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Library:The Grim Sisters' Anthology of the Mysterious & the Macabre/Runners Up
The following stories were submitted to the Scholars of Novia "The Sisters Grim" Contest, hosted by the Scholars of Novia, but were not among the published entries. They are included here for completeness.
Dark
| Author: | Malchor II |
From an odd scrap of unusual paper kept by the Scholars of Novia, this poem has long been associated with the sisters.
Come, sister. Come away with me.
Into the shadows let us flee.
The fools are in their feathered beds
With feeble dreams and feckless heads.
Gone, sister, is the garish sun.
The day, at last, is dead and done.
Burned away, the sick-pale light.
Come, once more, O sacred night.
Oh, my sister, take my hand.
In gloom and shade, beside me stand.
The owl calls now. Listen! Hark!
'Tis time again to greet the dark.
The Grim Sisters' Anthology of the Mysterious & the Macabre
compiled by Vomica & Repugna
Awoken
| Author: | KuBaTRiZeS |
A Folk Tale
Anonymous
With a sudden chill in her spine, the little girl woke up.
Keeping her eyes closed, she let the blanket engulf her, not sure of what might lie with her in the darkness. As the feeling subsided, she gathered enough courage to reach backwards to the other side of the bed, and sighed with relief as her fingers felt just the holes in the mattress.
Still covered with the blanket, she turned around slowly, looking at the room she was in. A moonlight ray coming through a small window revealed a dusty floor, and gave the cobwebs in the opposite corner the appearance of silver threads. The little girl almost enjoyed the vision, but skittering sounds in the shadows made her aware again. Why did she wake up? What was she doing in that rickety room?
The sound made her pay attention to other corner of the room, into the inscrutable darkness. The unpleasant sounds became louder, thicker, as if creatures were crawling into her tiny skull. The gloomy corner captured her sight; unable to look away nor blink she saw the blackness twist and expand, acquiring an almost solid state. The ambient light became increasingly dimmer, and her confusion became fear as she felt an unfathomable presence in the deepest, furthest segment of the murky tentacles the darkness formed. It wanted to reach her. It wanted to grab her. A million inviting whispers in a language she couldn't understand came at her at once, becoming a silent scream that terrified her.
Suddenly, a sound of unsheathing came from the lower room, ripping away the darkness. She found herself in the middle of the room with her right arm extended, her eyes drowned in tears sliding by her face and soaking the blanket underneath. She then heard steps accompanied with the squeaky noises of old stairs. Without a chance to wipe her face, she tightened the blanket around her in a desperate attempt at gaining protection. Once again, the darkness shrouded her as the steps came closer. Again, the ambient sounds penetrated into her, making the climbing steps into a heartbeat of sorts. In that state, she waited, wishing for the intruder to leave.
The steps finished climbing. Trying not to make a noise, she stayed inside her blanket, but the moonlight betrayed her, revealing her position. An unexpected force took the blanket off and she faced a man in his twenties, clad in mail armor and pointing a sword at her, her blanket in his other hand. The determination in his eyes changed into kindness as he saw the skinny little girl trembling in the ground.
As he sheathed his sword, she suddenly remembered the fear and rage she had felt when evil men murdered her and her family, giving her the answer of why she was there. As he extended his hand, she lifted her head and their eyes met. At the sight of fresh meat, she felt the insatiable hunger that had awoken her.
After feasting on flesh and blood, the little girl felt drowsy. She left the young warrior's corpse, and hushing away the voices calling her from beyond, she went to sleep again.
Camping Tales: The Labyrinth
| Author: | Iazon Paragon |
by Earl Iazon Paragon
Rising from a pleasant afternoon nap, Ichi gazed anxiously toward a luxurious home in the distance. Stretching weary limbs, Ichi recognized the gilded iron gates and manicured garden surrounding the local lord's residence. Scanning further south, he spotted Ryna's shop. Positively smitten by images of her inviting glances and faint smiles, he decided that tonight would be the night he finally revealed his feelings for her.
