A series of disjointed sensations:
The tight mesh of net pulls her back from the window. The round O of her brother’s mouth as he slips from her grasp and tumbles backwards. “David!” she knows that he cannot hear but screams anyway.
“GET…” Her leg kicks out, connects with a soft, fleshy belly and causes a satisfying grunt.
“OFF…” She pushes and pulls and thrashes against the strangers (creatures?) who have invaded her home.
“MEEE!“ A brief glimpse of a pair of evil, squinting, red eyes and thin, bloodless lips drawn back over rodent teeth in a nasty smile and … “ooooooh!”… What is that terrible smell?
The net is suddenly pulled away. Strong fingers bite into the flesh of her upper arms. Some kind of sack is pulled over her head. A sack that has possibly the worst smell that she has ever smelt in her life. A smell like the fishy reek of potatoes that have gone mushy and bad milk and the stink that wafts over when the boy sitting at the desk next to you has thrown up. She gags. Everything spins. The world becomes dark for a while.
Bits and pieces, flashes of sound and sensation, come to her through the darkness:
Pulling and tugging as her arms and legs are tied firmly behind her and she feels herself being picked up.
The slamming of doors. The clomping of heavy steps. The tinkle of broken glass.
Movement. A sudden thump, Sally realises that she is outside the house, on the ground laying in snow and the sack has fallen from her head. She gulps the fresh air greedily and blinks confused at a garden full of snow and lights.
Fire flickers in the sky. She looks up and up and up. It seems to go on forever. A great big ship at the end of the garden! Flames outline the masts and sails. It is so big. Really much bigger than a ship should possibly be. It towers above the white banks of the icy pond, a deep, terrible, black colour. A black which sucks that light from the world around it. It is a terrible thing this ship, she knows that immediately. It is a thing to cause icy shards of fear as cold as the ice upon which it stands. Then the sack is pulled tightly over her face once more and the rank odour blots out everything except for a deep dread at the knowledge that she is being taken to that ship.
More jolting, rough movement. Feet running on wooden boards. A loud chorus of whoops. Chattering and gibbering noises.
Thump! She has been dumped on the floor again. This time there is no soft snow to land on, just hard wood. Whispers creep through the foggy haze of putrid stench: Squideye…Ratboy…huntress
Then in the last few seconds of semi-consciousness before she passes out completely, she hears one last snatch of conversation:
Skinny thing, ain’t it? Not much fur? Can’t see her skin making as much money as the others. Oh well.