Spooktober 2023 Combination Article

Warning: The tags I'm using for this page appear to be malfunctioning either due to wordcount or the sheer number I'm attempting to do, and I don't know how to fix them.

Like last year, I combined this challenge with my own short story challenge this month. Each snippet is inspired and includes a Spooktober prompt and one of my own prompts. All of these prompts have their own article and I will delete several of the shorter articles once the competition is over and copy the prose into this article.
I plan to answer most of these prompts, but if the snippet I write isn't good or I choose not to combine it with a Spooktober prompt, I won't include it. Most of the ones I exclude will include spoilers for my stories, however. A short warning, some of these shorts include violence or disturbing content. I'll add warnings to any that I think are serious.

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Oct. 1 - Crow

Oct. 2 - Specter

Specter & Black

This is a short snippet from an old story I came up with years ago about a girl who moves into a house infested with ghosts and manages to befriend them. The story is currently archived while I focus on the Tread of Darkness and newer ideas.

Shadows crawled up the walls, spiraling into patterns before snaking across the ceiling. Marissa bit her lip to stay quiet when she realized the darkness was coming from the figure down the hall. If the ghost found her, she didn’t know what she’d do.
The specter drew closer, drifting over the floorboards without a sound. Marissa pressed herself tighter against the walls and squeezed her eyes shut. The air seemed to freeze around her as it passed by and for a terrifying moment, she thought she was found.
But the feeling ended and Marissa cracked her eyes open to see the figure had vanished. Shadows still crawled after it, but she was safe for now.
Marissa let out her breath and pushed off the wall to head down the hallway. She turned around and froze. The ghost was there, hovering inches away from her face, its black eyes staring coldly into her soul. “Marissa…” the thing that looked like a girl whispered, “There you are.”

Oct. 3 - Helpless

Helpless & Negative

This is part of a scene I came up with a while ago but never wrote until now. During this scene, the character accepts the Blackrot as a way to get stronger and joins the opposing side.

She rose in the air, the tendrils of darkness wrapping around her limbs. It felt almost wet, like blood slowly dripping down her back, but was both warm and cold at the same time.
Her eyes fluttered closed as the Blackrot tightened against her skin and she took a deep breath. She hadn’t felt this helpless since before she was rescued years ago and yet the sensation of fear was familiar. How many years had she spent like this, trapped in the possession of those more powerful than her, unable to escape or free herself, grasping at any hint of power or influence?
Her body tilted back and she was dimly aware of the Blackrot sinking into her skin. Wasn’t she supposed to be screaming? She’d heard the others crying out when they were strung or possessed. She opened her mouth to try and gasped when the darkness poured in. The room rose in temperature, the air burning like fire on her skin.
Or was it her? Was her body chilled? Her heart still beat, her lungs still breathed, her blood still pumped, but everything was disappearing, turning colder and colder.
Metal bars pressed against her fingers and she realized she was back in that yard once more, so young she could do no more than cry, watching as the slavers dragged away companions. Were they her parents? Her siblings? Friends? Fifteen years old now, gasping for breath against a pillar, dirt on her face, blood crusting on her clothes and pain burning through her body.
Tell me your debt, the darkness outside whispered. Tell me what the numbers are.
Negative, she snarled back. They owe me. For all they’ve taken, for all they’ve done. I will never forgive them. I’ll never forgive any of them!
Her eyes snapped open. She still hovered in that chamber, the Blackrot twisting around her and settling into her bones. It didn’t feel that strange anymore. Instead, it felt powerful. Like the memory of darkness that lingered in Jatrina’s magic, like the haunted look in the Celestials’ eyes. The Blackrot was power, she realized. Pure power.

Oct. 5 - Dry

Dry & Moonlight

A possible dream sequence from a story. I wrote this at 10 PM and decided to post it immediately.

I stand in an open field in the middle of the night. The sky is clear above me and the stars shine brightly the same way tiny holes in a dark blanket let light in.
No one else is in sight, yet I know I am not alone. The grass moves in waves around my feet despite the absence of a breeze and the rustle sounds like whispers. Whispers that grow louder and louder, spiraling inside my mind until I can no longer deny that they are real.
My face tilts up to the sky. The moon hovers above me in a perfect half-circle, its light glowing white. But even the brilliance of the moonlight refuses to chase away the cold.
You know this is a dream, the grass murmurs. But maybe it isn't the grass. Maybe it's the voices in my head. Maybe it is her.
Does it matter who it is? the voice responds. This is not real. Wake up.
I don't want to.
You have to.
Why?
Why do you want to stay?
I frown. Why do I want to stay? There is nothing here. Just the dry grass rippling away from me, the shadows dancing around them, and the moon shining down on me. There is no action, there is no adventure. There is no emotion in this place, only dread.
It's peaceful, I decide.
Peace is not dread.
I don't care.
Wake up, child. This is a lie. Peace is not fear, not darkness, not a creeping feeling that something is wrong. You should not be here.
I don't want to leave.
Why?
I'm afraid of losing myself.
The voice doesn't laugh and that's what makes me realize it's not her. Instead, it sounds sad. You cannot lose yourself if you wake up.
Why not?
Because you are already lost.
What?
You are already lost, child. You are here.

