death – Nightshade Stories

Forbidden Invitations

June 11, 2023November 1, 2023 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101

Nature does its best to shield us from the world of spirits and soul hunting fiends,

but we have an unhealthy fascination with living forever, fearlessly self-indulging with no fear of consequences.

That is the very essence of damnation.

Remove the promised threat of being consumed by vermin while roasting on a spit,

awake all the while, the pain so great that screams clog your throat, while the demons surrounding you baste you once more in filth of their own making, and laugh as you suffer.

But you viewed the possibility of such a penalty unworthy of you, only of others.

They fool you every time, these beautiful, succulent demons…

So we stand at the shield, pulling ourselves up to peek over as into our neighbor’s yard to see if they’re available to chat a while.

They answer us when we call with our spells and incantations, wishes, and rituals, bound to them by blood. Blood is the most sacred thing to heaven, and the most desired in hell.

Our soul-snatching, flesh eating neighbors don’t just respond.

They climb over the fence, and charge through the open doors and windows we so willingly, foolishly opened with our candles, crystals, cards and boards, diagrams of pentagrams, and animal sacrifice.

And at the darkest level, without a flicker of light, the bones of mankind are mired in the gory blood of their own sacrifices.

They come at our invitation, these fiends, and take us.

They slip over us like cold, clinging wetsuits, and snatch our minds and wills in clawed fists to bend us to their service.

Still, we take no heed of the rising pyres, believing ourselves the exceptions, beating the odds to live forever with no guilt as those around us scream at the vast, black abyss.

Me and mine, you and yours.

All of us.

Welcome.

The Moaning Trees

March 2, 2023July 8, 2023 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Mark me here, children, and take a look at the forest around you.

For time untold, whoever once lived here used the trees for gallows, and every type of body was hung there: men, women, children, foreigners, criminals, those who practiced magic, or were believed to be doing so, and those who renounced it when the tables turned.

Rabid and diseased animals were not spared, butchered where they were tied to the trunks.

And as the spirits drifted and the flesh rotted, the tree bark grew paler, and the spring blossoms stopped growing.

Tree roots grew twisted, with a reddish tint to them, and the pale bark flaked away as the corpses dried and swayed in the wind like old companions in rocking chairs on a porch.

The last explorers that traveled through and briefly tried to settle here wrote that the soil was infertile, the turned earth littered with the broken bodies of predator and prey alike.

An odor of decay became omnipresent, a patina of corruption clinging to the air like sweat on a hot body.

And when night falls, children, one can hear the trees moaning. The stories and songs say it’s the cries of the condemned mingling with the screaming pleas of tortured bodies long before they die.

In autumn, the wind stirred leaves echo the sound of snapping necks and fluttery sighs of death.

On nights of the full moon, the very trees seem to wail as the collected burden of their grisly growth overwhelms them. Others say the weeping, restless spirits cry as they wander, lost to time and memory.

And when the seasons change, children, the spirits of those condemned in that time return to tell their stories to one another, again and again.

Every night, no matter how fierce the weather, now empty the land, if you listen you can hear the cries for mercy, then the raucous, mocking laughter from the hanging mobs that cheer on the savagery.

Other nights, when the moon is new, among the trees you can hear the laughter of children as they run after each, their footsteps rustling and cracking the detritus beneath them..

Daring campers have fled, hearing snarls and low, deep growling as their bodies were rolled over by unseen paws, their faces probed by wet, cold blots feeling very like the noses and tongues of canines they couldn’t see, and their chests suddenly heavy with weight they couldn’t get off before they woke up screaming, as if an animal had settled on top of them.

Still others shared a sense of dread, waiting in thick silence as something watched them, but despite their risks in calling out, nothing was there.

No one answered.

All things considered, children, it’s best to avoid the moaning trees and travel the long way around these arbors of evil and grief, if you can.

You see, they have long memories, and don’t mind sharing them with you.

A Portrait of Death

February 16, 2023February 16, 2023 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, Uncategorized

Part 1: A Late Arrival

The night sky was obscured by a hard rainfall.

No thunder, but it felt imminent.

Everything had been laid out for my guest, but he was late, and given the fact that our meal had gone cold and gelid, I stopped expecting him and enjoyed a cup of dark red wine that held a gem of amber firelight in its ruby hues.

I sipped, savoring it, and was drifting toward sleep when the knock came, rousing me out of a drifting dream state.

He’d used the heavy metal bar curved through the jaws of a badly sculpted gargoyle knocker I’d taken a fancy too and purchased; it looked more irritated than menacing, which is how I felt at receiving guests in general.

