Little Tales from Arnyekfold in Spheres | World Anvil
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Little Tales from Arnyekfold

The Portrait   The large, oaken door of the mansion opened with a tortured creak, allowing the fading light of day to illuminate the dusty, red carpet. A young human with brown hair peaked in, before entering. Behind him, a slightly more rotund lad followed, letting his gaze wander across the dilapidated interior before commenting: "This place has gone to the rats, Yakiv. There won't be anything left worth selling."   "Don't be so sure," the man in the lead responded. "Mansions like these, they're filled with treasures."   "How long has this place been abandoned? Nah, we..." He paused, eyes darting. "Did you hear that?"   Yakiv froze, his face momentarily anxious.   The sound of fluttering wings echoed from up above.   "Phew, just a bird," the youth replied. "Anyway, come one. You wanna earn some proper coin for once, you gotta take risks."   "Yeah, but when you said you had a job, I imagined... Something else."   The two of them slowly moved through the ancient building, each step sending up clouds of dust. The wallpaper was falling off the walls, revealing the rotting wood underneath. Old furniture lay in splintered piles. Rats, spiders and other animals scattered to the dark corners, evading the two intruders.   Yakiv suddenly stopped, a big grin on his face. "There we go."   At the end of the hall hang a great picture, a grim looking man the centre of it. He had a thin, black beard and pale skin, a cruel smirk on his face. Behind him, countless figures were put through all kinds of torments, impaled on stakes, spit-roasted over open fires, ripped apart by dogs and hung by hooks from the walls.   The second human winced. "Ugh, that's disgusting. Who'd want this?"   "I bet we could earn a pretty sum," Yakiv speculated. "Kateryna is in town. She'll buy just about anything."   The other guy looked around. "Don't you think it's... A bit strange?"   "What is?"   "The picture. I mean, why was it left behind? And why is it so... Undamaged?"   "You know them nobles. I bet it's enchanted or something. Keeps the paint fresh. As for why it was left behind, well..." He shrugged. "Well, Anton, as you said. Ugh."   "I dunno. I get the creeps just looking at it." He looked around. "Look, maybe there's... I dunno, some silverware or something. Let's just let that thing hang." He looked around. "I mean, there's a... Dinner room or something." He walked over towards the room he pointed out. "Maybe a candle-stick or some nice drapes. Much better than..." He suddenly realized he was alone. "Yakiv? Are you..." He paused, his eyes widening. Cold shivers shot up his spine, his breathing becoming erratic.   The figure in the painting was staring right at him.   He turned and bolted, running as fast as he could, never looking back, never noticing the extra figure among countless others being tormented in the macabre image.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Vanished   "Blasted thief," Ruslan complained, as he walked down the faint animal trail. "I say we give him a good hiding for making us chase him this far."   "Easy, now," his superior, Oksana, replied. "He'll get his in court. No reason to sully ourselves unless he gets difficult."   "And what is he now, then?"   "Most likely lost. You saw the way he bolted."   "Yeah, well, we better find him soon. Ain't much daylight left I reckon."   Oksana paused, then crouched. "Strange."   "What is?"   "His footprints. It's like... He kicked at the ground here and... Then nothing."   "Then he must be around here somewhere," Ruslan noted, stepping forward, only to halt as the older guard held up her hand. "Yeah?"   "I think we've done what we can. We'll just have to report that he's vanished."   Ruslan sighed. "Damned scoundrel. Making us waste our time like this. Probably sitting in some road-side tavern, laughing his ass off."   "Oh, I quite doubt that actually," Oksana replied, as she turned around.   "What makes you say that?"   "Well, I suspected he was lost, but..." She paused, looking over her shoulder.   Barely visible, though faintly shimmering in the light, were a silken strand, running across the forest floor like a tripwire.   "But as I always say," she continued, as they kept walking home. "Sometimes it is better to be lost than to be found."   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Abandoned Village   Yelizaveta shivered, holding onto the reins of her horse as she rode along the path, her lantern illuminating the swaying grass on either side. Above, the nightlight was blocked out by a thick cover of clouds. Droplets of cold water splashed against her skin, as she tried to spot potential dangers in the thick, dense darkness that surrounded her.   She cursed her bad timing. The ferry had been delayed and her idea of getting to the next village before night had been spoiled. She wasn't even sure how long she had to go, but the longer she was out and about, the more at risk she'd be. She wanted to encourage her horse to gallop, but it was not like the poor animal could see any better than her and she'd rather not deal with a horse with a broken leg in the middle of the night.   Suddenly, tall wooden gates emerged from the gloom in front of her. Surprised, she pulled at the reins, halting her ride. She glanced around. The gates were open, flanked by stone walls.   She had arrived.   And yet the open gates, the lack of lights, the quiet aside from the howling winds, it all rubbed her the wrong way.   She looked over her shoulder at the all-encompassing darkness that had swallowed the land, then carefully rode through the gates.   Beyond were hovels, small houses, market stalls, all in various states of disrepair.   As she rode down the road, the realisation that the village had been abandoned slowly settled, like a cold lump of dread in her stomach. It was true that she hadn't met any travelers on the road from the place and sure, none of the people she had talked with had been there recently. But she hadn't thought much of it, and even if she had, she would most likely have concluded that it was just coincidence.   Yet here she was, surrounded by ruins.   Her teeth began clattering, as she tried to scout the place. All she needed was a relatively intact room, something with cover, maybe just a hole she could crawl into until daylight returned.   And then a snarl cut through the dark.   Yelizaveta felt like her heart had jumped to her throat.   Something moved in the dark, something with teeth and claws, growling as it approached. And it was not alone. Another one slowly crept across a rooftop. And another, slinking around a corner.   She pulled at her horse, not that she needed to, as the frightened animal turned and bolted for the gates.   Only to halt, rearing back on its hind legs, as two of the creatures blocked the gate. One jumped forward, pinning the animal to the ground, tearing open its throat with a grotesque sound.   Yelizaveta, who had been thrown to the ground, groaned in pain, her entire body stunned from the impact. Her wide eyes looked up at the slowly closing circle of beasts.   A whimper escaped her as the reality of the situation settled with grim finality.   The village had been abandoned, yes. But only by humans.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Enchanted Blade   He shivered, tears staining his face, as he tried to keep his breathing quiet. The darkness of the attic was like a comforting blanket. Warm, safe, enveloping. Somewhere close to him, he could hear his sister, sniffling.   He had to keep her safe. But he didn't know how.   When the things had come to his village, his dad had tried to get them out. But they had been everywhere. They had retreated to their house, closed the doors and the blinds.   But it hadn't helped. They had fallen upon their house in a frenzy, slamming at the doors, breaking the windows. Their dad had held the door shut, yelling at them to hide in the attic. And there, the two of them had hid, listening to the sounds below. The splintering of wood and glass. The pained screams that quickly faded into a wet gurgle. The grotesque sounds of flesh tearing and bones breaking. And then the deafening silence, punctuated by the occasional shuffle.   He prayed. He prayed to any deity that would listen that the horrid, rotting things would just go away. That they wouldn't find them. It was all he could do. He couldn't fight them. He couldn't get them out. He could only pray.   There was a quiet, as if the world for a moment held its breath.   And then with a sound of splintering wood, a clawed limb slammed through the roof, bringing with it a cloying scent of decay.   His sister began screaming, as the hungry face of a dead man peered in through the hole, framed by the pale light of the night.   As others began tearing away at the ceiling, he looked around, grabbing the nearest thing, throwing it with as much force as he could muster. The lantern slammed against the horror's face, the glass splintering, cutting its rotting flesh, not that it seemed to deter it.   He kept throwing, a candleholder, a snuff box, an old picture, as more and more of the roof was ripped off. In blind panic, he grabbed a chest and pulled, succeeding only in dragging it to the floor and spilling its content.   As the first of the undead began pushing its way into the attic, he saw something shine in the nightlight.   A sword. His mother's sword. She had left one day with the other soldiers. She never came back. Some of the others did and they had brought the sword to his father. He didn't know what had happened to his mother. Their father refused to tell. He only knew she would not come home.   He grabbed it, holding it up against the advancing corpse, his grip unsteady. He could hear his sister's panicked sobbing behind him. He wouldn't let the creature hurt her.   He gritted his teeth and reared the weapon back, as the rotting thing got ready to lunge at him.   For a moment, he felt as if the world stood still. He breathed in. It felt almost like a pair of hands closed over his own, steadying his grip.   He swung.   As the blade cut into the side of the undead, the blade burst with ghostly flames, slicing through it. It fell on the floor, rotting organs spilling from its now bisected body.   He took a moment to breathe, then eyed the next rotting thing.   His dad had been wrong. His mother had come home.   He roared in defiance and charged.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   A Little Misfortune   "...and when he came back he was yowling like a cat about being cursed to die or some such nonsense," the burly man said, his skin like leather and his bushy beard almost completely grey. "And since then he hasn't left his room."   The man walking next to him, clad in dark robes, inquired: "How many cycles ago was this?"   "Five."   "And has he eaten anything during this time?"   "Aye, a little. Keeps fearing its poisoned. But hunger is a strong motivator."   "You worried for the lad?"   "I'm worried for this town," the burly man snorted. "My best apprentices are away buying supplies and I'm up to over my ears in work. You know how it is in this muggy weather. There's always something that needs replacing. Now granted, the lad was always the lazy type, but he knew what was up and down on a hammer, and right now, he's the best I got. Until this curse nonsense. So I hoped you could, I dunno, say something, maybe bless him, so he'd stop cowering in there."   "What makes you think he isn't?"   "No disrespect, Father, but who'd bother cursing the boy? Anyway, it's right up here."   The two of them ascended the wooden stairs on the side of the building, coming to a wooden door. The burly carpenter knocked on it. "Ivan? It's Master Semen. Open up."   "No. You'll just drop your hammer on my head. Or something," came the reply from the inside. "I can feel it. I'm cursed with misfortune. It will kill me if I let it."   "Been like this for a while?" the priest asked.   "Day and night," Semen sighed. "Listen, Ivan, I got Father Pylyp to come all the way out here. He can help you."   There was a prolonged silence. "Can you?" Ivan quietly asked through the door.   "It is not for me to decide. I am but a vessel of the divine," Pylyp replied. "But if you are worthy of salvation or willing to repent, I am sure you shall be blessed. Now tell me, how did you come to be cursed?"   "Well..." came the slow reply. "Me and... My mates had... Well, we had been drinking. And then we... We made a little bit of fun of this crotchety old lady. You know, nothing serious, just... Just a little gentle ribbing."   "I seriously doubt that," the carpenter mumbled.   "Son, what exactly made you think making sport of some poor old woman was fun?" Pylyp asked sternly.   "I... We were drunk and... She just seemed a little... Silly."   "That is a poor excuse."   "I know. I'm sorry, okay. I just.. Then she turned on us, raising this... Talisman or something and... And she said we'd all be cursed. We'd all suffer from misfortune until we died."   "And that's why you've locked yourself in this room?"   "I mean... I didn't buy it at first. But then, when I got home, I stubbed my toe. And then I cut my hand making dinner. And next day, I slammed my thumb with my hammer. And it all started getting worse. I realized that if it kept up, then... Then I would die."   The priest leaned over to the carpenter. "Anyone else suffering from this?"   "Nah. Haven't heard nothing 'bout anyone else being cursed," the man gruffly replied.   "I see." Pylyp slightly corrected his clothes. "Ivan. You've clearly erred treating an innocent with scorn and humiliation. Are you willing to repent and promise to never again mock the misfortunate?"   "Yes. Yes, please, I'll do whatever it takes. Just take this curse away?" the man pleaded.   "Then I pray to Birihan on your behalf, that her light might touch your soul. That the evil eye be blinded and that all maledictions be burnt away. That you be relieved of this pain and this burden."   There was a pregnant pause.   "I feel like... I feel like it worked. Ha... Ha ha. It worked!" The door was nearly flung open and the apprentice embraced the priest in a hug. "Thank you. Oh thank you so much."   Pylyp awkwardly patted his head. "That's quite alright, my son."   "Now if you're done whining, we have a massive backorder of work to do," Semen remarked with annoyance. "You've wasted quite enough time."   "Hey now, easy old man," Ivan said, as he let got of the priest and leaned against the railing. "I think after that mess, I deserve at least a couple of drinks before I..." There was a sudden creaking and his eyes widened, as with a splintering sound he fell backwards.   Pylyp and Semen could only stare in shock at the broken wood. Then there was a thump, followed by screaming and someone yelling: "Oh my god, he's dead."   The two men paused, before slowly approaching the gap.   "So... He was actually cursed?" Semen asked, as he looked down at the gathering crowd.   Father Pylyp carefully scratched at the rotten wood of the railing. "One doesn't need to be cursed to be unlucky."   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Burning Chasm   Father Roman grasped his staff and exhaled. His knees shook and burned, his back ached and pounded, sweat ran from his brow in thick drops. And yet he couldn't rest.   He had a job to do.   The message had come suddenly. A yawning chasm had opened in the nearby mountains. Already, nearby villages reported acts of devilry and demons on the prowl. The others at the church had been scared. Concerned.   But not him. His faith was unshakable. He had worked in that church for the last forty-five years of his life. He was getting old, his hair greying and his skin sagging. And yet he knew, this was his destiny.   He continued onwards up the rocky path, every step threatening to be his last as his body verged on giving in. Yet his faith was burning strong. The others had wished him well, though many had doubts in their eyes. They would rather wait until church reinforcement would come.   But he had to act now.   Finally, he reached the summit and beheld it.   It was as if someone had taken a titan's axe to the mountain, leaving behind a deep wound lit by hellfire. From the baleful depths echoed the sounds of demons, as they flittered about the damned canyon.   He staggered forward, conviction clear.   He looked up, spotting dreadful shapes flying above. He could feel their piercing eyes settling on him, watching his every staggered step. Others perched on the nearby cliffs, all grim looks and sadistic smiles.   They wouldn't stop him. They'd let him try.   He staggered to the edge.   His mind was calm. His faith unbroken. This was the culmination of his work. Of his belief.   He took a step forward.   And he fell.   He laughed as he plummeted into the chasm, his skin bubbling, burning, peeling away as the occult fires washed over him.   His faith was finally rewarded.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   A Game of Thorns   Sofiya moved carefully through the underbrush, her bow in hand. Around her towered the ancient trees of the deep forest.   She was now further away from her village than she had ever been before. And she didn't like it. But the harvest had just about failed, only a few traders were coming in and their granaries were running low.   She had to find something. Or her family would starve.   Something rustled up ahead and she paused.   Prey? Or predator?   She swallowed her spit and moved, ever so carefully, forward.   Peering around a corner, she spotted something.   A doe, feasting on the grass of a meadow.   She couldn't let the opportunity pass.   She grabbed one of her arrows and nocked it. She breathed in, focused and let it fly.   It struck true, only to bounce off the deer's hide like it was made of stone.   Sofiya blinked.   The doe, almost languidly, looked to the arrow that now lay in the grass. And then it looked up, emerald eyes transfixing the young woman.   And then the doe smiled, revealing a ghastly set of predator's teeth.   Sofiya didn't need to see more. She turned and bolted, for whatever devilry the creature she had encountered was, nothing good could come from it.   She charged through the bushes and jumped over roots, trying to get away as quickly as possible. She chanced a glance over her shoulder, only to watch the terrifying creature bouncing after her, hopping from spot to spot in a merry chase, its green eyes never letting her out of sight.   She cleared a brook and kept running, ducking under low branches and evading briars. She looked back again, to see the creature still keeping up. It was as if the forest itself bend its way to grant the creature passage.   Sofiya had no doubts what the being was. It was some ancient spirit of the forest. And now she had earned its ire, not only intruding on its domain, but attempting to strike it down. She would not live to see another day if it caught her, of that she was sure.   She kept running, adrenaline cancelling out all thoughts of fatigue and pain. She knew her village was close. She could see the end of the forest. If she could just get into the meadow, where the guards would be able to see her... If she she could just reach the sanctified walls... If she could just see her family again, once last time...   Thorny vines burst from the ground, catching her feet. She stumbled and fell, the bow flying from her grasp. She landed on her stomach, more vines growing around her, wrapping around her body, points pressing painfully against her skin.   She couldn't move. Not without impaling herself as surely as if she had been locked in an iron maiden.   And then she heard the steps. Slowly approaching. She closed her eyes, pressing out tears, as she hoarsely whispered to herself every prayer she could think of.   The terrifying being halted by her side and leaned down. She could feel its warm breath on the back of her neck, then its teeth against her skin, slowly closing around her. She sobbed.   And then the creature backed off, ever so slightly. "You humans are cute when you think you can run away," it whispered into her ear.   She didn't dare answer.   "So what brought you so far out, little human? Hunger? Well... I suppose you've been a good sport about this."   Sofiya dared to look up.   The doe rose up to its full height, though still watching her with a toothy grin. It swayed its hips, slamming them against a nearby tree. The wood groaned and suddenly, the branches began bursting with apples and pears, cherries and apricots, all of which began raining down, just as the thorns receded back into the ground.   Sofiya sat up, surrounded by the bounty of food. The being was gone. She quickly gathered as much as she could, then turned towards her village.   She paused, then offered the spirit a quiet thanks for sparing her. And then she hurried home.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Howl in the Night   He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Beads of sweat formed on his brow.   How long before it would begin? How long before they'd break the silence?   For the last couple of cycles, his village had been besieged. Animals had gone missing. Food had been stolen. And a chorus of howls would herald the night. Barely anyone got a good night's sleep.   His wife and kids had been moved to the church. It was a large, stone building. Solid. Blessed. They'd be safe there. But he couldn't leave their home, to be vandalized by the savages. He couldn't...   He couldn't sleep. Not when he knew that at any moment, the howls would begin.   There had been attacks along the forest roads. Occasional attacks. Nothing major. Nothing worth getting hunters or slayers for. But then it had suddenly intensified. An occasional lone howl had turned into a chorus of the damned.   