Oct. 6 - Despair

Despair & Sense

This is another part of my old ghost story. I actually started creeping myself out while writing at night, so hopefully that feeling comes across.

Merana sat next to her sister's bed all night, refusing to leave her alone. Her parents begged her to sleep as well, but she stayed. She wasn’t going to leave Marissia alone, not after finding her shivering in the upstairs hallway and scared out of her mind.
Something clattered outside the door and Merana lifted her head. It sounded like one of the candleholders fell off the wall. Shaking her head and sighing, she made her way to the door to inspect the damage.
Her hand touched the doorknob when she froze. Hadn’t her parents checked all of the lights as soon as they moved in? They wanted to make sure the wiring was in good condition and went around examining the chandeliers and lamps and those fancy things on the wall that Merana called candleholders but probably had an actual name. All of them were screwed firmly in place and wouldn’t just fall off.
Merana slowly drew her hand away from the door, feeling a chill crawl up her spine. Now that she was thinking about it, she could almost sense someone in the hallway, attention fixed on the door as they waited for her to emerge.
She turned to look back at Marissia. Her sister’s face was crinkled as if she was in pain and her hands were fisted in her sheets. Her lips moved soundlessly, mouthing words Merana didn’t recognize.
Despair settled over the older sister. Marissia had insisted there was something wrong with this place ever since they moved in and everyone, including Merana, had ignored her, believing she was homesick or jumpy. But there was no way this feeling of cold was natural. Not when Merana breathed out and saw her breath puff in the air despite knowing that it was nearly seventy degrees outside. Not when someone hummed beyond the door with a voice she didn’t recognize.
And especially not when Marissia’s eyes snapped open and she sat straight up and looked at Merana and said, “Leahsiel’s outside, isn’t she?”

Oct. 7 - Incorporeal

Incorporeal & Snow

This is probably the shortest snippet I've written so far and I don't like it that much, but I don't hate it either.

The boy pulls his hood lower and suppresses a shiver. He shouldn’t feel the cold, but something about this mountain makes him unable to reach his power the same way. He’d rather conserve his strength in case he’s forced to fight.
Snow swirls around him, dancing into patterns with the wind, and he remembers the last time he was in a storm like this. He lost his sister that day when he was unable to control his power. He still doesn’t know if he started the storm or if he only made it worse.
The boy shoved his memories away. He doesn’t want to think about them now. He has enough on his mind.
A figure forms in the air in front of him, forcing him to stop. The nearly invisible person tilts her head before nodding sharply and fading from view. As the boy continues his journey, the snow lessens its intensity, leaving him wondering about the purpose of the incorporeal guard.
Perhaps Isla is more welcoming than he was told. Or perhaps she recognizes who he is.

Oct. 8 - Thunder

Thunder & Team

I really like this one. It's short in its current form, but I can easily add on to it and build a scene around it.

Connor landed next to her. Wind gusted around him as he surveyed the field. “We’re gaining ground,” he told her. “Slowly but surely. We might win the day.”
Grace frowned. “How are the front lines? I saw that explosion. Did Odin keep it contained?”
“Mostly. We lost a couple soldiers.” Connor looked troubled. “I don’t like how long this is taking. How many more people will we lose?”
Grace closed her eyes. She hated war. So many people died in every fight and at the end of the day, she always doubted the decisions she made. The more people under her command, the worse it was. She preferred when it was just her and the group, a team whose strengths and weaknesses she knew personally, a team used to her orders and strategies.
“I’m going back to the front,” Connor informed her. “You want me to send you Jacob or Micheal?”
“Sure. Either one will do.” Jacob was a better strategist, but Micheal was easier to be around. She was right, though, either of them would help her peace of mind.
Connor nodded and leaped into the sky. Grace watched him disappear for a moment before his black-clad figure slammed down behind their front line. Thunder rumbled through the air before Connor lunged forward, lightning wreathing his body in flickering light as he shot back into the fight.