“Ho eyo he hum!” Ichi sang merrily as the road took him into town. Daylight turned to dusk when he rounded the walls of the Lord's manor. Suddenly, Ryna's voice hummed the same playful tune from behind the wall.
“Ryna?” he called to her. Peering through a small gap in the bricks, he caught a glimpse of her enchanting smile as she disappeared into the garden with a soft giggle.
Stealing a moment to ensure no one was watching, Ichi deftly scaled the slick stones, swung his legs over, and gracefully leaped down in between two hedgerows. Huh? Apparently the manicured garden was shaped into a vast ... maze?
Ichi looked above the large hedges at the towering keep in the distance, wondering where Ryna had run off to. For a split second, through the foliage he thought he heard a strange rattle among the rustling leaves.
“Ryna?” he called again into the darkness. A stiff silence was the only reply. To Ichi's right he saw a path leading west along the wall before turning in, winding who knows where. To his left the path continued in much the same way, as the hedge maze appeared to twist and turn forever, fully encompassing the large central keep.
Remembering the direction Ryna had headed moments before, Ichi shook off his uncertainty, determined to find the beautiful maiden and confess his feelings for her.
Stepping further into the maze, the walls quickly disappeared around the corner behind him, and a thick misty fog began to permeate the air. It was a cold night. Ichi pulled his cloak tight around him. Left, right, straight, left, left, right. Surely he was catching up to Ryna.
When the hedgerows opened to an intersection, he caught a glimpse of her up ahead, just turning the corner.
“Ryna!” he shouted, so she would hear him. But she didn't turn around or call back, and he decided to sprint after her in pursuit. Ichi convinced himself he was running, not out of fear, but to catch up to Ryna. Straight, right, right, straight, left.
Wait. Was this the same intersection as before? All the foliage looked the same every way he turned. In the growing fog, the keep was no longer visible, and Ichi began to lose all sense of direction.
After several minutes, Ichi stopped to catch his breath. He realized that he was now hopelessly lost.
<swish> <step>, <rattle>
What was that? Ichi panted as he turned toward the sound. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
<step>, <swish>, <step> <step>
Louder now, much closer this time.
“Who's there? I should warn you, I'm armed!” Ichi spoke into the fog, bending down to pick up a reasonably sized stone from the ground.
This time, his calls were answered with a low, guttural moan – the unmistakable sound of forsaken torment. Bony apparitions emerged from the dense fog a mere arm's reach from his face. Bewildered, yet terrified, Ichi froze in panic, sweat dripping from every orifice. He dropped the stone. Three skeletons stood facing him. Ichi staggered back and found his way blocked by a wall of hedges. The skeletons were waiting for something.
Thoughts of a pleasant night's encounter were dashed by a sense of impending doom. Ichi felt cornered like a fox and began to wonder if he could overpower a being composed entirely of bones and make a run for it. But before he could put any plan into action, the skeleton to his right dropped to a bony knee. Following its empty stare, Ichi saw a cloaked figure alight in powerful dark magic swoop down from the swirling mist above!
“I've waited so very long,” the lich spoke with a decrepit, yet powerful voice, as it clenched Ichi’s throat with its steely blue claws. After spending hundreds of years in misery, the lich, careful not to harm the precious flesh that it would finally inhabit, drained Ichi’s life in a single drawn breath.
Chronicles of The Death
| Author: | Riya |
by Riya
This gate is huge. It is a double-winged iron gate more than twelve arm-spans wide and higher than my eyes can see. I am not sure if it just meets the obsidian sky or pierces right through it. I was here once before. If my memory does not deceive me, this gate was only two men tall the last time I saw it. Then, I pushed it open with ease to release the creature lurking beyond. This time, over three years have passed while trying to make this fateful decision to return to this doomed scene, the Inner Hell.