And as if summoned by his thoughts, it began. Shrill howls, long howls, deep howls. Echoing from the dark woods, echoing forth from just beyond the reach of bonfires and lanterns. Terrifying, horrifying, bestial, majestic.   He threw his blanket aside and staggered out of bed.   He was one of the town's messengers. A lifeline to the rest of the country. It was dangerous, but a well-paid, well-respected job. It allowed his family a decent house. Good food on the table. Occasional luxuries. He accepted the danger. And he had warned the others. Of what he had seen.   He stumbled over to the mirror, shaking, sweating, gasping.   The dead animals could be replaced. New food could be bought. He could probably even block out those damned, beckoning howls, if he just had a good pair of corks to shove in his ears. But the part he couldn't ignore, the worst part of it all...   He looked up, amber eyes staring back from his reflection.   He couldn't ignore the howls coming from the inside.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Mirror, Mirror   Sophie laid down in the bed and exhaled. The day had been long, travelling from the city through the vast, wind-blasted heaths, but soon, she'd be home. The food at the inn was nice and the bed soft, encouraging her sore body to rest.   Tink, tink.   She opened her eyes.   Tink, tink.   A noise. She sat up and squinted, only a small amount of nightlight illuminating her room.   Tink, tink.   There it was again. A noise. A knocking on the glass. She looked to the window.   Could be a bird.   Tink, tink.   She grasped her pistol as she swung her legs out of bed.   Could be far worse.   Tink, tink.   She slowly made her way over and peered through the glass.   Nothing.   Tink, tink.   It was then she realised the noise wasn't from the window. She looked around, perplexed.   Tink, tink.   She stared. The mirror.   Tink, tink.   Maybe mice? She slowly made her way over and looked into the reflective surface.   It was oval, with a gold-painted frame, with motifs of flowers and trees. It was beautiful. But she couldn't figure out why it had made the noise. A draft perhaps? She reached out.   A cold hand grasped her wrist and pulled her forward, her scream silenced as her head passed through the reflective surface.   Tink, tink.   The next day, her husband and her kids warmly greeted the woman that came home. She ate her food while sitting on her chair. She slept in her bed and wore her clothes. Her husband sometimes commented that he thought for sure her wedding ring used to be on the other hand, but the woman just said he misremembered.   Tink, tink.   Sometimes, the woman would stop and stare at a nearby mirror, as if hearing a distant sound. But when asked, the woman always said it was nothing.   Tink, tink.   Nothing at all.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Broken Things   Marcus sighed, shaking his head as he observed the mess. It really never ceased to amaze him what people would throw away, what perfectly nice things would be discarded.   He slowly stepped around the piles, mentally taking inventory.   Sure, a lot of them were broken. Shattered, even. But with some love and care, they'd be almost as good as new. Almost...   He was good with his hands. And he had a sharp mind. But even he couldn't make these things as they had been before they broke. Sometimes, not even close. Sometimes, they were so broken, he could only make something new from them.   And in that, he found an almost artistic beauty. The ability to take all these broken things and make something new. Something better.   Well, better was a matter of perspective. Certainly, his work had its critics.   He carefully looked over one of the more devastated bits. Some things were so broken, even he'd have no use of them. He pulled a saw from his backpack, beginning the work of separating the useful from the useless.   The church never understood his art. Too busy being fearful of the dark to appreciate the little joys of making something beautiful. Then again, could he blame them? It was not like he was blind to the dangers, to the horrors that lurked around the world.   His art was functional. His art protected him. If only the church wasn't so afraid.   He looked up and sighed, wiping blood from his brow as he surveyed the silent battlefield.   So many broken bodies. So many shattered lives.   He'd make something new of them yet.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Escape Into the Night   Daniela paused, leaning against the marble pillar, allowing herself a moment to catch her breath. In the distance, she could still hear movement, as her pursuers swept the hedge maze looking for her. Part of her wanted to run. But she knew she needed a moment to gather her strength or she'd just collapse. The bastards would take advantage of any weakness she'd show.   How long ago was it she had arrived here with the rest of her squad? One cycle? Two? More? She couldn't remember.   It had seemed simple, if dangerous. Scout the edges of the territory of House Fekorona, see if there were any signs that the bloodsuckers were planning anything.   Yet despite being very careful, they had been ambushed almost immediately. Bad luck? Dark magic? Or maybe a traitor? She couldn't know. Maybe she'd never know.   They had all been taken to the grand Castle Fekorona. An imposing structure, more a fortress city than a mere castle. A splendid symbol of power and wealth for the vampires that lived there. And then they had been taken downstairs. To the wine cellar, as her captors had called it, with obvious amusement.   She scowled at the memory.   They had all been locked in different rooms. Taken one by one to be drained dry. The others had screamed. Cried. Pleaded. One even offered to give up valuable information. The vampires did not care.   She knew there was only one way she was going to get out. And that was not by the mercy of her captors. A weak bar in her cage had allowed her to slip out. An emtpy barrel had offered her refuge, so thick with the scent of blood that the wardens had missed her. And then she had gotten out of the basement.   She took a deep breath and began moving towards the edge of the garden.   The opulence of those halls hid dangers around every corner. Corpses bound to serve the wills of the vampires lurked behind drapes, ready to lunge at her. Armors and paintings had been animated with foul magic, stepping forth to hinder her passage. Unknowable things lurked in the crevices, ready to drag her down.   "THERE SHE IS!"   She didn't look back. She didn't need to. She just began running.   She had evaded the ghouls chained up in the courtyard. She had remained unseen by the tower patrols. She had broken free of the phantasm in the hall of mirrors. She had barely avoided landing among the deadly black roses they cultivated in the garden and slipped through the thick web covering the gazebo. She had gotten this far.   She would not falter now.   The edge of the garden was right in front of her. An imposing marble statue of some important vampire rose before her. A few steps and she could vault over the wall. She'd have a better chance of evading them in the wilderness.   A hulking shape stepped out of the dark, barring her path. Red eyes glared at her, fangs bared in a terrifying grin, as the chiropteran bloodsucker raised a sword no mortal man could wield.   She could hear the sounds behind her. They were close.   She had only one chance.   The vampire swung the blade with the strength of an avalanche and the speed of the wind.   She leapt forward.   The blade passed over her, slicing off a few strands of dark hair.   She rolled, passing between the bloodsucker's legs. She kicked against the ground, jumping up at the statue.   One, two, three steps.   She flew over the wall, landing on the soft grass beyond.   She quickly got back on her feet and kept running. Kept running until the grass was broken up by old tress and moss-covered boulders.   She was sure they were still after her. They had to be. She slowly halted, allowing herself a glance over her shoulder. Weren't they?   She stopped, ever so briefly, before pushing on. No point contemplating what went on in the minds of monsters.   She pushed her way through the shrubbery, entering a glade filled with wild flowers tall enought to brush her knees.   And she stopped.   Sitting on a fancy throne, sipping from a glass of crystal, was a vampire dressed in purple robes. He smiled at her. "Welcome, human. You're the first winner of our little game in... Well, it's certainly been years."   The statement caused Daniela to blink, as her mind struggled to process the information. "Ga-game?"   "What, you don't think House Fekorona can afford proper prison cells? We installed a flaw in yours on purpose. In fact..." He sipped the thick, crimson liquid in his glass. "All your cells had a way out. But most humans... Well, few ever leave their cells. Too scared to try. But what else can one expect of prey?"   She gritted her teeth. "We are not..."   "You are prey," he interrupted her. "That is the nature of humans. Or are you so arrogant that you remain blind to this simple truth? We feed on you. The dead eat you. Those slobbering forest mongrels devour you. The dragons consume you. Or am I wrong? Is that not why you huddle within your cities, cling to one another, begging deities for miracles to save you." He smiled. "You. Are. Prey." He took a sip. "Well, most of you. Some few of you shine with the potential to be more. Some... Like you."   Daniela scowled. "Spare me your flattery, monster."   "Oh, but I am quite sincere. I'd have been impressed had you merely managed to escape our wine cellar. You managed to get all the way out here. It has been quite entertaining." He put the glass down and folded his arms, his patagia enveloping him like a robe. "I'll give you a choice, human. You can leave, with my blessings. Nothing in our land shall hurt you. You can go home, tell the tale of your heroic escape and be lauded as a champion among humankind. They might even make a statue of you. Or..." He leaned forward. "You can become one of us. It's few of you lowborn squabblers that possess the qualities that would make you worthy of House Fekorona, but you've certainly proved your worth. I can free you from your mortality and give you power most humans would only possess in your dreams. I can grant you riches even your precious human pope has never laid eyes on. I can allow you to harness your true potential and become a monarch of the night." He leaned back. "The choice is yours. You've earned it, human."   She paused. She felt actual conflict. She had seen comrades die, to wounds, to illness, to curses. She had seen the petty squabbles that had taken hold of the church, the fear that drove them to greater and greater extremes.   And yet, would she not also turn her back on so much good? Had she not always wanted to protect the innocent? Could she give up that, just for sheer selfishness?   