But all of the servants were in bed, and in a flash of beneficence I decided to let them sleep, and went to answer the door myself.

*************

He’d taken a human face for this session, an affectation for which I was grateful, but it was the shimmering black robe that caught my attention. For all the millenia he’d worn it, it wasn’t tattered, frayed, dirty, or worn.

It seemed made of liquid obsidian, and rippled with his movements, seeming to surround him instead of adorn him, for when he sat down it didn’t spread out.

“No scythe?” I asked.

He grinned. “Not needed. It’s symbolism, mostly.”

“Then how do you…?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry. Are you prepared to start?”

“W-well,” I stammered a bit, “it’s just that people are used to seeing you with it.”

“There are countless pictures of me holding one, but tell me, do you really want to do what everyone else has done?”

I started to answer, but the question in and of itself gave me pause.

“I…I suppose not.”

“Good. Are you prepared?”

“Yes.” Then I clarified. “To paint you, that is, not to…”

Again the small grin. “Of course.”

**************

He posed himself just so, the gentle hues of candlelight reflecting off his robe as if underwater, clear and flowing, not obscured or murky at all.

There was pristine quality to him that belied his calling.

I chuckled as I sketched the outline. “Flowing robes.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh,” I said, flattered he was even listening, “I said, ‘flowing robes.’ It’s a term used to describe–”
“I’m aware of its use. I just didn’t hear you.”

“Well, the thing is, yours actually does, or seems to…”
He didn’t answer, leaving my unspoken question drift into the air.

In the distance, I heard the first roll of thunder herald the storm.

Part 2: An Early Departure

The mix of the wine and lateness of the hour, and the patter of rain and low thunder began to wear on me.

I thought I saw drops of darkness start at his sleeve, falling and coming to rest on the floor like ink, and slowly spread.

I blinked, put down the brush, and rubbed my eyes, thinking it to be an illusion, but when I opened them again, they were still there, now drifting toward me.

I ignored it, and looked at Death’s face.

Nothing had changed from the time he walked in; his skin hadn’t paled, his countenance was still, and there was an emptiness to his gaze that brought to mind this was more of an annoyance he was doing as a favor to me than an honor.

Indeed, it was.

The obsidian color never lost its shine as more of his robe dripped and pooled, spreading across the floor like an ebon fog.

I was rooted to the spot, no longer painting.

“W-w-what’s happening to me? I don’t understand…”

Again, the grin. “The longer you paint me, the more of me you capture, I also capture you.”

“But if you take me, the painting will be unfinished!” I heard the plea of rising panic in my voice as the fog coiled around me and began its slow ascent.

As the thunder rolled, closer than before, lightning flashed and the rain fell harder.

His obsidian robe and human guise sloughed from him, leaving only his alabaster bones.

He rose and walked toward me.

“Do you not yet understand, dear painter, that all the portraits of me were finished by me?”

The flowing obsidian was cool against my flesh as the brush and paints fell, and my vision, as its color began to match his robe, was undisturbed by starlight, save for the amber firelight suddenly captured in the void of his eyes, and on the blade of his shimmering scythe.

Unkindness

November 3, 2022November 10, 2022 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

The courtyards of the castles and the keeps of the forts were the roaming places of my friends and I when we were young enough to be fascinated by the thoughts of battle and glory, hearing the stories of the old soldiers they told by the bonfires, and seeing the eyes of the women glaze over with something akin to adoration, and the eyes of the men’s fathers full of pride.

Others would turn away, aware of the blood price paid for victories, and the soul crushing pain of ruin and defeat at the hands of gloating victors.

It didn’t matter to us children until the land went bad, the money ran out, the jobs were gone, and hunger sat like a dozing toad over the place I called home.

For our many crimes of survival, taking no joy in all we had to feed ourselves, the King had those of us caught in the act tied to stakes, and placed in the very courtyards we once roamed freely.

His guards placed us in the ones that had the longest stretches of summer sun, and no one was allowed to feed us or give us anything to drink, on the peril of joining our line of questionable criminals.

As the days and nights passed, the flies came as our bellies emptied the last of their contents.

They laid their eggs, and moved from waste to skin, then laid more eggs.

We felt the maggots writhe as they feasted, seeming almost to dance.

*************

The bindings never slipped.

The blindfolds never slipped.

Rendering us helpless, the kingsguard had been thorough in their work.

Those who died from exposure were spared the worst that was yet to come, and in another day or so we heard them, made all the more terrifying because we couldn’t see them:

The ravens came shortly after.

We heard the calls, felt the wind when they flew onto us to pull the blindfolds down, then fly off to a safe distance.

Every day, more came.