I am not sure what others call it, but for me this abyss is how I imagine my hell. It can be reached neither by land, nor by sea. Even on wings it remains undiscovered. Only closing my eyes and concentrating wholly on this spot, am I guided there. Opening my eyes again, this place engulfs my consciousness — dark as a starless night. The only object in sight is this solid, plain iron edifice, massive from the bottom to the top, too heavy for a normal human being to budge.
Even I struggle to push this gate open. It was a hard decision to free this monster so long ago, but with all the involved people this time, it could cause a cataclysm. Okay, it is not fair to call it a monster. This is not a beast with three heads or a demon with a thousand eyes on his body. I’m not sure it even has a certain shape. This horror can be found in everything and everybody. That is what the people fear the most. Especially the ones, whom are to blame for my current situation, these avatars, are scared of the Chaos.
They try to chain up this part of themselves behind a door, locked with eight different seals. They call it virtues, I call it a plague. Obliged to follow those rules, all humans aim for the same goal in their short lives, binding them to a uniform future for eternity. Everyone is sentenced to repeat this tragedy over and over again. Known as a time of peace, I call it stagnation. Which not only harms them, it also hurts the one I love, the ever changing Future. She lost the brightness in her once-sparkling eyes and her colorful diversity. Thanks to the avatars she now looks the same every day, every week and every month without the opportunity to break free on her own.
Those invaders entered our world decades ago, an alien element, and still try to impose their ways. They can’t even die and move to the next world like everyone else. I remained quiet, just keeping an eye on them, hoping the people would awake from their stupor and change the world on their own, but nothing happened. The egotistical avatars interfere and rule over a world which they don’t belong to. Now it is time to stand up for my own need — selfish, I am aware — to rescue the one true love I have in this world.
My hand slides over the smooth surface of the gate. It is cold like me and represents the burden I have to shoulder once the gathered Chaos behind is released. Many will lose their lives. It could possibly devour every living soul including mine and the soul I mean to save, but I can no longer sit by and watch her suffering in silence. The consequences of not acting outweigh the risk. Even if I have to put my life on the line, it has to be done. Now. I press both my hands against the gate and begin to push.
Any doubts washed away. With no hesitation in my heart anymore I lean forward. Through the opening gap I can feel the raging heat as a harbinger of the uncontrollable Chaos. Gathering all my strength, I push even harder. Finally opened wide enough, I step beyond the ominous portal.
The Chaos hidden here in me over the years, decades and centuries has grown immense, too much to release only parts of it. However, that was never my intention. I step aside and let it free. I, The Death, won’t regret what I have done and I would do it again should the circumstances require it.
Danse de Macabre
| Author: | blaquerogue |
transcriber unknown
The following was found scratched into the lid of a sarcophagus beneath the ruins of Ravensmoor.
- Listen to the wind as it rolls through my garden of death,
lost souls with no home; icy cold their breath.
Everything is at peace here; oh, the stories they tell,
for they are the ones that are left here between heaven and hell.
They dance here every night; wispy souls they entwine,
waiting for the love they had lost to show them a sign.
Nocturnal danse de macabre leading newcomers to their home,
giving comfort and love to the ones that are now alone.
Gravestone shadows by the moon as if shielding the heat,
create long black shadows like a dark silken sheet.
As the moon gives way to the light of the sun,
one life has come to an end as another has begun.
— Torniquet
Darkness
| Author: | Zerowon |
by Zerowon
The night was black, so black that Nomad felt as though the absence of light was a sign that the stars and the heavens had forever abandoned him in that dreary tract of forest. The trees, barely visible, seemed to howl as the cold night air blew between their branches, further magnifying the haunting feeling of desolation. For Nomad knew that no beneficent god would ever allow such a disturbing place to exist within the gaze of the righteous heavens and it was by that logic that Nomad knew he must be blindly trekking through the space between the living and the damned.
What to do? What could he do? The minutes stretched on for hours and the hours melted into days. There was no sign of life, no sign of the world he knew, nothing but cold and unrelenting darkness.
