.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Of course, I’m serious. You seem nice, and I’ve often wondered about you anyway. Most people here are idiots, but you seem… different.’

‘My mother is pretty strict on what I’m allowed to watch, but… I reckon we could go and see something, yeah.’

‘What kind of films do you like?’

‘Fact-based films about astronauts, like The Right Stuff, Apollo 13 or First Man.’

Clio laughs. ‘That’s very specific.’

‘I always wanted to be an astronaut. Actually, I like all kinds of films, but most of the films I like, my mother thinks are sinful.’

I think about how much my mother would disapprove of Clio. She doesn’t like me being close to anyone outside the congregation.

‘Perhaps I’ll take you to see a sinful film,’ Clio says.

She raises an eyebrow and laughs. I like her laugh. It has a captivating, almost musical tone. Our eyes meet again, and there’s an odd moment where we stare at one another in complete silence for about ten seconds. I didn’t realise how long ten seconds could be. I also get that strange feeling of being sick again, and I don’t really want to finish my lunch. What’s wrong with me?

We chat for a little longer about school, teachers we don’t like, and how much we’re dreading our maths exams. The time seems to fly, and before I know it, it’s time to head to our separate classes.

As we stand, Clio accidentally knocks her journal onto the floor. It lands with the pages open. I swoop down to pick it up and manage to cut my finger on the edge of one of the pages.

‘Ouch…’

Photo by Karolina Grabowska from Pexels

I hand the journal back to Clio. She examines the small bloodstain at the edge of the page, her eyes widening with an expression between curiosity and apprehension.

‘Sorry about that,’ I mutter, sucking my finger.

Clio stares at the droplet of blood on the page, slowly seeping into the paper. She runs her fingers along the strange runes on the leather cover of the journal, and eventually she smiles.

‘Are you on Facebook at all?’

‘No. I’m not allowed to be on any social media, but I don’t like to admit this to others.’

‘Do you have a phone?’

‘Er… no.’

My mother insists I don’t need a mobile phone because they are full of time-wasting and sinful temptations. Normally, when I tell people I don’t have a phone, I get laughed at. But Clio just looks sympathetic.

‘Alright. I’ll stick to school email accounts for now. You have one of those, right?’

I nod.

‘Cool. See you around, Gabriel.’

That night, I dream of the Paper Girl again. I sit up in bed, thinking I’ve woken up. I see her standing in the middle of my room, staring at me.

‘Who are you?’

No response.

‘What do you want?’

The Paper Girl walks towards me, getting a little closer than before. I reach out to her, desperately wanting to make contact. She reaches out to me. Our fingers are tantalisingly close…

I wake up.

The frustration is greater than before. We were so near to touching.

Thick snow lies on the moors outside. I wonder if school will be closed today, but I doubt it. Thicker snow generally falls higher up, in places like Chimney, but where my school is, lower down on the outskirts of Plymouth, the snow tends to be a lot thinner or non-existent.

I consider going back to sleep, but the alarm is going to go off in a few minutes, so I get up and take a shower. It’s only after I finish washing my hair that I notice what has happened to the tip of the forefinger on my right hand.

It’s made of paper.

I stare at my finger in disbelief. The paper is soaking wet, but it doesn’t seem to peel away like normal paper would. The paper seems to gradually blend into the flesh, skin and bone of the rest of my finger, but it is most like paper around that papercut from Clio’s journal.