The screams were random, and horrifying; the blindfolds were tied anew every morning, but the ravens were relentless.

In the silence between screams, the sound of their beaks knocking against the eye sockets echoed in the yard as the sun set and darkness brought some relief.

***************

When my turn came, the scythe shaped beaks tore into burned, chapped skin that parted like gossamer at the hammering blows.

I screamed from the pain my nerves registered, and such tears as I had left inside of me never rolled out of the blindfold.

Floating in and out of consciousness in an ebon-shadowed dreamscape, I could see the bodies that still clung to their stakes, their sundered flesh gory and terrible.

And every day, more birds came and worked until I screamed myself hoarse.

**************

In the heat of the noonday sun, after days lost to pain and numbness in their dance macabre, I felt the fading of life.

Footsteps approached, and the small clink of armor made me hope a soldier’s weapon would make a quick end, a hope that was dashed when I heard who it was that spoke the last words I’d hear.

“Give him water, I will speak with him now.”

“Yes, your grace.” They lifted my head, parted my lips, and poured.

I didn’t know if the gods would grant me the time he wanted; I was fine with whatever they chose.

“You understand why I imprisoned you so?”

“No, my king. I would think you would see all your subjects fed.”

“You feel I’ve done you an injustice.”

“I know it.”

I heard the drawing of a sword. “His tongue grows overbold, sire.”

“Stay your hand, Captain. Sheathe your sword.”

I heard it go back inside the sheathe.

The king spoke to me again. “You knew the risks of stealing rationed food.”

“It was not rationed fairly.”

“How so?”

“Kings make war or trade to feed their people, You did neither, and gave the best to the nobles of your court to keep favor and avoid assassination.”

He was silent for a time, but so was I.

After a while, he spoke again. “For your words, I will not let the captain of my guard grant you a merciful end, and may the gods judge you harshly for your crimes.”

They began to walk away.

I no longer wanted to linger, and I knew the bristly Captain would be the key to my departure.

“And may they judge you equally for your cowardice, ‘majesty.’

I heard steps running back toward me.

“Captain, no!”

***************

After so long a time of piercing and bleeding slowly, the blade proved nothing more than the jab of a larger bird, and my body arced toward it as the captain pushed it hard through, breaking the stake in half, and sliding the sword out, he let me fall with it.

What few ravens remained made a brief, excited racket, and then the darkness of the cosmos blended their feathers together, and blinded my heart to life, as my eyes had been to nature.

The spirits of my fellow prisoners waited, greeting me, and together we left the fortunes of the generous earth to the tyrannical, childish whims of petty men, and went in search of Paradise, wherever it may be, by whatever name it calls itself.

Night Jackals (Enclave of Paradise short story)

August 12, 2022 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

Chapter 1: Chased

In the razed city he called home, now full of booby trapped debris and mines placed around by the infiltrators from Above, the Enclave was a lot more dangerous now than it had been since the rebellion failed.

The place had a name of its own once, but he’d been born into the time of war and had been too young to say it.

Now, it seemed no one remembered it.

They called it the Enclave of Paradise, as sarcastic and bitter a name as they could get without being openly profane, though he saw no reason they shouldn’t be.

At the moment though, Chase was panting for breath, running from the night jackals who were hunting him in a pack of four.

He could hear them spatter and splatter through the chemically laced ‘rainwater’ from Above.

The Night Jackals were new. No one had seen them come, and no one noticed them until their numbers were sufficient,

Then they went on a few tentative hunts, feeding mostly off animal strays.

They picked off people walking alone or drunk. If they happened to be both, it made for an early night when the alcohol hit the jackals’ bloodstream

He had a flashing thought that was supposed to be, of all things, humorous: They’re chasing Chase.

He dismissed it as not funny, and turned to see the pack of four coming for him.

What was even more chilling was the fact that they ran completely silent, with no warning. It happened so fast that it was effective in keeping down the neighborhood population.

The Night Jackals were killers in their own right, relentless, patient, and silent as Death’s reaper.

His gun was charged, but he’d lose ground for sure if he stopped to fire it, and he was no good at running and shooting simultaneously.

Chase’s breathing grew labored.

The jackals closed, beginning to yip as the excitement of the pending kill gave them adrenaline.

You’re not gonna make the gates, Chase. Take cover in the rubble.

He muttered a curse. The rubble was where the traps, bandits, other ferals, orphans, street people, and who-all-else-knew what was in there.

Still, it was now or never.

He changed course, and the jackals grew more cautious. They were clever animals, Chase would give them that much, but that’s as far as he wanted to take it.

He measured the jump into the pile of metal, stone, and glass.