It was from within that primal part of Nomad's body that true fear unchecked flooded his logical senses. The fear grew into an unsettling feeling, so deeply rooted into the darkest pit of Nomad's brain that it paralyzed all of his thoughts beyond mere survival. It was within this darkness that Nomad encountered true evil — a lord undone, a life bereft of humanity, a creature so foul that it could only be perceived as a lich.
With steady speed the lich closed on Nomad raking its skeletal hands across his chest with fury. Nomad frantically tried to fight back, but it was to no avail. It became clear as the darkness crept into Nomad's consciousness that one could not encounter such menacing evil and hope to survive. It was in that blackened forest of evil that Nomad's candle was extinguished.
Dolly
| Author: | boomer |
a traditional faerie tale
transcribed by Uther Pendragon
Little Lynette ran to the end of the garden to see the parade. She was six going on seven, cute as a button, and loved by all. Her mom kept her dark hair in pigtails that flew all over the place when she ran.
The doll was sitting with its back to a fence post. Shiny gold hair, clear blue eyes, pink cheeks, rose bud lips, all framed in a perfectly symmetrical face. She was a work of art in a blue dress, white pinafore, blue and white striped stockings, completed by shiny patent leather shoes. Lynette reached through the fence, grabbed the doll, and clutched it to her heart. She ran back to her house.
“Look Mommy, look. See what I found. Her eyes close when I lie her down.”
Her mom took the doll. It was perfect, spotless, and smelled faintly of lavender. “Ohh Lynette, you can’t keep it. She must belong to another little girl who has lost it. We will have to give it back.”
“No! No! She’s mine. I love her,” cried Lynette, stamping her feet. “She told me she wants to stay with me.”
“Sweetheart, she can stay the night, but tomorrow we must look for her owner. If we can’t find who lost it, then you can keep her.”
“Dolly says all right. But she told me no one else wants her.”
“Good girl. Now put Dolly on your bed, wash your hands, and help me candy these apples. Everybody will want one at the bonfire tonight.”
“Yes Mommy,” Lynette answered, tucking her new doll into bed. “Dolly says we really must keep her.”
As Lynette left to wash her hands, the doll’s eyes opened, turned slowly towards the mother’s back, and glared.
* * *
“She was a really good girl for me tonight,” said Lynette’s Aunt. “A little scared about all the commotion outside, but settled down once she got into bed with her new doll. It’s quite beautiful isn’t it. Lynette wanted to know what was going on, so I told her people believe that on this night, the wall between this world and the next grows weak, so everyone is out making fires and noise to ward off evil. She just smiled and said that Dolly was here and would look after her.”
“Thanks, Sis. I am glad you didn’t tell her that this is also the night of the Cataclysm. She doesn’t need to know about that for some time yet. You go out now, have fun, but stay out of trouble,” said Lynette’s mother as she shut and bolted the door.
It was well past midnight when Lynette awoke. The bedroom was dimly illuminated by the light from the largest remnant of the shattered moon shining through the window. Dolly clung to her like a backpack as Lynette carefully climbed out of bed. The doll’s eyes were now an icy transparent blue, its rosy complexion chalk white, red lips turned down, and the perfectly symmetrical face distorted with malice. Together, they dropped silently to the floor and crept silently closer to the sleeping parents. The faint aura flickering between Lynette and Dolly brightened as they got near. Streamers of ethereal fire flared between them and her sleeping father. He appeared to inhale the glowing filaments and suddenly sat bolt upright.
Her mother, awakened by the light and commotion, was halfway out of bed before her husband seized her around the neck and crushed her windpipe. Lynette and Dolly stood and watched the struggle. A cruel smile played around the doll’s mouth as it licked its lips. They were the last thing Lynette’s mother saw before death took her. At that moment, the aura now surrounding them all momentarily brightened, then collapsed into an intense ball of light that flew silently out the window. Lynette father collapsed onto the floor and Lynette and Dolly climbed back into bed.
* * *
The next day Lynette’s father was arrested for murder and taken away to jail. Three of Kingsport’s guards were posted inside Lynette’s house to keep order and prevent any looting. In the child’s bed were two beautiful dolls, arm in arm–one with golden hair, the other in dark pigtails.
