Let's Go For a Stroll!

The blonde-wigged outfit turned to you. You could see your salvation hovering behind the straps of the bulging maid outfit, but you didn’t even have control over your lips to say a spell--let alone control over your arms to grab the thing.

It gestured...to your front door. You watched in horror as the lock turned over, knowing that you had no say in what was about to happen.

“We can’t...go out there like this,” You say, trying to save yourself. “Whatever you want--I can help. Please.” A white glove came up to the maid outfit’s would-be mouth, miming a giggle. “You’ll cause a riot,” you say. “Someone’s bound to panic!”

The maid outfit extends both hands, and a blue glow eminates from them. The house begins rumbling, and you hear things in motion. Furniture shifting in the living room and the bedrooms over your head. Metal crashing and cupboards opening and closing in the kitchen. You hear dressers violently squeak open upstairs, not only in your own room and your mother’s--but from Sarah’s as well.

Both the white gloves at the end of the maid outfit’s sleeves balled into fists, still aimed skyward and apparently savoring their power as the rumbling around you calmed…

...but the motion didn’t stop. In the kitchen, you watched shadows dance on the floor, and you heard the sounds of shoes and boots walking around upstairs. Something big had happened.

The coat closet opened, and a pair of your mother’s black rain boots danced out. Your sister’s red pair joined them, and you watched the two glossy pairs of rubber boots twist and dance together as winter coats puffed up with air and bobbed out of the closet.

A chair danced behind you in the hall, moving from one room to another by ‘walking’ itself on its legs in a clockwise motion. A scarf slithered by you, twisting around your neck for a moment and squeezing before slithering away again. An umbrella sprang to life, opening in front of you and poking. You blinked, but you couldn’t really move anywhere. It closed back up and spun in the air, sailing toward the living room.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” You whimpered. “I’m sorry I misused the spell. I’m really sorry. Can’t you just let me go and...do whatever you want to do with that book without me?” You didn’t really wanna unleash this for someone else to deal with--but right now, all you could think about was how you absolutely did not want to be marched out the front door dressed as you were.

A white glove pointed at you, then itself. It marched in place, then spread both open palms, motioning to the door.

“No, please--we can't. It's like broad daylight out there. You'll attract way too much attention!”

Your silver boots shifted. The lining of the coat was still wrapped tight around you, still pressurized with the ghostly curves in the middle layer, and you still had no control over the sleeves. Short of a miracle, nothing was going to get you out of this.

The wig on your head shifted, and the silver boots took a step forward as the maid outfit led the way before them.

“No...no-no-nonononooooo…” Soon your lips wouldn’t even let you protest. You were on the porch, in the afternoon sun. The maid outfit descended the stairs, and you followed. You looked from side to side, looking for a sign of anyone.

And in the dense suburbia--you were lucky. For now. The porches adjacent were empty. The Richenbecks, your elderly neighbors, were absent their rocking chairs. The buxom brunette divorcee next door wasn’t in her garden. Across the street...nada for at least three houses in both directions.

So when you heard the engine, naturally you didn’t want to look. You didn’t need to, right? The clothes wanted to march? Fine. Maybe the only nice thing about all this control was that you could just close your eyes, ignore what you heard and relax.

Maybe...all dressed up and under a wig and makeup, no one would recognize you. Especially given the fact that--with the two other full outfits and the multitude of leggings, panties, tees and bras, you were walking around with about a dozen sets of autonomous clothes.

Then it happened. The car behind you slowed as it approached, and your neck was craned by something--compelled and pulled by the very front of you.

The makeup. It couldn’t just you to shut up. It could shove you ever so slightly in a direction, and you’d comply--out of comfort’s sake. It was a terrifying concept, especially when it you to smile--eyes wide--at the passers-by as you continued marching down the street.