Ready? Three steps.

Set? Two steps.

Now!

Chapter 2: Trapped

There was no cover, but he fell into a hole and gashed his arm on something spiky.

The thwarted pack of jackals growled in frustration, losing sight of him, but not his scent.

He realized, only after he bit his lip and wiped the tears of pain from his eyes, that he trapped himself.

He heard one of them climbing, carefully, picking its way up so as not to cut itself.

It had the luxury of time.

Chase went to pull his gun, but his arm was shaking and he couldn’t land a grip on the handle.

He couldn’t see it, but the other three jackals circled the heap to find another way in on the ground. What he did know was that he was losing precious seconds bumbling his firearm.

He gripped his right wrist in his left fist and breathed deeply despite the flaring pain along his forearm and biceps.

The jackal now scented the blood that ran from Chase’s wound.

It growled deep in anticipation of the feast, then slipped, losing its footing.

Chase heard it yelp, and the others answered.

After a tense silence, he heard them climbing, picking their way up once more as their paws struck tin.

He couldn’t stay there now even though he had the gun. Times were hard and they were hungry; they’d attack him as a pack even though space was tight.

Looking around, he saw nothing he could shove to dislodge them again.

Another low growl came from above, and a drop of blood fell on his gashed arm.

The alpha was staring at him, its paw dripping.

Having nothing to lose now, he screamed and fired.

***************

Singed, the jackal barked, retreated, then growled low again.

The other three cleared the top, and Chase circled as fast as he could, still screaming, still firing.

He hit two of them in the face. One fell back down the heap as it died, and the other ran off with its lower jaw destroyed.

Two left.

The Alpha peeked over again, and snarled,

Chase felt his arm going numb and his fingers tingling; he had no idea how he was still holding the gun, or how long he’d be able to keep it.

The Alpha’s face disappeared again, and while Chase watched, the night jackal behind him jumped.

Chase crashed into the opposite wall, the gun falling out of his hand.

It became a race for throats, and Chase barely won as the jackal’s neck twisted in desperation beneath his hand. The scent of blood seemed to increase the jackal’s strength, and its eyes went from gold to red as it thrashed to make its escape.

Chase managed to turn it on its side, lest the claws scratch his almost useless right arm.

Putting his full weight onto the jackal’s ribs, he squeezed its neck to limit movement.

It seemed to take a long time for it to die; had his right arm been good, he would’ve broken its neck. As it was, he was so focused on killing it he forgot about the Alpha.

Powerful jaws clamped his bicep and the fangs sent a fresh wave of pain through his arm as he cried out.

His arm jerked back and slammed the jackal’s head into the wall of junk surrounding them, hoping its head would get cut open, but instead it lost its grip and fell stunned to the floor.

Chase took the opportunity to stomp the other one’s ribs into its lungs, and it died with a loud yelp.

Hurriedly, Chase looked for the gun; he’d fire it left handed if need be, but he didn’t see where it had skittered under a pile of rusted tin and busted garbage bags the rats had opened nightly.

The Alpha was recovering.

Chase kicked it twice in the head, dropping it.

His right arm now hung useless at his side.

He had to finish this now.

The rats were gathering after scenting fresh blood, some of them already at the dead body Chase made.

He grabbed the Alpha by its tail and slammed it into a side wall of horizontal tin panels, cutting it.

The noise from the jackal was loud and piercing, hurting Chase’s ears, but he swung it twice more, slicing is back open.

Past the point of fighting, the jackal whimpered, its eyes turning red as Chase pushed its neck onto a rusted tin panel and scraped its neck back and forth in a sawing motion.

More chittering rats came as jackal blood spurted over Chase’s clothes and face.

A wave of exhaustion came too, and he found himself fighting to stay conscious.

Chapter 3: Escaped

Chase vomited.

The scent of blood and guts, the increasing boldness and numbers of the rats, and the fact that he almost died were beginning to take their toll.

Standing near a wall of rubble, he swatted at a rat that jumped on the wound in his arm. Slapping it off hurt it more, but it had to be done before the rat got its teeth and claws into him.

He just needed to get out, but couldn’t climb now without making a path through the rats.

For now, they were still concentrating on the jackals, but they were sniffing the air at his rising fear, and he had to kick the closest ones away to keep space around him. If they started to climb his body, he was lost.

Taking a breath, he carefully scanned for a handhold; he’d have to start with his right arm to see if it could take the stress. The climb wasn’t long or steep, but it would take effort.

The light coming through the holes in the ground above Paradise was starting to move west, and Chase knew he couldn’t afford to lose the light.

A movement in his peripheral caught his attention.