“Well,” said the skinny one, “I guess I’ll take these for the kids in the orphanage.”
Selected Works of The Paean Bards
| Author: | Sunswords |
collected by Sunswords
The Treachery of Baram-Kul
by Xan
- Where bloodied roses and dry bones lie,
Even Virtues forsake this unholy ground.
Within the shadows shrieks a voice high,
Take heed good folk, death is abound.
Why forth have you come, oh foolish one!
To feed the maggots with your corpse?
The gods of mercy shall spare you none,
This darkness swallows with no remorse.
Baram-Kul the lich will welcome you warmly,
He yearns to feast on your blood red flesh.
From your skull, a cup he shall drink deeply,
Your eyes and your teeth, a garland most fresh.
Baram-Kul the lich is most forgiving, he'd say,
Ghastly flames burning bright in his eyes.
His voice echoes in his kingdom of decay:
"Perform for me and freedom's your prize".
Where bloodied roses and dry bones lie,
A dancing skeleton mocks the sunlight.
The stretched skin of a face in the wind does sigh,
As your scream is drowned out, by the still of the night.
Of Curses Betwixt
Anonymous
- Poisoned shroom and spiders' silk,
I cast a curse on thee.
Thine precious wit and foolish ilk
Rue the day thou camest to be!
Blackened pearl and mandrake root,
I bind my will to ye.
Do my bidding mine faithful brute
So fall upon thine knees!
Serpent scale and pinch of ash,
I trap thy heart once free.
Twist thine soul and hopes be dash
This crone doth laugh with glee!
Dread Beasts' Puzzle
by Parnaxis
- A crown I wear, a jeweled arc,
Gems that shine, in light and dark.
Through air I crawl, a dreadful grace,
Wings I have not, I leave no trace.
My weapons sheathed, a dagger pair,
Your blood it drinks, your flesh it tears.
Wanderer of the abyss, you draw near,
What am I, the one you'll fear?
The Stranger
| Author: | Lendrick |
By Lendrick Dawnfire of Brittany
The Shadow Wood
The forest spoke of eerie adulations of un-bespoken cries of anguish. Fearful glances about, as the bedraggled stranger could sense the very worms in the soil with benevolent smirks of doom. Sensing the stranger's presence, the worms flew from the ground; each had rows of razor sharp, tiny teeth. Teeth gnashing, they flew out and bored into the eyeball of his mind. The stranger screamed.
For three days he had run, stumbling and tumbling through the forest, scratched and shaken by thorny brambles and brambly thorns; the stranger grew ever so weary. The witch sisters never mentioned it would be this painful, the hallucinations. Or were they? Scrambling and grunting the stranger picked himself up and continued to run; the worm in his eye blinked away.
On and on he ran, the spirits of the dead climbing their way to the surface and shrieking and screaming ran at him in translucent glory. Each time, the stranger seemed to scream louder.
The sisters were forever in his thoughts, but to get to the end, to achieve the unachievable spoke volumes of his determination. Driven by fear, pushed by loathing, the stranger needed to keep going, needed to survive.
Glancing about again, he saw that now he was in a clearing, with a path leading to a small cottage that had a single candle burning like the sun in one of the quaint windows.
Maybe the occupant was home? Salvation? Redemption? Hope? All these thoughts and feeling burned through the stranger’s mind that he might be at an end to the perpetual torment.
Willing his tired and slashed legs to obey, the stranger half-hobbled, half-ran along the path to the cottage. Only twenty feet. Or was it two hundred feet? The cottage seemed further away, then further away, and so on and on the stranger kept running. Stopping dead. The carnivorous worms, poking through the spectral shades eyes, shrieked ever closer behind him.
Closing his eyes, the stranger knew that the cottage was only a short distance away. All he had to do was reach out and....
Opening his eyes, the cottage was right in front of him. Grasping the door knob as if death itself stalked him, the stranger flung the door open and leapt through.