Or was there some way to be both a savior and a monster?   She steeled herself and took a deep breath.   And she gave her answer.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Slime Below   It really was an amazing thing. The thing in his basement. A problem solver, that's what it was.   He had found it, when his wife had demanded he clean the basement. There was always something around the house that had to be done. Never a moment's rest with that woman. As if it wasn't enough he had to break his back hauling junk around the village. He also had to fix everything around the house. So what if she was busy with the kid and the food? It wasn't like the basement was going anywhere.   But now, he was happy she had told him to. That's how he found the thing. A strange, bubbling, little pile of goop.   He had considered getting rid of it. But his curiosity has won out.   And soon, the slime proved itself the most valuable member of the household.   When his wife demanded he get rid of the garbage, he'd feed it to the slime. And the problem was gone.   If the food she made tasted like manure, he'd feed it to the slime. And the problem was gone.   When he was done cutting the meat from whatever animal he'd hunted, he'd give the useless bones and gunk to the slime. And the problem was gone.   The slime was undemanding. It was happy to help him. It even listened to him complain, allowed him to pet it as he talked about his woes.   But he hadn't understood just how helpful, until that day.   When that stupid brat had kicked his ball through the window.   As if he hadn't gotten enough to spend money on.   He had been so furious, he hadn't even been thinking.   He had grabbed the lad by his shirt and hurled him down into the basement, closing the door after him. He had heard the muffled screams and the silence that followed.   And the problem was gone.   And that's when he realized just how much the slime could help.   When his boss refused to increase his pay, he invited him over for a talk. And the problem was gone.   When the neighbor kept making a racket about their missing brat, he invited them over for dinner. And the problem was gone.   When his wife became too curious about why he spent so much time in the basement, he let her see. And the problem was gone.   When the guards came by to investigate all the missing people, he let them come in. And the problem was gone.   When his wife's baby wouldn't stop screaming for one reason or the other, he brought her downstairs. And the problem was gone.   When the villagers had become loud, worried, clamoring, he had thrown open the doors to his basement. And the problem was gone.   He sat in his chair, enjoying the quiet. The silence. Everything was fine. All his problems were gone. Everyone was gone.   The slime curled around him, silently begging him for more problems to solve. He thought of how helpful it was.   He'd find more problems soon enough. There was always more problems to solve.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Relatively Haunted   "Dominik!" came the shriek through the manor. "Dominik!"   The man named Dominik, a handsome and sharply-dressed fellow, put down his book and sighed.   Maybe he could just ignore her this time.   "Dominik!"   Nope. It was impossible. He got out of his chair and began trudging upstairs, past grand portraits and elaborate suits of armor. Up past the first and the second floor, up the spiral staircase, up to the highest tower where his mother had chosen to reside. Most likely just to be a bother.   He opened the door to her chamber. "You called," he tersely started.   The old woman scowled at him, revealing the few teeth left in her mouth. "Why are you always so slow? You know, back in my day, we'd be more prompt. Too lazy to help your old mother?"   "Maybe if you'd relocate to somewhere more convenient," he replied with annoyance.   "No. I like the view." She looked out the window. "Well, I liked the view. But now the garden is getting overgrown. I want you to trim the hedges. And cut down that tree by the lake. It's spoiling my view of the fish."   "You couldn't possibly see the fish from up here," he insisted.   "You're right. Which is why you'll cut that tree down."   He groaned and turned to leave.   "I'm not done, young man," she sharply announced. "I think it's high time the drapes are washed. All of them. And once that's done, you can dust the library. Then you can return to whatever frivolties you were occupied with."   "How about i just hire some help?" he asked, as he whipped around to face her. "Instead of having to do everything by hand? I have more than enough money."   "Our family did not save up a fortune for a wastrel like you to throw it away," she replied sharply. "Now get to it."   He gritted his teeth. "I ought to have you thrown out."   She smiled cruelly. "Yes. But then I'd spill all your little secrets. And then you'd be marched right off to the gallows. You know the terms. You got to inherit early. In return, you do my bidding. And that's your own damn fault, Sonny. Now get to work. You're wasting daylight."   He stomped out of the room and slammed the door shut behind him. If he'd known she'd become such a pest, he'd never have killed her in the first place.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Among the Ruins   Pataki walked through the old woods with determination, eyes on the animal trail.   Blood splatters were still visible in the fading daylight, fresh and red.   A particularly large splotch caused the woman to kneel down and investigate. The girl she was tracking was maybe still alive, but at the rate she was bleeding, it wouldn't be for long. She hurried her pace.   The line of trees broke into open terrain and she found herself on the top of a hill. Down below, she could see several old buildings, many semi-collapsed and falling over. In the distance loomed a large tower, a massive bell still visible at its top.   An abandoned town. Arnyekfold was lousy with those.   Relatively abandoned, probably. It was never long before someone or something moved in. If the girl had sought refuge there, she might just have run into some monster or other.   Pataki gritted her teeth. She couldn't let that happen.   The swaying grass on the hill-side was stained with ruby droplets. She quickly followed them, only slowing so she wouldn't tumble. Last thing she needed now was a broken limb.   She hurried along the old cobblestone road, overgrown with weeds and moss. She carefully scanned the buildings, looking for signs of the girl. Or signs of any dangers.   A noise caught her ears. She paused. A ragged gasping. Sobbing. Pained whimpers.   Pataki hurried around a street corner and saw her. Leaning over the side of an old well, clutching her bloodied side, dark hair matted with sweat hanging from her head.   Pataki smiled and approached, softly announcing her presence with a: "There you are."   The girl looked up in shock, her blue eyes widening in fear. She stumbled back, knocking an old bucket into the well with a clatter.   Pataki drew her knife, still slick with the girl's blood. "You've given me quite the runaround. It's all been rather frustrating." Internally, she did acknowledge it was kinda her own fault. She had gotten careless. The knots had been too loose. She had returned to the guest room just in time to see the girl making her way out the window. She had grabbed her, stabbed her, trying to stop her escape, but she slipped from her would-be killer's grasp. By the time Pataki had gotten downstairs, there was only a bloody trail into the woods.   The girl stumbled as the serial killer approached, pushing herself backwards. "No... Stay away..." she whimpered, pressing her tired body against an old wall.   Pataki smiled at her, though she truly was rather annoyed. And what annoyed her most of all was that now, she wouldn't be able to take her time like she had wanted. It was far too dangerous out here. But at least she'd make sure that it was her who got to kill the girl and not some random monster, who couldn't even appreciate the beauty of it all.   She grabbed the girl by her throat and forced her to stand. She took but a moment to appreciate her victim's struggling, that final burst of desperate life, before driving her blade into her stomach.   There was a moment's pause. Pataki felt something was off. The girl had gone quiet, calmly looking at her. The killer looked down.   The blade was indeed buried to the hilt in the girl's stomach. Yet it didn't feel right. It felt as if she had stabbed nothing at all. She slowly moved the knife, watching as it slid around without leaving a mark. As if she had stabbed a bank of fog.   She looked up.   The girl smiled. Then she stepped forward, right though the killer's hand and went: "Boo."   Pataki stumbled back, almost loosing her balance. "W-what...?"   The thing that had taken the girl's form giggled. "Oh, you should have seen your face. Splendid. Absolutely splendid." She folded her arms behind her back. "Confused? Oh, why am I asking, the answer is painted on your face." She stepped forward and Pataki stepped back. "Shall I explain? This is my domain. And I... Dislike unwelcome guests. When I saw that girl, I figured I'd give her a fright. But then I saw that the poor thing had already been scared out of her wits. And I decided, she'd probably rather be somewhere else. So I helped her find her way to a nearby village, where'd she'd probably get some help. And besides, I figured someone would probably be coming after her. Someone much more fun to play with." She giggled again, though this time with a strange distortion to her voice, as if partially echoing. "A fake blood trail and you come running into the heart of my land. Isn't that hilarious, everyone?"   Pataki paused. Everyone? She looked around. From the ruins, misty forms began seeping forth. Some looked almost like people, some like any thing but, all slowly forming a spectral wall around her, slowly closing in. She grasped her blade and held it up with desperation, even though she knew it would do her no good against a spirit.   "So," the creature that had taken the girl's form began, an orange light like from a lantern blazing in her eyes, her body beginning to dissolve into a bleached, white mist. "What game shall we play with you next?"   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Rider in the Mist   Jonas shivered and tried to pull his jacket tighter, to keep the cold, humid air out, as his steed slowly trotted forward. All around him, dense fog covered the marshland.   He was no fool. He'd never have ventured out through such a dangerous area if the weather hadn't been clear. But the damnable fog had come suddenly and without warning, eating up everything from the horizon to the road ahead.   And now he was lost.   He reached under his jacket, making sure that his sword and pistol were both still there. He could barely see the ground underneath his horse. But that didn't mean that other things couldn't see him. And if they did... He'd have only a short moment to react.   