The rats were growing sluggish, even beginning to stand still.

What’s happening to them?

Clearing his mind, he went back to his search, and saw a space just above his head between two cast off doors that he could slip his hand through. If they held his weight, he’d use them to search for the next one.

The rats began chittering. Some had fallen on thier sides, and others on their backs.

The jackal’s guts….something’s wrong with them.

He grabbed the end of the door above his head, the gash in his arm sending pain that made him bite his lip and breathe heavily through his nose as consciousness feinted to elude him again.

Once more it passed, and he pulled at the door. It held.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foot hold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Chase pushed up on his arms, and began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded a lot like the jackals.

He put his left hand in the gap, and stood on his toes. Moment of truth.

Taking another deep breath, he pushed off, finding a foothold somewhere below just as a rat jumped onto his leg. In desperation he swung his leg back and slammed his boot back into the foothold, and the rat fell.

Tensing as a couple of pieces dislodged and fell along with it, he kept still.

When nothing more crashed down on him, he began to climb, giving vent to a growl of effort that sounded not unlike the jackals.

Chapter 4: Freed

He lost track of everything but the next handhold and foothold.

Time faded, and the pain in his shaky right arm eventually numbed with adrenaline, but was still bleeding since he couldn’t bind it. It was slow, but it was there.

He was working against both as the last of the light faded and the adrenaline wouldn’t last.

Among the surviving rats, some began to pick the carcasses of their dead, and others tried to find a way up the pile to Chase.

He took a glance up, and liked his chances, but the rats were just as determined.

A beam of bright light lit the precarious catwalks above his head, and he muttered a mild curse of frustration as he lifted up enough to be able to reach the top.

Search party or patrol? Friend or foe?

He heard the sound of boots drawing close.

“He came this way.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? We’ll give it five more minutes. I don’t want to be down here when it’s dark.”

Chase knew the voices. “Over here, guys.”

The sound of boots came faster.

The yipping of night jackals could be heard in the distance.

Spending the Night

March 24, 2022 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, fantasy

He was twice cursed: once to walk the night, and twice, to feel every cosmic shift of the stars, to hear its spirits calling, crying, and keening all around him.

He saw the roiling atoms of life grind and flow to make the very dark that cloaked his hands with frost, and burned his skull with eyes of fire.

Even the spirits paused in their wanderings to let him pass.

The damned saw him in all his splendor, the gems and gold that bedecked and dripped from his limbs, and the exalted blessed fled from the sight of his malformed, wretched nakedness.

And when he wished it, all fled from his presence, leaving him to hear his own feet crunch, splash, shuffle, and run, feeling the pain of never resting, even when the silence of a universe devoid of gods and magic mocked his tears where the trails scraped like small claws and tasted of brine, and he would beg for death’s peace.

Death would reveal himself, shake his silent skull ‘no,’ and disappear. Again.

And step after he weary step, he wandered on.

And wanders still.

Red Redemption

June 5, 2020August 21, 2021 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, Uncategorized

She thought she was done all those years ago, though she’d only been a child.
The huntsman who saved them had taken all the glory for himself, and rightfully so, for she’d been duped by the spell the wolf cast over her eyes.
But now, the son of the slain one had taken revenge on the huntsman in his dotage, and his own daughter had barely made it in front of the hunting pack that scented her, knew her, and tirelessly pursued.
In the small hours when the starlight gleams brightest, flattering the false vanity of moonlight, her knocking on the woman’s door was a hard and tuneless knell that echoed through the dark forest shadows.
Taika, they called the woman now: The Magic Spell.
**************************
With grandmother dead, Taika shunned the world and apprenticed herself to a dying hag seeking a novice, promising herself to never be vulnerable and powerless again.
The hag was a hard taskmistress; Taika earned every scar she received from those long, hooked and jagged nails that made her correct her mistakes.
When the hag died, her pyre would not burn. Taika then gave her withered corpse to the river’s muddy banks, and let the creatures have their way.
The huntsman’s cowardly daughter was content to tend Taika’s house until she returned.
Taika left at first light.
**********************
In the clearing, she faced the Alpha.
The thing stood on two legs now, piercing blue eyes crystalline in the darkness.
“You wear the red witch’s hood?”
“Yes, Alpha.”
“These village fools have summoned you to redeem yourself, and reckon with your past?” As the drool fell from his maw, it hissed at his feet.
The lambent red and yellow eyes of his pack surrounded her.
“Yes, Alpha. Just me and you.” she said.
“They know better than to interfere,” he reassured her. “Is this fight to the death?”
Her twin knives gleamed in the moonlight, silver fangs in human hands.
“To the death.”
Snarling, they locked.