The shrieking was getting louder and louder and ... the door slamming shut, the shrieking stopped.
The stranger was standing in a modest room with a roaring fireplace, a bearskin rug, wine, food and fruit on a table in-front of him. Warmth flooded through him like a wave off the Bay of Storms. The stranger was home, safe. Secure.
The scene faded, replacing the cottage with a ramshackle hut. No fire and no fruit, dilapidated and ruined, it looked as though nobody had been here for a millennium. Since before the Cataclysm. A figure in front of the fire turned. A blood zombie!
Why was this happening? The sisters had deceived him!
There was a great explosion, the stranger was knocked to his back as the hut disintegrated around him. Fear threatened to overwhelm him and cause him to recede into the depths of his psychosis, where darkness and despair reigned supreme and he but their lap dog.
Something though, deep down, stirred. A spark. The spark grew and spread, igniting inside his soul, the light of the soul fire purged the fear from the stranger. Warmth and joy replaced the cold.
Standing there in majestic glory of righteousness and strength. There was nothing this world could do to him now, any-more that would bring him to the same dark place he had just encountered. The wailing spirits, the blood zombies, the eye gouging worms. On this, inaugural day of change, initiation and no doubt a day that would become famous, it was the day he was born again.
‘You have not beaten me,” the stranger proclaimed with the light of justice burning bright.
The stranger stood there, soul fire shining bright, spreading out the sisters shrank from it. It was bright and gleaming and glorious. Fear and dismay were vanquished.
“Very good. You have passed the test, your Majesty,” the sisters replied.
At that very moment, the world as the stranger knew exploded.
The Stranger woke up.
The Well
| Author: | Bubonic |
an excerpt from an anonymous diary found in a house outside of Braemer
drip... drip... drip.
The noise rouses me from my slumber. I open my eyes briefly, spying the shafts of light from the shattered moon cascading in through my window. Still too early.... I drift off again, my mind’s eye wandering.
drip
droop
drip.
I roll over, covering my head with my pillow, drowning out the nagging drips.
Ahhhh ... better.
Silence.
I smile to myself, thinking about the barmaid who bought me a drink tonight. I hope she’s there next time.
Sleep comes again, slowly pulling me, spiraling ... welco—
Drip.
My eyes snap open, seemingly of their own accord. That infernal well! Every night, every single night, I can hear it. More times than I can count, I’ve asked him to fix the drip, but he just rolls his eyes. And laughs to himself. Even now, as I lay here in the dark, I can hear his whispers. His condescension. His denials.
I rub my face, exhausted, and taste copper. Looking down at my hand, I can see the red lines in my palm, glinting in the moonlight. At least, I assume they’re red. It’s hard to tell, the moon is so bright, almost blinding. I have to shield my eyes as I walk across the grass.
Vaguely, I realize I’m outside. But why wouldn’t I be?
Drip.
I turn quickly and see it, the darkness bubbling up inside me. The well just stands there in the grass, mocking me, as if its leaky bucket and coarse rope somehow make it better. The rope feels ... strong. I like the way it feels when the fibers push into my palm. It makes me feel alive.
I’m testing it now, judging it. Daring it to be as strong as it thinks it is. Looking closely, I can see the fibers forcing their way into his flesh. The supple and tender neck veins bulge excitedly as I push downward. It’s fascinating, really, watching the skin expand and contract with the pulse. Slower, slower… just like falling asleep. So peaceful.
Back outside, I consider the leaky bucket, now lying harmlessly on the grass. Despite myself, I am impressed. I kneel down, gently placing the rope inside the bucket. You were right, I think. You ARE better.
I sigh in relaxation, pulling the covers up to my chin. I cannot help but smile as I think about the bucket and the rope, and how well they did. I feel proud. And I am tired, so tired.
I can feel sleep coming at last. Still smiling, I begin to fall…
Drip.
