Page 4 of Basket Case

“I don’t want it.”

A cheer went up when I said that. Some women were clearly very interested in taking it for themselves.

Moira wiped tears from her eyes. “Keep it beside your bed until morning. You asked the old magic to show you what’s coming.”

“I didn’t ask. You handed me whisky and pushed me into a field.”

“And look how well that turned out.”

The cottage was dark when I returned. I kicked off my muddy boots and went straight to the pantry before the root could drip over Gran’s floor. Maybe I had a use for that wicker basket after all.

I dropped the kale inside. It fitted at an angle, its thick root jutting over the rim.

There. Gran could hardly complain that I hadn’t tried. I'd taken part in a village tradition and now I was using her ugly basket. If only my head was a little less foggy.

I shut the pantry door and went in search of water.

A crack came from behind me.

I stopped beside the sink.

The pantry door swung open. The basket sat on the shelf with the kale caught tightly between its woven sides. As I watched, the wicker contracted.

Leaves tore from the kale stalk. Thin rods wound around it, twisting with quick, dry snaps. The root sank deeper into the basket until only the swollen end remained visible above the rim.

I gripped the edge of the sink. The whisky had been strong, but it hadn't been strong enough for this.

A fresh length of wicker pushed through the basket’s side. It curled upwards, growing thicker as more strands wrapped around it. The tip flexed towards me.

My mouth went dry. I knew what it resembled. My body did too.

A deep male voice spoke inside my head.

You need not settle for that.

That's it. I was never going to drink whisky ever again.

TWO

Istared at the wicker cock pointing out of Gran’s pantry.

Whisky cannot make a basket talk unless it could already talk before you drank the whisky.

My head swam. “That sounds exactly like something a whisky-induced hallucination would say.”

You are not hallucinating.

"And how do I know that's true? I'd say hearing a basket's voice in my head is a very clear sign of hallucination. The same goes for a basket growing a..."

Cock. Say it.

"An appendage."

The tip flexed.

I backed into the sink and grabbed my phone. Gran’s number was still at the top of the screen. I dialled but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hi, Gran. It’s me. Could you call me back? Your basket is...” I looked into the pantry. The wicker cock had turned in my direction. “Awake.”