Come Out, Come Out…

April 5, 2019 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, Uncategorized

Lyle stood in front of his sister Lyla, his left arm around her. She pressed so hard against his back he thought she’d climb inside of him.

They were looking into the closet at deep blue wolf’s eyes staring back at them, possessed of a contemplative intelligence not naturally found.
They were trembling, but it was Lyle’s duty to protect her, and that’s what he was going to do no matter what.

“Why are you scaring us?”

Scaring you? The deep, disembodied voice made them both jump and flinch at the same time, though it hadn’t shouted.

Why do I scare you? What have I done?

“Y-y-you won’t sh-sh-show y-yourself…and y-you k-keep scaring L-Lyla!”

I do, but why are you scared of me?

“Y-you sh-should g-g-go.”

Go where?

“I-I don’t c-care. J-just go.”

I just whispered Lyla’s name…

“We don’t want you here! P-please g-go.”

The voice laughed softly, and serrated teeth flashed in a cruel smile.

Lyle turned away, holding on to a thread of resolve.

I admire your willingness to sacrifice yourself Lyle, but you can’t.

“I’m doing it…”

I haven’t attacked you. It’s Lyla I want.

“W-we’re twins. We go together.”

No. It isn’t your turn.

“You can’t take me instead?”

No.

“Why?”

I’m losing my patience, child. Stand aside.

The blue eyes brightened and moved closer to the closet’s edge.

The twins took a step back, and Lyla gasped in Lyle’s ear. His arm around her tightened for all that it was behind his back.

“You can’t take my sister away. I won’t let you.”

Lyle, stand aside.

“No.”

In the mirror Lyle saw Lyla look down and away, and she began shaking her head and pointing as she whimpered Lyle’s name.

Lyle took another step back, as if it made a difference, and glanced where she was pointing.

From under the bed bright green eyes peered up at them. A jagged toothed smile promised a bloody death as a woman’s soft, mellifluous voice spoke to them.

Ah, there you are, children.

A long bony arm came out from underneath the bed, covered with decayed flesh and leggy things that moved beneath the skin.

Follow me, Lyle. I can take you….

Lyle moved away as the closet door opened and the monster’s horned head emerged into the dim moonlight.

Lyla’s grip on Lyle was painful; she wasn’t letting go, no matter what happened.

“We’ll die together,” Lyle found himself saying.

To his surprise, Lyla, calmed down.

“No, we won’t,” she said.

The other monster began to slither from under the bed.

Defiant little bastards, it said.

Lyla stepped from behind her brother.

“Lyla! What are you doing?” he gasped.

Lyla bunched herself into a crouch, and snapped up as if her body were jolted, her arms, legs and back stiff as if she was going to fly apart.

Her piercing scream thundered through Lyle’s ears, and he put his hands on them to find them bleeding.

She drew breath without seeming to and screamed again.

Lyle saw slashes appear on the monsters’ flesh.

Their own roars of pain gathered energy, but Lyla screamed again.

Lyle was rolling on the floor, blood in his nostrils; the monsters were desperately trying to scramble back, but the portal had closed.

Black blood flowed underneath the closet and from under the bed.

The monsters roared at the top of their lungs, so loud and terror filled that Lyle felt the hairs on his arm might pop out from fright.

Lyla gave a final scream that shattered the mirror and windows.

The first monster crashed down, slamming the closet door against the wall hard enough to leave an indent. The monster under the bed kept twitching, its dead skin rupturing with scattering vermin until it stopped moving.

Lyle’s head was between his knees, hands still on his ears, blood leaking through his fingers.

Lyla went to him, held him, and kissed his cheeks.

He pulled back, looked at her flowing tears with silent, screaming faces inside them.

The whites of her eyes turned scarlet, the reptilian irises gleamed amber and gold.

“It’s all right, Lyle. They won’t hurt us anymore. Sometimes I forget…”

Who Really Dies?

October 25, 2017October 25, 2017 by smithaw50, posted in BLOGGING 101, Uncategorized

It was cold, and not just from nature’s winds collected in the dull, gray stones that comprised the walls. The presence of spirits was almost claustrophobic, like hungry children around their mother’s skirts.

What makes them so reluctant to let life end? To not go the places they were called, or where they’re needed?

Life.

The life tied to the gold and obsidian altar wasn’t an ancient one, but all of ten years. They burned her tongue and voice -box so she couldn’t scream; screaming broke their concentration, and that could be dangerous for them.

They didn’t drug her, so she’d feel the pain.

They told me the gods I served required blood in payment.