Oct. 9 - Sharp

Oct. 10 - Claw

Oct. 11 - Cryptic

Oct. 12 - Harvest

Oct. 14 - Apparition

Oct. 15 - Eerie

Eerie & Border

So this turned out a lot more introspective than I planned. I guess the character I imagined myself as really doesn't like being put in metaphorical boxes. This belongs to the world of Jerde, but I felt like posting it on this world since I don't know where else I'd put it.

I've always found maps to be strangely discomforting. Perhaps it is the way they depict countries and continents as colors and tints and squiggly shapes, or perhaps it is how they make the world seem simultaneously large and small.
A map of Narthica, for instance. Our continent seems so small on maps and yet when I look at Northwood Forest depicted on the map compared to the real one that straddles the border of Tierhal and Whirlan, it reminds me of how different the proportions are. Inches turn into hundreds of miles and finger-lengths turn into immeasurable distances.
The way the countries are drawn is eerie too. Enormous areas of land, with thousands of people inside, with hopes and dreams and ideas and beliefs, all condensed into a single shape tinted in a color chosen at random by the person who drew the map.
Who decided that everyone in Crystland belongs to the color blue? Who decided purple meant Whirlan and indigo meant Tierhal and yellow meant Dicrices, or that the Wilds were green and Rifthaven was gray? Why are we always, even in matters as simple as maps, separated and grouped and classified?

Oct. 16 - Moon

Moon & Time

Short but okay. I'm not sure yet if I like it or not.

His fingers thread through curly dark hair. She lifts her face to the sky and breathes in deeply. The moon glows in the darkness, milky light washing everything into a dreamy veneer.
She murmurs something in his ear, lips curling in a smile, and he laughs. His hands circle her waist and he pulls her closer, his grin charmingly crooked as he responds. She wraps her arms around his shoulders and tilts her head back to enjoy his kiss.
Time slips away in their forest, minutes and hours like seconds and the world moving on beyond their sanctuary. Days, months, years, all are nothing to them. Nothing bothers them when they embrace this way. Nothing penetrates their wards or disturbs their rest. The world can burn and nothing will touch them.

Oct. 17 - Void

Void & Contain

I actually wrote two things for these prompts, but I felt like this one embodied them better. I knew from the moment I saw "Void" that it would be about this character, though. I think this piece should be confusing, and I wanted to add some light humor to it, so I hope that comes through.

Space was a void of silence, darkness in every direction with only the stars for company. Carlie shivered as she flew forward. It was chilling how empty space was when you weren’t on a ship.
And cold too. She’d never been outside a spaceship before, but even the transport ships the slavers used hadn’t been this bone-piercingly freezing. She felt as if her veins were turning to pure ice.
It didn’t help that all she wore was a cryostasis suit from before she was sealed away. The suits were meant to protect against the cold to some extent, but only the carefully controlled temperatures of the cryopods. They certainly weren’t meant to protect against deep space, because (surprise, surprise) most people couldn’t survive in space without equipment, much less a twelve-year-old girl who’d been placed under stasis so she wouldn’t die from a mysterious disease that no one could cure and had just broken out of the pod containing her for who knows how long just minutes ago!
She was very confused. And lost. And did she mention she was cold?

Oct. 18 - Fade

Fade & Aura

It's mostly the last half of this excerpt that fits the prompts, but I knew once I combined them that it would be someone dying.

The shock froze in his eyes. His hands dropped to his sides. The battle went silent.
Xuena’s hands shook on the knife in his chest, her gaze fixed on him, rage boiling inside her heart and bubbling over. She twisted the blade, felt the hitch and wrench of his insides, watched as blood seeped into his shirt, and stared him in the face.
Everything was still. She registered the war raging on around them, but heard nothing over the ringing in her ears. Over and over she saw Haides fall to the ground, over and over she watched /her/ walk away, and over and over she knew that the person she loved most was gone.
“J-Jordan?”
Natasha’s voice cut through her anger. Xuena turned her head and stopped. The other girl stood there, blue and gold eyes wide, her knife at her side.
Xuena looked back at the man in front of her, at the blood soaking his shirt and trickling out of his mouth, and stumbled back. The light faded from Jordan’s eyes and she felt his aura disappear just like Haides’ had.
Jordan slipped with no one to hold him, but Xuena’s place was taken by Natasha, her weapon falling to the ground as her hands desperately reached for him and her words began to tumble out in horror.

Oct. 19 - Clock

Clock & Youth

I wrote this as more of an informational piece rather than a story.