His horse, Jigger, snorted nervously. Jonas patted him gently on the head, though he shared the equine's anxiousness. If he could just get to the town on the edge of the marshland, he'd be safe. Safe-ish, at the very least.   A noise caught his attention. He turned his head. A shape moved in the mist.   Could be an animal. A grazing deer, maybe.   He wasn't going to stay around and find out.   He signaled to Jigger and the horse slightly sped up.   They couldn't go too fast. In this fog, any hole, any log, could spell the death of them.   Something moved on his left.   He couldn't see what it was. His breathing became unsteady. His fingers locked around the pummel of his blade. He bid Jigger go slightly faster.   The horse obeyed.   He looked behind him, seeing if he could spot what was moving. It could be any number of things, from some tormented specter to ravenous eater of men. He didn't want to find out.   He whispered a couple of prayers.   Suddenly, Jigger stumbled slightly, accompanied by wet sounds.   Jonas looked down. He could just barely make out the swampy muck his horse had run into. They had gone completely off road.   He cursed himself. In his fear, he had forgotten to keep an eye on the path. He looked around, trying to find the way. It seemed clear ahead. He grasped the reins and got ready to move.   A hand clutched his shoulders.   Jonas screamed, a howl of fear that echoed across the cold marshland for several seconds.   "Son," a warm voice began. "Would you calm down?"   Jonas, shakily, looked to the side.   An older man, swathed in warm clothes, was besides him on a black horse. "You were about to ride straight into a pit there, son."   "I... I was?"   "Yes. Road's over here. Come along now." The stranger gently redirected his own horse.   Jonas paused, then directed Jigger to follow. "Ehm.. Thanks, sir."   "Name's Jakab," the man responded. "And you're welcome."   The younger man sighed in relief. It had just been a patrolman. "Sorry, I though you were... Something else."   "Nah, it's okay, son. This mist plays tricks on your senses." He looked around. "I've been patrolling these parts for... Let's see... At least ten years or so. Probably more. And even I can't keep everything straight." He shook his head. "I swear, this swamp shifts and changes every time the fog rolls in. Almost as if to spite us. Ah, but do not concern yourself. I've gotten quite good at finding my way. As a matter of fact..." He pointed ahead. "I believe that's your destination up there."   Jonas could just barely see the flicker of lanterns through the mist. "So it is. Thanks, Jakab."   "You're welcome. Now, if you will excuse me. Might be someone else needs my help," he replied, as he turned his horse around and rode back into the swamp, vanishing quickly from sight.   Jonas continued the ride, soon after finding himself at the city gates. He knocked on the wood and a slid opened, a face red from the cold peering out. "Who goes there?"   "The name's Jonas," the man replied. "May I come in? The weather is dreadful."   "Good heavens. Did you cross the marsh? With the fog?"   "It was not my intent, but yes."   "Then you're quite lucky."   "I guess so," Jonas agreed. "I was lucky that patrolman found me."   "Patrolman? Nobody patrols that bog when the mist is out. It's practically suicide," the gatekeeper said, as he began fiddling with the locks. "Only one crazy enough was old Jakab. And the bog swallowed up him and his steed long ago."   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Friendly Whisper   Erik didn't understand adults. Whenever he thought he made sense, they treated him as if he made none.   He figured it was because they couldn't hear the whispers.   It was a shame. The whispers were his friend. Or maybe friends. Were there one? Or many? He could never tell.   But they were friends. Better friends than anyone else.   They told him things. Secret things. Where there were small treasures and funny things. From where he could see other people and they couldn't see him.   He learnt a lot about adults this way. Maybe even things he were never supposed to know.   Why did they keep secrets from him? The whispers never kept secrets from him.   In fact, they told him truths. Truths the others kept hidden. Like what the other children in the village really thought of him. How his parents didn't really love him. He could only trust the whispers. Everyone else was false.   And he knew it was true. Bonnie had said she and Myra were the best of friends. Yet the things Bonnie said about Myra when she wasn't around weren't the things best friends said.   And his parents didn't even love each other. Why else would his mother meet with the village priest in the barn, to kiss and do other strange things? Why would his father say he'd sworn off gambling, then meet for drinks and dice in the neighbor's basement? How could they love him?   And so he started using his knowledge. To gain things, like favors and gifts. He'd threaten to spill the secrets and people would dance like the marionettes the funny man in the square used to entertain.   It's what they deserved.   But then the whispers warned him. His parents, afraid of him, had gotten hold of something. Something they got from an old crone out in the woods. Something that would drown out the whispers.   They were his friends. His only friends.   And his parents... The villagers... They'd kill the whispers.   So why didn't the adults at the asylum understand?   He had to kill them all first.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Shadowing the Truth   Casefile: HW-20-22 Log 17   I apologize ahead of time for any blood spatters on the page. Thankfully, William was a terrible shot. At that distance, even a novice should have been able to take me down, but he got my shoulder instead. Never got the chance for a second try.   I write this with the knowledge that the bastard probably have compatriots who might just have better aim. I might be dead before the next cycle.   And so, I write to ensure that the truth does not die with me.   You might remember me mentioning a new case, a young priest vanishing. His family were terribly concerned, but church officials stonewalled them. And so, they came to me.   I didn't expect much. Even priests gets picked off by muggers and criminals. But the case soon took a strange turn.   His house had clearly been ransacked. I found traces of paper in the fireplace. He had known something. Something dangerous.   I managed to find his diary under the floorboards. Some of his accounts were strange. Some of the seniors had taken him aside, to interview him. Some of the questions were not in line with church policy, to put it mildly.   He had decided to investigate. And I was willing to bet all the silver in my coffers that he had paid for that curiosity.   So, faced with the choice of bowing out or following his trail, I chose to put myself at risk. Because I'm just that stubborn I guess.   I began shadowing a few local members of the church. And many were just what they said. Others had mild vices they hid. Gambling. Drinking. Inappropriate relationships of one sort or the other. Nothing that seemed worth erasing a young priest for. But you know how some people are.   I spent cycles following various church members around town. Some I even managed to chat with. I made sure to change my clothes often. Doesn't take a genius to smell trouble if the same stranger keeps showing up to ask questions.   And then, three cycles ago, I had a breakthrough.   One of the priests, a woman named Luna, headed out into the woods one night and I managed to follow. There, she met with others, some of whom I had seen at church.   And there, bathed in nightlight, they performed wild rituals. They shed themselves of all trappings of decency, in an orgiastic frenzy, consuming vast amounts of food and wine.   It was quite the sight. Some of them weren't even human at all, merely hiding their monstrous forms under a thin shell, which they gladly shed during the festivities.   I did not witness the entire event. I was spotted and had to run.   Normally, I would appreciate being chased by wild womenfolk, but that time, I figured it would be a bit too much.   But I had proof. A conspiracy in the very heart of the church.   Ah, but I was a fool. I had found but a sliver of the truth, yet took it for the whole thing. I contacted William, a church official of some renown and brought him the evidence.   He was happy to hear what I had found out. But as a non-church member, I had proven dangerously competent. Too good at finding things.   You see, my friend, there isn't a conspiracy at work.   There's at least two. Maybe more.   Fortunately, as I wrote, William was a poor shot.   By the time you receive this note, I might be dead. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe I won't.   I'll hide my notes behind a loose stone under Dawngate Bridge and send this single log to you via courier.   The truth is still out there. Find it.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Spirit of the Bridge   The map crinkled in Kaleb's hands as he went over it, grip tight to prevent the wind from stealing it. A brisk walk and he'd be at the town, ready to give a lecture on infrastructure economy management.   A sadly underappreciated subject, in his opinion.   He carefully folded the map and headed down the road. Amber and orange leaves swirled across the old cobble-stones, dancing in the cold wind. Occasionally, he had to grab the brim of his hat, to prevent it from flying off into the wilderness.   He rounded a corner around a rocky outcropping and saw in the distance the bridge that spanned the canyon that had been carved into the stone by rushing waters. He remembered it from his map. He'd be at his destination within the next couple of hours.   The wind blew again, forcing him once more to press his hat against his head. But this wind felt different. Colder.   He looked over his shoulder.   Mist seeped out from between the roots of the old trees, from under the thick layer of old leaves, coalescing slowly on the path. His eyes widened as it rose, vaguely forming the figure of a person, dark shapes giving it eyes and a mouth. A mouth that opened wide, releasing a horrifying shriek, as it pointed at him.   Kaleb turned and ran, his hat flying from his head.   The specter began its pursuit, howling wildly while flailing its arms.   He didn't dare look at it. Who knew what powers it would hold over his soul if their eyes were to meet.   He ran as fast as he could, letting the gentle downward slope lend his stride speed.   He just needed to cross the bridge, but judging from the screams, it was getting closer.   That's when he spotted the hole in the bridge, rotted timbers broken apart. He jumped, flying over the deadly opening, landing behind it.   