Hey, listen! Remæus needs your help! Spare just a moment of your time and 
A section from Rosetti's Goblin Market, in the style of Stephen King
It had all been Lizzie’s fault, really. Laura, as much as she loved her sister, had never really understood her. She was impetuous where Laura was restrained, jubilant where she was sober. It was not that Laura did not enjoy life, far from it, but she was much more prim and proper when compared to her sister.
This was why Lizzie now lay sprawled in their bed, her face drained of colour, her body a dried, suppurating husk , no more alive than the lightning-struck tree that loomed over the twin’s garden like some spectre of the dead.
The dying sunlight bathed the whole forest in shadow. The flowers shrank away from its touch, curling and wilting, as if struck by some foul ailment. Laura shivered, pulling her shawl closer about her shoulders. She could almost hear the wise, reedy voice of her grandma as she told, once again, the tragic tale of their dear departed sister, Jeanie. She could almost feel the steely glare of those dimming grey eyes, as her grandmother spoke to her of what happened to girls who went into the forest at twilight.
Laura had always listened attentively, shying away in fear as the Goblin-men paraded out of the story, displaying unctuous treasures to tempt virtuous little girls away from innocence. Lizzie had crept forward, her face lighting up as her grandmother related the curiosities of the Goblins with their cat-faces and rat-tails, their fat, furry bodies, and baleful green eyes. Her sister had never made the connection between fantasy and reality. She had always thought that these creatures of myth and tale could never hurt her. How wrong she had been.
The babble of the stream brought Laura away from the melancholic thoughts of her sister, as she pulled off the dainty white shoes that caressed her feet, and stepped into the water. It was icy cold, and she yelped, a hand leaping out towards the rushes to help keep her standing. The shawl slipped from her shoulders, and was devoured by the current, carried away down-stream.
Now clad only in a silvery dress of fine silken cloth, Laura stepped from the river, shivering as the sun finally dipped behind the horizon, plunging the world into an all-consuming darkness. The change had seemed almost instantaneous, almost as if crossing the river was the barrier between the sheltered lives of innocence and sisterhood, and the evil, twilight world of corruption and Goblin-men.
Almost simultaneously that the thought of the goblin-men crossed her mind, she heard the call. “Come taste our fine fruits, Come buy! Come buy!” It was not the words that disconcerted her so. It was the voice and tone. An overlapping tumult of scratching, wizened voices, not at all inviting, but Laura was drawn to it, her bare feet padding across the wet grass, the wind pulling her golden locks loose from her head, spilling them about her shoulders like molten gold.
She managed to halt the disembodied pull of her feet, cocking her head, eyes searching the impenetrable darkness ahead of her, for the source of the voices. The call rang out again, closer this time, the voices more joyous and triumphant . “Come buy our fine fruits, renowned across the land. Fair to taste and fair to eye. Come buy! Come buy!”
Again, Laura stumbled forward, panic spreading throughout her chest as the compulsion to see these otherworldly creatures gripped her. She faltered, before tripping and falling into a circle of torch-light.
Looking up from the dew-wet ground, Laura beheld the Goblins. They looked as if they had walked out of one of her grandmother’s fairy tales, their heads broad and feline, with pointed ears and sharp green eyes. Their bodies sprawled out over their stubby legs, plump and covered in fur. The torches they carried flickered unnaturally, the orange glow making them seem half-real, almost ethereal.
The fruit they bore was just as magical as their appearance, sumptuous, oozing, delectable treats of every shape, size and colour. The sheer amount of this produce, and the rhythmic chanting of the goblins as they circled her, was a veritable assault on the senses, forcing Laura to her knees as the largest goblin she had yet seen stepped forward.
He was tall and rake-thin, with massive swept back ears and lidless golden eyes, like pools of molten honey. In his hand, he held a massive orange, almost oozing with unctuous juices. He brandished it under her nose, his pot-belly rising as he took a deep breath.
“What can we humble merchant men get for you, dear child? An apple perhaps, or one of these most delicious of oranges?”
Laura looked up at him, trying to keep her gaze away from the eyes, lest their lustre consume her.
“K… Kind S..ir. I do not wish to buy anything for myself, only for my sister L..L…Lizzie. She is sick to her soul, and I know that y—“
The Goblins had changed. They were not the creatures of whimsy and fantasy any more. They had become like their leader, tall, spindly with eyes of honey, that seemed to glow in the darkness. They cast down their torches, long claws sprouting from their gnarled fingers, fangs dropping from suddenly skeletal skulls.
Laura remained transfixed by the leader, like a rabbit at the mercy of a fox. She watched the orange in his hand wither and shrivel, becoming as dark and corrupted as the creatures that now loomed over her. All the fruit had become black, once unctuous juice seeping out like pus, tendrils of smoke rising from the silver platters upon which it rested.
None of the goblins spoke now, just sibilant hisses, long tongues flicking out from between their fangs. Laura staggered to her feet, turning to run, but they fell upon her all at once, ripping, tearing biting and clawing, pressing the poisonous fruit to her lips, the juice burning and eating away at her angelic visage.
She felt their claws tear the dress from her back, their rough hands pawing and ripping her flesh. They swarmed over her, driving her to the floor. Mercifully, her head was dashed against a protruding tree-root, and she fell into the all-consuming blackness, the laughter of the cruel creatures ringing in her ears.