It was easy to think that the agelessness of Celestials and Eternals was like immortality or like resetting a clock back to a certain time over and over. But neither was really true, just as neither was really false. Upon reaching the age of "pausing" as it was called, a Celestial could choose to no longer age. The Celestial (or Eternal) could also choose to appear younger than they really were.
The main restriction, of course, was that one could not age-shift older than their true age. If a Celestial was fifty years old, he or she could shift to any age up to fifty, but not a day older. If the Celestial was twenty, he or she could not shift to thirty. And of course, if any Eternal under the physical age of twelve wished to grow older, they had to spend those years as a mortal.
Most Celestials preferred to stay in their twenties, although some shifted older for respect and some stayed youthful to cause enemies to underestimate them. Ogden was likely the oldest Celestial by appearance, embodying his domain of old age, while Jessica was probably the youngest at twelve.

Oct. 20 - Pale

Pale & Angel

I mixed various story elements into this poem to give it a more prophetic feeling.

Tower hovering
Over all the rest
Watching with pale eyes
Angel slumbering
Waiting for the best
Of nations to fall
Violence crumbling
Making way for peace
Family standing tall
Following the light
All together now
And we will all rise

Oct. 22 - Shiver

Shiver & Rain

Inspired by experience. This is mostly practice with settings and description, but I like it.

Standing at the top of the stairs, looking out at the street, she watched cars zip by. Her long hair blew in the breeze, the wind brushing against her skin through her thin sweater. She tilted her head back to look up. Clouds drifted over the stars, turning the sky into a dark blue void. The trees were darker shadows against it, their spindly black branches reaching for the heavens.
For a moment the wind paused and then picked back up. She shivered in the cold, hands rising to clasp her arms. She could go back inside if she wanted, but the noise and the people were too much for her. Her thoughts were clearer out here where the air was free and the wind was cold and the night was muted. She could think out here on the balcony, watching cars pass, looking up at the stars, running her fingers along the railing.
She wondered if it would rain tonight after she went home. Most people didn’t like the rain, but she did. When it drizzled down around her and splattered the windows with droplets, when it drummed on the awning of her front door and soaked her hair when she took a walk, it was beautiful.
She liked this moment just a little more. The wind in her hair and the breeze through her sweater, the stars and the clouds in the sky, the darkness of the night, and shadows from the spotlight. Rain was beautiful, but so was evening.

Oct. 23 - Fate

Oct. 24 - Slither

Slither & Spill

Inspired by something I was reading and combined with my own ideas.

Black liquid snaked across the floor, threads of darkness shooting away from the slowly growing pool. He took a step back, hands raising defensively, watching in horror as night-dark smoke rose from the puddle and tumbled over itself before slithering over the ground toward him.
Whispers rose in the air, taunting him with past nightmares. The black fog thickened as it drew closer. The oily substance spread further.
Give up, a voice hissed. It sounded like a blender of people, male and female and young and old all mixed together and tinted with the chill of cruelty. You know you have no chance. Wouldn’t it be easier to just surrender?
The spill of Blackrot on the floor lost its shine. It no longer resembled oil, but some sort of sludge. The fog looked more and more like the illustration of Blackrot in his book: a formless black cloud of pure malice.
Hate, hate, hate, it snarled. Dark. Hate. Ruin. Destroy. Lie. Hate.

Oct. 25 - Hopeless

Oct. 27 - Drown

Drown & Glint

I wrote this in fifteen minutes or something, drawing from a character that comes back from the dead whenever she dies.

Light shines down on her face. The sun glints off her necklace, the one she bought last year. Her eyes flutter open. She gazes up at the surface of the water and wonders why everything is muffled.
She swirls her fingers through the water and tries to hum, but there is no air in her lungs. She isn't breathing. Her eyelids flutter. The water presses on her body. Is she floating? No, no, she thinks she's drowning. But why doesn't it hurt? Isn't it supposed to?
She's not drowning. She already did. She's back again. Another failure of theirs. No matter how many times they try, they can't kill her.
She comes to awareness, gasping and coughing, struggling to reach the surface. Her arms wave and her hands grasp the air. She's back, she's back, she's not dead, she has to get out.
She claws her way onto the shore. She's in a lake. The beach is abandoned. They didn't even set guards to check if she survived.
She frowns, a thought occurring to her. How long has it been since they drowned her? She usually comes back less than an hour later, but if she's in danger it's been longer. When she was in The Place she returned faster, but her power has stabilized somewhat since then.
She stands on shaking legs and looks around. Her clothes are soaked and her throat burns. Adrenaline is probably the only reason she hasn't collapsed in pain yet.
She chokes back a cough and begins to stumble away. She has to get away from here. If they come back and find her, they'll kill her in a far worse way than drowning. Once she's somewhere safe, she can rest.