The Windows Are Open
| Author: | Argentus Dragon |
by Argentus Dragon
He knelt down near the small, still form, allowing himself a few minutes to examine it. Emaciated limbs, atrophied from lack of use, extended at odd angles from a small torso wrapped in tattered, unwashed rags. The body was topped with a head that was unusually large by comparison, even for a child so small. Pulling a rag out of one of the many pockets secreted about his robe, he dabbed the thin line of drool from the corner of her slack-jawed mouth, examining her teeth as he did so. Yes, she was young, but not quite as young her wasted body suggested.
Then his gaze moved up to the eyes, those unfocused, empty eyes.
Anyone looking at those eyes would have thought her a soulless husk. This man knew better… the power pulled him to the soul trapped within.
“Do not worry, child… all have their place in the order of things. All have a purpose,” he whispered to her, gently brushing the stringy, dirty hair away from her face, “and I think I may have discovered yours.”
Scooping her up easily, he rose to his feet, and strode towards the Shard.
* * *
She ran, as she always had. Something was after her, she knew...vile and terrible. She had seen it once, long ago, but could not recall it clearly. All that remained was the overwhelming horror, and the need to be far, far away.
It had not always been so. She could still remember Mother, who had protected her and made the world bright and beautiful and safe. But something happened, and Mother wouldn’t play anymore. She wouldn’t play or move. She wouldn’t do anything, then she disappeared.
That was when the Thing appeared. Its arrival turned her bright and happy world into a maze of halls and doors and windows. Windows were especially bad, and needed to be shuttered always, for that was what had let it in. The doors needed to be open, Mother always had the door open, the girl needed to open the right one to find her.
And so she had run, opening so many doors to find Mother, only to find so many empty rooms. There were other rooms, with things she didn’t understand… happy moments where she thought she had finally found Mother, but instead had found only paintings of things that didn’t seem right.
A girl yelling...
...pushing...
Mother falling.
Then came the Quaking.
The halls shook and twisted about her. The doors wouldn’t open now. None of them would budge, no matter how hard she pulled. And the windows...
The Windows were OPEN!
IT would find her!
Through the windows came a voice saying words she couldn’t understand. Terrified, she ran. All the while, the halls continued to shake and rattle. She had to hide, find a place where the Thing could not reach her. She could hear it, smell it nearby. A door nearby opened and she dashed through, desperate to escape.
She was in a room... with a window, an OPEN window! Turning in a panic, she tried to escape, only to bounce off a solid wall. She cast about, but there was only the window, and...
Mother!
It was her! She was finally here! But...
Something was wrong! Mother was yelling, scolding, denying her wish to do something, but what? She found she didn’t care, anger surged inside the girl, white and burning. Suddenly she was upright with a denial of her own, one that pushed her arms out and up. She stood, horrified, as her mother stumbled back, her face a mirror of the girl’s own. She stumbled back, and then out, through the open window. Before the girl could reach her, Mother had fallen, landing with a sickening thud on the ground below.
The girl stood there, tears streaming down her face, emotions boiling within her: blinding rage, shock, shame and then a soul-crushing sorrow finally wrenching an agonized howl from her.
She looked up, the Daedalian light giving her eyes a red, feral cast, to see a dark, slender man standing before her, hand extended...
* * *
The creature’s leathery wings unfurled to reveal a small, scaly face with deep, burning red eyes that regarded him with something akin to wonder. The echoes of its transformational howling finally subsiding, the Formorian creature tentatively climbed up his outstretched hand, to perch on his arm, dutifully awaiting the grinning man’s orders.
Field Observations for Thad Trowall:
Tower Electrical Field Apparitions, Part 1
| Author: | rune_74 |
by Thad Trowall
I begin my studies researching the rare phenomenon of ghostly apparitions which seem to have increased in frequency. It appears they are somehow linked to the towers that are prominent in many of our cities and towns. I preface these comments with the knowledge that to date these stories have not been validated by any in the science community and are considered fringe science at best.
I have taken the liberties to gather a few posts from reports filed with the town guard, which you can find in Appendix A.