What is it about life that gods want so desperately to intervene, and need it so desperately for their wantoness? Why can’t they leave it be?

She looked at me as I rose from the high-backed chair to approach the altar, the chalices placed beneath the holes to catch her life. There were four gold ones on each side, the silver, mine, in the middle.

I wonder if it will grow colder when her soul is released?

I pulled my cowl over my head, the top draping down in front of my eyes so I wouldn’t see hers.

With every step, I had to renew my resolve. My hand grew numb, tightening reflexively around the handle the closer I got to her.

When this is over, you’ll be a full wizard priest. If her blood doesn’t reject you, next year at this time, you’ll drink from a gold chalice for your anniversary.

I chanced a brief glimpse; she was watching the blade now, prey looking at the slow unveiling of the serpent’s fangs, its attitude cavalier, infusing its victim with death.

Nothing personal, my dear.

Her tears began to fall, her throat laboring with silent screams and pleas for long-dead mercy.

You shouldn’t! You can’t! You mustn’t! over and over in a howling, silent litany.

The gods require your blood. My magic requires your blood. My life needs yours to end that it may continue. It is unjust, I agree, and out of balance.

I raised the knife above her sodden face.

She thrashed, raging with every ounce of her young strength; I admired her heart, her fight, and I punched her in the stomach to get her to stop.

She went rigid against the bonds, struggling for air.

It is unjust, and out of balance, but so be it.

I struck.

*************

Her soul joined the spectral throng, and in the frozen silence, I could hear the ping and patter of her spilling blood, making the chalices ring. The notes of the gold were sweet, but the silver a special, discordant note with a different rhythm, out of harmony with the rest.

You are yet different, boy. You are still not worthy yet.

Her spirit took its place beside the others, and accused me, even as her body thrashed against her bonds. The others moved aside to welcome her, though she stood apart.

The chief priest took the silver chalice, and gave it to me first, waiting.

I drank the virgin blood deep, quickly, lest I truly taste the essence of her soul, its ripped threads mere remnants to the realm of life.

If she could have turned it to poison, she would have.

I drained the chalice, and the others watched and waited.

The blood did not reject me, and I was feted by a royal feast and far too much drink; I wanted to enjoy it, but kept seeing her terrified, wet, wretched eyes moving from mine, to the blade.

The chief priest noted my distraction. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not feeling well. I’m…I’m sorry.”

“That’s unfortunate. However, the ritual has been completed. It has been a long day for you, my son. I give you leave to retire for the night, if that is your wish.”

“It is, Elder. Good night.”

“I’ll make your apologies. Good night, young priest.”

I managed a wan smile, and left the banquet hall.

**************

Chapter 2:

In the hours after midnight, there was just me, the candles, my thoughts, and the shadow of the girl standing in front of me, the details of her face lost in the ash gray shades vaguely shimmering in the light of the flame.

The pits of ivory that replaced her eyes drew me deep, ice amidst the fire.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

I did nothing.

“You were needed.”

Was I?

“You were told. Our parents were told.”

Our parents are dead. They hung themselves when I went back to tell them what you did.

“It couldn’t be helped.”

You don’t care about what you did to me?

“I cared very much. I needed your blood.”

To achieve this?

“Yes.” There was a pain in my chest.

This will not bring you peace. We will come to you. We will visit you.”

“Stop,” I whispered, covering my ears. “Please, stop.”

You didn’t stop the blade. You could have; they might have forgiven you. But I will not.

“GO AWAY!”

She faded.

You took my blood, but not my life…

I couldn’t answer the door when they knocked.

My body lay on the bed, still, swollen, and racked with vermin.

I no longer felt the cold; I turned my newfound magic on myself, and spilled my own blood to counter what I’d done.

The ashen shades of my family came to me, and greeted me with warm, black, hollow smiles, their ivory eyes the same as hers, and yet, I felt something emanating from them.

I’ve reunited us. Do you forgive me now?

They embraced me, and my question was answered. I understood their need now.

The absence of the corporeal wasn’t the end of life.

The draining of blood did not imprison the soul.

It was a different kind of freedom, more profound than any magic.

We vanished as the door opened, and I heard them exclaiming I was dead.

I would’ve smiled, if I could, and I knew the wizards’ academy no more.

Ingrate

October 12, 2017 by smithaw50, posted in Uncategorized

(Same picture, different POV)

The room spins, and the light dims.

I hear my heartbeat in my ears, slowing, growing fainter as the seconds tick.

My life’s blood soaks me in warmth, caressing old flesh in death even as it cradled newborn skin at birth.