His relief lasted but fractions of a second, as the wood underneath him gave in. He fell, screaming, twirling, into the frothing waters below, where his panicked shriek ended with a grim suddenness.   The ghost hovered above the hole, its expression almost one of sadness. They couldn't remember much of their life, not anymore. They only remembered a desire to protect people from the bridge. Yet no matter how much they screamed at them to stop, no matter how much they waved for attention, they never really seemed to care, running heedlessly out on the bridge. And most did not make it across.   The spirit began fading, sinking into the dreamless slumber they spent most cycles in.   They'd warn the next passerby for sure.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Relic of Success   She had been one of the greatest fencers in the county. She had been at the forefront of raids against hordes of undead and packs of werewolves. She had danced with mad serial killers and bloodthirsty vampires. She had received honors and accolades a plenty.   Had.   But the bitter woman sitting in the chair was old. Decrepit even, some would say. No one would take her seriously anymore. They called her grandma and insisted she leave the hard work to the young and spry. And she seethed with resentment.   Which had brought her away from her family and into the very chair she sat in, in a room hidden from view, dug deep into the mountains.   And before her sat the fiend she had sought out. A demon, fat and round, covered in gleaming scales that each seemed like a coin. Long, grasping arms constantly moved thing around, wrote notes or counted coins, as if her presence was too unimportant to cease its business.   "So," it began in a voice like clinking metal. "The great fencer Katona has finally succumbed to old age. Hurts, doesn't it?"   "Spare me your insults," she hissed. "I was told you could help. Can you or am I wasting my time here?"   "M'lady, I would never dare waste your time," they replied. "Especially when you have so little left." They smiled, revealing rows of serrated gemstones. "I can offer a possibility." One long arm reached up to a shelf and pulled down a choker with a ruby set in it. "This," they said, gesturing to it. "Will protect you from any wound. No harm of any kind shall befall you."   She reached out for it, but the demon pulled back.   "Not so hasty, dear customer," they insisted. "There are... Drawbacks. And a cost, of course."   She narrowed her eyes. "And they are?"   "It will not protect you from the ravages of age. Eventually, you will succumb to the passage of time. That much sooner if you go jumping around fighting the monsters of the night," the demon stated. "And once you put it on, it has to stay. If anyone manages to remove it, you shall die on the spot."   "That it?"   "No. A price, as I mentioned. In truth, the choker does not prevent injury. It merely transfers it to someone else. I believe it is a bit random." They locked gaze with her, their eyes black as oil. "Can you do that? Can you consign your countrymen to suffer on your behalf, just so you can have another taste of glory?"   "They turned their back on me," she hissed. "Hand it over."   "Very well. Ah, but one more thing. A price." They suddenly folded their many arms. "If anyone should die from your injuries, their souls shall go to me. Is that acceptable?"   She nodded.   The demon reached out with one of its arms. "Then let us shake on it, as they say."   She returned back to the city, to meet with her superiors, choker around her neck. She demanded to be allowed to lead hunts again. One had snickered and she had challenged him to a duel.   Two minutes in and he was flat on the ground. He could have sworn he had hit her multiple times.   She was allowed to lead again. First against a local killer. He stabbed her in the back, but she merely turned around and drove her blade through his throat.   Then against a nearby infected crypt. Animated corpses dripping with disease leapt at her from all sides, yet she managed to survive their onslaught.   Then against a nearby pack of werewolves. Their alpha had slammed their claws into her stomach, hurling her into a nearby tree. She just got back up and rejoined the fight.   After a couple more years, she finally felt her age catching up for good. She retired with honor and returned to the countryside, to her little village where her family lived in the mansion her money had bought. She looked forward to spending the final year or three resting, retired as the greatest fencer and not as the old woman no one believed in.   Yet as she approached the old manor, worry began setting in. Windows were boarded up, the garden barely kept.   She saw the groundskeeper, sweeping the road. He looked up and blinked. "Lady Katona," he said, in awe. "Oh, you have finally returned. After all these years. We were ever so worried. Where have you been?"   "I... I returned to the city," she said, staring at the house. "I... I couldn't retire yet."   "I see. I wish we had known," he somberly noted. "We would have sent for you. I... I'm afraid I must be the bearer of grim news." He sighed. "A terrible curse has struck this place. Everyone is dead, slaughtered by invisible things that tore them to shreds. I remember when Master Istvan fell over in the living room, his leg bleeding as if someone had run a rapier through it. And poor little Cintia was found dead in the bathroom, a bleeding wound in her back. Miss Laura was... Found. In her bed... Torn to such shreds no one could recognize her. They all moved out, but... I hear the curse got them all the same." He shook his head. "You best return to the city."   Katona stared, tears slowly forming in her eyes, as realisation set in. Grief and sorrow hit her like a hammer and her hands moved without her thinking. She drew her blade and stabbed it into her chest, as if it could kill the pain that was consuming her.   She heard a gasp and looked up. The groundskeeper clutched his chest, blood staining his clothes. He stared at her, before pointing, rasping: "You... It was you..." And then he collapsed.   She stared. She grasped the choker and began tearing at it. "No. NO!" she sobbed. "This is not what I wanted! THIS IS NOT WHAT I WANTED!"   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   An Unquiet Moment   It was the darnest feeling. So annoyingly persistent. And yet at the same time, somewhat ephemeral. It was the feeling that she had forgotten something, yet at the same time, if she had forgotten it, was it ever important to begin with?   Her mind divided between these two conflicting ideas, that she should do something and that she should just forget it, resulted in one annoying thing.   She couldn't focus on reading her book.   She sighed and leaned back in the dusty chair.   What did she have left to do? She looked to the notes on her table, to see if there was anything that had to be done.   A storm was coming in from the sea. But she had raised the lightning rod and hooked it up to her latest creation.   Did she need to take inventory of her storage? No, she had done that just two cycles ago. And she hadn't used or received much from it.   Had she any agreements? Dates? Anything?   Was it Hans' birthday?   She groaned and buried her face in her hands. She was an immaculate genius, born with insight and skill beyond most humans and yet here she was, struggling to remember something or other. And it was robbing her of her well deserved quiet and solitude.   It was at that moment she noticed a sound from the outside. She walked over to the window and stared. In the distance, she could see the flickering of torches, as an angry throng of people marched up towards her domain.   She snapped her fingers. That was it. Her assistant had overheard some wanna-be hero rallying the local villagers. They were mad about the robbed graves. Or maybe mad about that one experiment that got loose. Or was it the chemicals the ended up in the well that had transformed the mayor's daughter?   She was unsure which ultimately trivial issue had got them riled up, but she had made a note to deal with the issue. A note she had all but forgotten.   She leaned over the railing. "Oh, Hans! Release the creature!"   "Yeth, mather," came her assistant's reply.   In the distance, she heard the sound of clanking gears, a monstrous roar and the sound of people screaming.   She sat back in her chair and picked up her book, satisfied that everything was now in order.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Shattered Faith   He had always been told to have faith. Faith was the most powerful force humanity had, his parents used to say. Faith gave hope.   But did hope save his father from the monsters of the woods? Did faith protect his mother from the bloodsuckers? Neither prevented his older brother from tripping over a flagstone, just as the ghouls closed in.   In the start, he was told that faith in the face of tragedy was the strongest kind of hope. And so, he turned to the church. He fought for their side. To protect the innocent.   Yet for everyone he saved, there were three tragedies he was too late for. Hope did not stop people from being eaten by monsters. Faith did not keep your steps too light for the mucky bogs to swallow. When specters dragged screaming kids into the woods, it was not prayers that carried them back.   The final straw was a villager he had saved from the claws of werewolves. He didn't even remember their name or face, just one out of many. But he had saved them. But the poor soul could do naught but wail over their loved ones, who had fallen to the wolf-men.   What was the point? Would death not have been a kindness for this poor soul? What hope or faith would ever make things better?   His faith broke. His hope broke. He broke.   And so, he had stomped back to the church, intending to tell them what he thought of them and their faith and hope. How this land was bereft of both. How nothing would ever get better. He'd spit in their face and renounce his vows, right then and there.   And yet here he was, surrounded by blood and death. The church doors had been slammed off their hinges. The stained glass shattered. They were all dead.   He was left alone, with his anger, his bitterness, his frustration, without even the satisfaction of screaming at those that had filled his head with nonsense. As a final insult to injury.   He turned from the carnage and left.   Faith. Hope. Humanity.   All pointless.   He'd already lost two. And there were plenty of beings out there that would gladly liberate him of the third.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Locked Door   The child stood before the door. The door to the basement.   For as long as they could remember, their father had warned them: "Do not go into the basement."   Why? "None of your business, just do as I say."   There was a lot of that. Do this. Do that. Why? Because that's what father said.   