Suffice it to say, the one defining feature found within all the reports is that the apparitions only appear in the darkness of night. The guise they take is that of an electrical “ghost”, for lack of a better term, of a figure walking to or from the tower. The electrical static of the apparition could possibly be linked to recent storms in the area which may require further study. It usually last no more than a few seconds before disappearing, leaving behind a few glowing foot prints that soon disappear as well, leaving no evidence. Due to their elusive nature, it is difficult to draw any definitive conclusions.
Now, as for the actual description of the apparitions, they are said to be light blue, shimmering humanoids. The race is unknown although some have reported they believed that they were human. The odd thing is that the reports vary in the actual gender of the apparition, which could possibly be due to the projection of the viewer’s psyche. As to what they were wearing or the length of their hair, these too vary on the reports. This of course will require further analysis which should lead to some conclusions on the origin of said apparitions.
In order to increase the likelihood of observing one of these apparitions, I will need to find the common occurrences of said sightings. Many report of a crackling static sound emanating from the tower and the ghost itself. Also as previously mentioned, areas of more frequent sightings had reported increased lightning storms at the time of the incidents. These have both been verified by others in the town of Owl’s Head, which I believe warrants further study.
I am currently en route to Owl’s Head to do some first-hand investigation of the tower. This appears to be the strongest lead I have and would like to take the time to actually do some field observations. More information to follow as the investigation continues.
— Thad Trowall
Twilight Air
| Author: | Joviex |
by Joviex
You're peaceful. You're living what you barely dreamed of and it’s okay. It's real. If you die here, you'll have this moment; your body wants this as much as your spirit does.
Stay here; it's safe with the dead in the cool dark. You remain lying on the surface; their restless thrashing a lullaby that keeps you afloat. Death is a word used by people who haven't been through it.
Time flows onwards, lost.
Two hands reach down, falling through the dark like heavy stones. Her voice doesn't disturb you. It's brisk and firm and her and you're glad to hear it after the dead’s whispers.
The eerie light of a distant tower burns low; its soft, blue glow embracing her silhouette. You don't have a proper name for it, the void between where you are and where she sits. You stare at her, and at the dead all around you — what have you done?
Before the dead began to speak to you, you had dreams of what your life might be like. Toiling under the warm sun, working the fields like your parents did, with a wife and a son — a strong boy skipping happily into the future like all children.
Your chest hurts. Your lungs grasp each breath from the arid air like rain beating upon the sun. Your aching hands, a mass of scrapes and scratches, sting from inactivity. The dead lay strewn about, unrepentant about what they'd done. The dead don't much care for the stones that mark them; they only care about their legacies.
You feel hot with the rush of your heart, beating so hard it's pounding your dreams into dust. This isn't what was meant to be. Not this empty, starlit place where you're going to die.
Framing your face with her hands, they smell of oil and dry earth. This is the verge. You either stop here forever or dive into the vastness beyond.
Her eyes glance towards the firmament, unblinking. You look up. It’s all beautiful. Minutes pass before you say what you're thinking. “You're not afraid?”
Her voice is soft. “I’m not afraid.”
It's not death; you've felt its grip upon your soul all too often. That's not the terror. The terror is unnamed, yet exhilarating — an undiscovered country beyond.
Most who are about to die are hypocrites. You watch them meet that new frontier with heavy sobs, mourning the loss of something that was never owned. You see them start that journey screaming and flailing and tearing at their clothes.
The dead don't lie. They continue their solemn march toward that land. You are never forced to bid your farewells. You know it to be more insidious. Death’s touch grows warmer with each moment you dwell.
“There's much left undone." Your words are inadequate. Like a stone; colorless and cold, twisting, descending into the shadowy, airless abyss of a river.
The stars can't hear you and won't, but she does. Everyone struggles. You see her somber smile. You hear her heavy heart. You know the battle raging behind her eyes.
You know, you understand, you reassure, “We will be alright.”
She places some flowers on the fresh earth; the smell is warm and full of life.
You watch her take up your son. The dream is done.
You're no longer peaceful, just at peace.