No, I will not miss this world, but I did at least think I would miss my child, until she made an end of me; she walked away as I cascaded down the wall, my feeble hands scrabbling for purchase that wasn’t there, and couldn’t hold onto if it was.

Her high heels clicked on the hardwood floor, tiny hammers banging tiny nails into my soul as she walked away.

“Annalynn…” My throat burned as it squeezed out her name. I needed water, but I could feel the craving turn for something richer, thicker, red, and warm.

I shook my head.

My vision was blurring, and my heartbeat slowed even more.

And the day I brought my murderess home bloomed in my vision like the sudden clearing of clouds after a proper storm.

****************

Something was inside the writhing white sack in the middle of the road, the rain turning it beige in the headlights of my car.

“Teddy, stop!”

I almost hit the sack, but managed to swerve in time; even before I righted the car she was out the door, and the sound of human wailing cut through the patter.

A baby? Someone left a baby in the sack, on the road, on a rainy night; I knew what would happen next, but never thought of what happened later, until it was over.

Janice came back with the writhing contents of the sack in her arms, and we never told a soul we suddenly had a daughter.

Questions were asked, suspicions raised. “Janice’s sister died. This is her niece, Annalyn; it was in the will she be raised in a good home. No one else, it seemed, wanted her.”

We had no paperwork to back this story, and though eyebrows arched and tongues wagged, no one called the authorities to find out the truth. The child seemed healthy enough after all, and we weren’t struggling financially, and did they reeallly want to get involved…?

Annalyn, our adopted child, grew up happy and strong, bright, gregarious, fearless almost to the point of recklessness.

Her keen wit held a sharp tongue, and she championed herself through the pecking order of school cliques and would-be bullies.

By her fourteenth year, the boys began circling, smelling blood and hormones, but what I managed to rebuff she encouraged, indeed, deigned to catch.

Janice grew ill, and Annalyn grew temperate just long enough to ease her fears until she passed; I think the tears were real the day we lowered Janice to the earth, but when she looked at me with a small smile gracing her lips, like a spider standing behind a fly, I knew something else was amiss.

She wasn’t home much after that, and her disdain for my despair at losing Janice was only exceeded by her contempt for my authority. I searched her room when she wasn’t home, and found not only evidence of boys, but a fascination with the undead as well: books, drawings, magazines, and letters from a boy named Daray.

I decided to confront her, though I was nervous. I put my hands in my pockets to hide the fact that the tremors of my eventual demise had started.

***************

“Daray turned you? Made you? He’s damned your soul, is all he’s done. And Janice…she was wrong to bring you back here. You’ve done so much harm.”

“I’m grateful to you, papa. Really, I am, but I have to go.”

“You killed my Janice.”

“I know you think so. There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“There is.”

“What?”

“Die!” I ran toward her, my aged gait shambling and off center; she easily sidestepped me and tripped me, laughing low as I scrambled up before she could hit me again, but she made no move to fight.

“I don’t want to hurt you, papa.”

“That’s all you’ve ever done.” I knew it wasn’t true even as I said it. We’d spent many moments together, her on my lap, a book in her hands, reading to me, her hair tickling my neck as I leaned over her shoulder…she’d been so sweet, such a bright child.

I broke down, weeping, and to my surprise she came, put her arms around me, kissed my grizzled cheek.

“I know, papa. I’m sorry about ma.”

Finding I needed the illusion of comfort more than I thought, more than I liked, I sniffled; my arms finally returned her hug. “I miss her too.”

The sudden drop in temperature made me think I was dying in Annalyn’s embrace, and I tried to step out of it. Her nails penetrated my gut as she pulled me back, her eyes boring into mine; I was mentally caught in a vortex, a heightened sense of vertigo causing a rush of panicked adrenaline to surge through me.

I bucked, jerked, thrashed against her, my body instinctively knowing it was under attack. Her fingers plunged deeper into my stomach, pulling something inside taut, clutching; blood seeped through my shirt.

She bared her fangs in a feral smile, and bit my neck.

I shivered from the freezing cold, and grieved with abject horror at what she’d become.

When? How? Am I dreaming? Is this real? Did Janice…?

When she let go, the pain hit with such force I crashed against the wall, trying clumsily to regain my footing.

Daray was in the doorway, watching me the way one watched snakes catch mice.

“Why, Annalyn?” So cold…

She stopped, and though she didn’t look at me, I felt her gaze like a weight.

“You want to be with Janice, papa. There was room in your heart, your life, for no one else. You said I killed her, that I separated you.”

She half turned then, seeing me slump against the bloody wall. “Isn’t it only right that I be the one to reunite you?”

“Anna…”

“Goodbye, papa. Greet Janice for me.”

The room stops spinning.