And father could get angry if he wasn't obeyed. He'd get the cane. Or the belt. And the child would feel their father's rage. "Why can't you just do as you're told?" he'd angrily ask. "Why do you make me do this?"   The child feared their father. And yet here they were, about to break the rules. Break them intentionally.   Their father slept heavily through a haze of whisky. The child had easily taken the heavy key. The key to the locked door, down in the basement.   They took a deep breath and pushed the door open, revealing the wooden staircase.   This might be the last chance to go back.   But they had to know. They couldn't explain why. But they had to know.   Slowly, they began walking down the stairs. Each creaking floorboard caused them to pause, freezing on the spot, expecting each sound to rouse their father.   But it didn't happen. He slept too heavily.   They continued. The dust tickled their nose and they sneezed into their elbow, hoping to mute the sound.   They paused again. Nothing.   And so, they continued their descent.   The basement was dark. Things not used for years had been shoved into the corners, now covered in grime and cobwebs.   Their mind played tricks on them. They kept seeing shapes moving in the shadows.   They steeled themself and moved onwards. Towards the door at the end of the basement. A large, wooden door, a heavy, rusted lock on it.   It was the door they were never to open. Never to see. And yet... They had to. They just had to.   They stood before the door.   They could still go back.   Still put the key in his pocket.   Still pretend.   They raised the key.   They had to know.   They inserted it into the lock and tried turning. Their face scrunched with effort, as they fought the rusted mechanism, slowly turning it.   Suddenly, it gave. The lock opened and fell to the floor with a metalling clang.   There was a noise from upstairs. A grunt. A shuffling.   The child grabbed the doorhandle and began pulling. The old door fought their every movement, the rusted hinges resisting the child's efforts.   Upstairs, there was a roar. Of surprise. Of anger. And perhaps, of fear.   The child pulled, pulled with all their might and the door began to give, slowly opening.   They heard the stomps upstairs.   They pulled harder. The door moved more and more, the light slowly creeping into the dark beyond it.   "STOP!" a voice from atop the stairs yelled. "STOP, YOU DAMNED BRAT!" Thundering footsteps echoed down the steps.   The child pulled one last time and the door gave up the fight, swinging open.   They stared into the yawning opening, eyes widening, ignoring the rapidly approaching steps, as they beheld was lay hidden behind the forbidden door.   "Mom?"   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   There Are Many Doors   Professor Ionatan tapped the chalk against the blackboard. "If necessity is the mother of invention," he began. "Then limitation is its father. But you will find, dear students, that the limitations we place on ourselves are the most dangerous of all." He turned towards the assembled people. "Now what do I mean by that? Am I contradicting myself? Not at all." He crossed his arms. "When we find natural limits... Human limits... Invention allows us to overcome them. The limitations in nature... In life and death... These are all ones we must accept if we are to overcome them."   He began pacing.   "But there are limitations that are pure fiction. The church hold many things sacred, instill many limitations, out of fear. Prejudice. They'd see the works of the great alchemist Pascal Von Cossman burnt on the pyre. Why? Because it deals with the reanimation of corpses, using a mixture of alchemy and electricty." He shook his head. "Imagine the creations that would have been forever lost, if we let ourselves be limited by concern for the dead. A corpse is a mere object, yet the church invest as much care into it as where it alive, if not more."   He wrote on the blackboard. "So, we distinguish between worldly limitations, like, say, humans can't fly, and societal limitations, such as the outdated morality of the church." He turned towards the students. "There are many pathways to progress. Many doors to truth. You must all find your own way. We here at the College can help you. We observe but a few, practical rules, not out of morality, but security. You will follow them or be expelled. Now, you are dismissed. You will find that you have all been assigned rooms."   He paused, as the scuffling sounds of seats echoed through the lecture hall. He turned and began packing his things, before noticing a single student remaining. "Can I help you?" he asked.   "Professor, I was curious," they replied. "You said 'doors to the truth'?"   "Yes. A metaphor, of course. An associate of mine loved using the term," Ionatan explained, as he closed his bag. "Always insisted that there were many doors and that death was the first."   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Of Curses and Blessings   For many, getting a personal audience with Lady Anna Wynstryngham would be an honor. She was a very private person, leading the county with steady grace, but usually keeping to her own, private counsel of close associates. So getting to sit with her, talk with her, was something few could claim to have done.   And even for Gregory, this would normally be a momentous occasion. In a way, it still was, but for all the worst reasons.   He had tried to be discreet. Subtle. But when the city guards had kicked his door in and hauled him off, he had come to realise he hadn't been subtle enough. He had expected a trip to the dungeon followed by a public beheading, but instead they had dragged him up to the manor and into this parlor, where Lady Anna had been waiting with tea and crumpets.   It was, so say the least, weird.   Anna was a tall woman, dressed in white and with a heavy veil covering her face. Not an inch of skin was visible, not that Gregory would dare take a peek, being in enough trouble as it was.   "So... Gregory was it?" she began.   He gulped. "Y-yes, m'lady."   "Please, just Anna will do," she replied. "I've had enough formality to last a lifetime. Now then, Gregory, I've heard from some very credible sources that you have shown an... Interest in demonology."   "Maybe... A bit," he tried.   "There is no such a thing as a bit of demonology," she sharply replied, causing him to wince. "Yes or no?"   "Yes. Yes, I've looked into it," he replied quickly.   "There, see. Honesty is the best policy." She lifted her veil sleightly, enough to lift up her cup and sip from it. "Now then, Gregory, as you know, my town has a history with demonology and demon-worshippers. I trust you are familiar with the stories?"   "Y-yes."   "And I imagine from what my sources tell me, that you came here explicitly because of how much influence the demon cults held at one point."   "T-true."   She sighed. "So what is it you want?"   "Pardon?"   "There's always something. Riches? Immortality? The well-being or perhaps even return of a loved one? When the deities seem too distant, people turn to other powers. Demon cults. Pagan circles. And even stranger things. So, what is it you want?"   He paused. "I... Was born weak. My bones are... Quite fragile. Your guards didn't even try to harm me and they almost broke my arms. I thought of seeking out a cure, but... I have no talent for science. So I figured... Maybe..."   "Maybe you could get a favorable deal with a demon," she surmised. "Yes. I've heard this before. Gregory, I cleansed this town of demonology, not out of church fervor or faith. I did it to protect people. To prevent them from making the mistake I made."   "Mistake?" Gregory echoed.   "I was young. The church needed food, weapons, all sorts of things. And it was me and my husband's job to squeeze that out of the people. He died, taking an angry peasant's brick to the face. And I, grieving, sought out a demon. And I offered up those very same peasants, rounded up by the guards, in exchange for the ability to cow any man into submission. I imagined power, but... Well..."   She lifted her veil.   Gregory couldn't even shriek at what he saw, as he pushed himself back into the chair, eyes wide and skin going pale.   She chuckled as the veil fell back into place. "Terrifying indeed, yes? So I protect people like you from asking for blessings. For more often than not, they become a curse you must bear for the rest of your life."   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Posessed   How had it come to this? What had they done to deserve this?   These were the questions than ran through her mind, as she pressed herself up against the kitchen wall, knife in hand.   Once, all had been fine. They had been happy. A happy little family.   But then their daughter had taken ill.   Except, it wasn't an illness. Not like the one that brings runny noses and coughs. Not an illness that brought fever and migraines.   It was something else. Something dreadful.   "Mommy," something cooed from just beyond the kitchen door. "Where are you? Are we playing hide and seek, Mommy?" Giggling. Demented giggling.   Her hands shook.   What had done it? Was it those strange people that combed the beaches, with their strange prayers to stranger beings? Was it the heathens from the woods, clad in laurels and the skulls of deer? Was in the divine that punished them, for some dereliction of faith? Or were they just miserably unlucky?   Whatever it was, it had made their daughter ill. Tired. Drained. And then she'd begun to say things. Vile things. Do things. Horrible things. It was as if a fel madness took hold of her mind, only to suddenly let her go, confused and innocent again.   The village priestess had thought it a demon. But it wasn't. It was something else. Something that had ripped the priestess' throat open and pushed her husband down the stairs, his head bent at an unnatural angle.   The door slowly creaked open.   "Found you, Mommy!" There stood her daughter, an unnatural light in her eyes, a smile wide and inhuman. She stepped forward. "Are you cooking, Mommy? Is that why you've got a knife?" She stepped forward, their limbs jerking unnaturally, their head twitching nauseatingly. "Or... Are you going to kill me, Mommy?" She released a gargled laughter. "You better, Mommy. Or else... I'll kill you."   Some would say that thing was no longer her daughter. That it had eaten her soul completely. Others would say that if her daughter was still in there, death would be a kindness.   But...   The knife wavered, then clattered to the floor.   She couldn't kill her daughter.   Fingers closed around her neck, accompanied by mad laughter.   She couldn't kill her child.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Trapped in the Abyss   The human mind can only take so much. It is a fragile thing. Too much isolation, too little alone time. Too much happening, not enough happening. Too much or too little of anything and it snaps, crumbles to nothing.   How I envy humans.   You would not have to be sane, be aware, of every single passing second. Fully knowing just how much time passes by, trapped in this endless dark prison.   The Abyss. Where the church locks that which it cannot kill. There's probably hundreds of us down here. Thousands maybe. I can't tell. There's just so much dark nothing that I can go for seasons, years even, without encountering anyone else. And I am aware of every single moment.   Meeting someone else is an enjoyable if brief distraction. We play games, we fight, we fuck. Doesn't matter, just anything before we inevitably drift apart again. Anything to break away from the monotony of this void we're locked in.   Locked in forever, if the church has its way.   Forever is a long time.   A human mind would not have been able to handle it.   A human mind would have collapsed long ago, sunk into blissfull madness.   I can't go mad.   I wish I could.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Echo in the Alley   Four little kids on the road
With two balls, spotless and round
They heard an echo in the alley
And thought adventure was abound
  They headed in, all four of them
All curious as the cats
The alley was strange and twisted
And surely was on no maps
  One dropped their little ball
Round the corner it went, you see
And one kid, they ran after it
And then they were three
  For round the very corner
Came what lurks in the dark
That which gnaws at the soul of men
Just for a little lark
  Two kids, they ran away
What else could they do
The last kid froze in fear
And then they were two
  They ran as fast as rabbits
As if in a race to be won
But one tripped on a flagstone
And then they were one
  The last ran, ball in hand
But little children aren't fast
The dark thing swooped in
And there were none at last
  A little kid on the road
Found a ball, shiny and new
Heard an echo in the alley
But left, the smart thing to do
  ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Refuge from the Darkness   The candlelight flickered across the log walls, as Samuel put pen to paper. He was meticulous, describing everything, leaving no detail unwritten. The lodge he was a member of wanted every detail of his hunts. It was a requirement for their competitions, to crown the season's greatest hunter. To see who had the most guile, the most skill.   Of course, Samuel sometimes suspected the others dressed up their accounts, but he himself preferred to be forthright and honest.   And the truth was that hunting had been sparse.   He sighed, as he finished writing. It was just not the right season for good hunting around the parts where he lived. Smaller game was still abound, but nothing he felt writing about. It would just come off as desperate. So far, he had only six entries to his name.   Still, better than nothing.   A knock on his door shook him out of his thought. Immediately, he grabbed his axe and carefully made his way towards the front door.   He was all alone, his last guests long gone. If it was some monster of the night, he'd have to be very careful.   He peaked out a window.   A man and a woman.   Travellers by the looks of it.   Didn't mean they weren't dangerous.   Carefully, he opened the door, just a bit. "Yes?"   "Pardon the intrusion, sir," the man said. "Me and my wife were on the road and, well, the road was blocked. So we had to take a detour. May we... Stay here for the night?"   "Of course, come on in," Samuel said, opening the door fully.   "Thanks. We were afraid we'd have to travel through the night," the man said, as the two entered. "There are so many things lurking in the darkness."   "I quite agree," Samuel said. He smiled as he closed and locked the door.   Many monsters lurked in the darkness.   It was what made light such an ingenious trap.   He tightened his grip on the axe.   Eight entries.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Hunter   Her clawed limbs grasped the edge of the roof, as she peered down on the streets below, hidden by the darkness.   She saw the one she had marked as her prey. A pretty little thing, currently participating in a slightly rowdy party.   Soon, the girl would be stumbling home, drunk and perhaps dazed from some lovely encounter with a fellow youth.   The perfect time to strike.   But for now, she waited. She could be patient, when she wanted to. And while she was more than capable of just knocking down the wall and hauling her prey away into the night, there was no real sport in that. No challenge.   She was a hunter. By nature. By vocation.   People around these parts would call her a monster. She didn't care. The deer would call the wolf a monster. The gazelles of her homeland would call lions monsters. Prey would always fear the predator.   And she was a predator. Fully. Unashamed.   Too many were ashamed. They hid in their fancy castles, dressed in finery, sipped blood from little, dingy glasses, as if somehow, it would prevent the simple truth.   They were predators. Hunters. Bloodsuckers.   Better to be honest about it, in her opinion. Better to embrace their nature. And that's why she enjoyed occasionally visiting. To shake things up.   The humans thought some stuffy count living in some fancy estate was terrifying.   She'd show them how a real vampire hunted.   Her wings buzzed slightly, as she saw her prey stumble out of the building. She could smell the girl, the sweat, the alcohol, the hay and the blood. Oh yes, the sweet scent of the blood, now laced with the evening's drinks.   She smiled, as she began her pursuit.   The hunt was on.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   Rip and Tear   Werewolves were dangerous. They often operated in packs, were strong enough to tear a man in two with their bare hands and fast enough to run down most horses.   But it was the bite that was the most dangerous. Not just because most werewolves could bite with enough force to shear through platemail. But because they spread their condition.   Werewolves in the wild were dangerous. But it was the unseen wolf in the midst that was the most dangerous of all.   And so, if a village called for help against the wolf-men, one of the first things Aurora did was to have everyone rounded up and inspected. If anyone had been bitten, they were to be treated. Yet in this case, she had been too late. Some idiot had hid their affliction, long enough for the transformation to happen. Leaving their home a mess of timbers and blood.   Newly transformed werewolves were wild, unpredictable, too young to have developed the feral cunning of their older kin.   An older werewolf would not have left such an obvious trail into the forest, for one thing. And so, Aurora pursued, determined to end the creature before it could join up with a pack. Before it could become more dangerous.   She moved with determination, hand on her blade, in case the creature had realised it was being pursued, in case it had set up an ambush.   She heard noises. Bloody noises. Flesh-tearing noises.   Her target was near.   She slowly crawled up a small hill and peeked out from behind a tree.   The werewolf was devouring the remains of a deer, its muzzle buried in the gore. Too distracted by hunger to pay attention.   She slowly pulled her pistol and aimed.   Something gave under her foot. A twig, hidden by leaves.   The wolf-man's ears twitched and it looked up, towards the source of the sound.   She fired.   It jerked back, though the silver bullet still struck its shoulder. It roared and charged towards her.   She cursed her misfortune and quickly began reloading her pistol. She looked up to see the hulking beast leap towards her. She ducked behind the tree for cover.   Massive claws tore into the wood, splintering it, sending pieces flying in every direction. The pistol was knocked from her grasp and went bouncing down the hillside.   She swore and drew her blade, backing up.   The werewolf leaned around the other side, taking another swipe.   She stepped back and stabbed forth, her silver blade penetrating its thick hide.   It roared, in pain, in fury.   She moved around the tree again, trying to use it to limit the werewolf's mobility.   It leaned around the other side, teeth bared. It opened its maw wide, its breath hot and steaming, saliva dripping from the pointed fangs, as it lunged forward.   She tried to stab again, but this time, its jaws locked around the blade. It backhanded her, its claws tearing through her jacket, cutting open two gashes across her chest.   She fell to the ground, as the werewolf sent the blade flying with a flick of its neck.   She was disarmed.   She had to act fast.   As the werewolf turned back towards her, she tackled the weakened trunk of the tree. With a creaking noise, it finally fell, landing on top of the werewolf. Then she turned and ran down the hill, jumping for her pistol.   The werewolf struggled briefly with the trunk, before pushing it off, frothing with fury.   She grapped her weapon and quickly finished preparing another bullet.   The werewolf leapt at her, claws outstretched, jaws wide open.   She rolled on her back, aimed, fired.   The werewolf landed on top of her with a thwump.   She lay there, burried under fur and muscle, gasping for breath. Blood slowly dripped from the wolf-man's jaws, the bullet having pierced its skull, slaying it.   Slowly, she wiggled out.   She inspected herself.   No bite marks. Just two new scars for her collection.   She looked to the werewolf, then offered a prayer to its soul, wishing it peace at last.   And then she turned around, back to the village.   There was still work to do.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------   The Drowning Pool   They were alone. They had been alone for a long time.   They had friends once. Family. But then they had moved out here.   They couldn't remember why.   Was it on a dare? They seemed to remember something about a dare.   Yes, in their old home. They told tales of the Drowning Pool. Daring others to touch its still waters, even though their parents told them not to.   But they hadn't just touched it. They lived there now.   They were the bravest of them all.   But they were lonely.   But they'd soon have friends.   A ripple on the waters caught their attention.   Someone had taken the dare.   Someone touched the waters.   Surging with joy, they reached up and grabbed. Pulled.   They welcomed their new friend into their home and embraced them, held them close, taking them deeper. And the deeper they went, the more calm their new friend became.   They burried them in the silt with the others.   Soon, one of them would become a friend.   Soon, one of the would become like them.   ---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Entry for Spooktober 2022

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World
Spheres
Category
Fiction
Author
ArachCobra
Publication Date
3 Oct, 2022
Creation Date
3 Oct, 2022
Last Update Date
24 Oct, 2022
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