Bloodsuckers
You reach deep into her mind's eye and plummet into the depths of her soul. Marshlands, endless marshlands threaten to suck you into her mindless, raging descent.
You've found her name already, but telling it to her will do her no good. The first time you tried that, it was with your first Nameless. It locked them further into their descent, never to surface into sanity again. In the end, the mercenaries got to them. But the pure destruction that prefixed their death was immeasurable.
The death toll was still climbing from the aftermath of that battle, and you felt inclined to help put an end to it. It was the first and last time you'd ever be caught aiding a merc.
Afterward, every renaming you attempted, though arduous, has been flawless. The girl before you will have to find her name on her own, though a little nudging and encouragement from you will do no harm.
So you nudge and you scrape, digging and pulling her out of the muck of her own mind's creation. She will have to do most of the work, and she does. She reaches, hesitantly at first, then full-on with desperate curiosity, until it comes to her.
She grasps it. Holds it like a newborn handed to her for the first time by a tentative nurse.
"Sitherine."
She speaks her own name. Carefully, like a child testing the waters.
Her eyes open for the first time in who knows how long. She looks at you, unsure at first. But then she takes in the emblem on your chest.
"The Renamer!" she exclaims. Water surrounds her eyes and they sparkle under the moon's glow. When the tears fall, they fall red. "I've heard stories of you but never imagined..."
Realization hits her, and she grips you at the shoulders.
"Please!" she cries. "My brother. My twin brother. The mercs got to him. Stole his name. It’s Mar—"
"No," you say. "Don't tell me. I will dive into his soul. He and I will find his name together. It is better that way."
She releases her grip from you and looks on, as though she has found her Vampire Messiah. "Then how may I thank you?" she asks, almost fainting in your arms.
"No need for repayment, Miss Sitherine," you say, catching her. "All I need from you is your brother's location. That, and for you to feed."
"You truly are a saint," she purrs, and smiles genuinely for the first time tonight.
"Sent straight from Hell," you chide her.
"Somewhere off the coast is where I last saw him. Mercs had surrounded us. Stolen our names. Killed most. My brother, Marz— oh. You'll have to excuse me. My brother, he saved me. Pushed me away. Used his magics to spirit me away. The last I saw of him, between the blur of his work and of... my mind slipping, was him caught by three mercs. Off the coast of Wystern. That's where you will find him."
"And how do you know he's still alive? Two mercs, though they're only human, are skilled in hidden magics..."
"He lives! Nameless, I know but he lives." The fire of her resolve gives her the strength to stand. You find yourself locked into the intensity of her eyes. How could you not do everything in your power for those eyes alone?
Then it's settled.
"The coast of Wystern. I will find your beloved brother before the moon sleeps. You, on the other hand, need to feed. Down the way, there is a quaint human village.” You nudge her down the hill. “Should be very easy to maintain. Even in your condition. I will see you again. With your brother. Be well."
Despite your self-given profession, abundant talking is not your forte. You use your trek from mideastern Banderia to the coast to clear your head, and to prepare for a nameless who can possibly fight off two mercs. Hopefully you are not forced to kill him yourself. Also, just like every other renaming, your work is forever against time. Before long, the mercs will come back with backup to finish what they started.
The sound reaches you before you see them. Even before the smell of the sea strikes.
You've found him. But are you too late?
You rush down to the sea, curving around dunes and burnt sand. Your hands move before you comprehend yourself; they’re redirecting a stray blast, flying toward you and into the sea. The contact throws a giant wave of water raining down over the beach.
You watch the mercs and the boy take their fight into the sea. Flinging yourself into the water, you try to topple the mercs’ ship, thoroughly melding yourself into this fight.
Though you’ve surely taken the mercs by surprise, they prove to be very formidable. Quickly, they regroup and swing at you with their swords and whips. The boy roars as he jumps out of the water, landing on top of you. His eyes are lost in madness, ink-black; he can't recognize you as kin. You’re clutched in his grasp. The nameless boy means to choke the life out of you.
Aside from the ability to reach into vampires’ souls and pull forth their true names, you don’t have much power to work with. But you do have a vampire's strength. You smash your fists on either side of you, breaking the wood.
Both you and your kin are plunged into the ocean. Luckily enough, some of the mercs follow. Even better, they drown. But you've never been that lucky.
You swirl to dodge the missiles whistling past you, all while your lost kin is performing Satan’s tango. One of the humans’ missiles whizzes past you, but splashes right into the boy.
Black blood gushes from where his arm used to be. You realize these aren't the best of circumstances, but you convince yourself you work best under intense pressure. And underwater. In any case, what choice do you have? You begin the rite and dip into his soul.
A bright blood moon hangs loose in the sky, peeking out from behind dark clouds. But it does not rain. There is no ground below you, yet you stand firm. Every now and then a bright star shoots around you. You feel as though you could catch one, should you simply reach out, but to disturb the serenity seems a great sin. Though the further you travel within this soul, the more an itch intensifies within your own.
You have no time to waste, so you ignore the itch and let yourself succumb. You follow the feeling to a whimper deep within, where you come face-to-face with a crack in space.
Slowly, gusts of black clouds leak from the center.
Then, before you can comprehend, the soul is rushed with thick black blood, and the whimpering turns into a deep gurgling. This is not right.
The boy suffers, but you do not feel his name anywhere. It must be because of the mercs. They're killing him.
Breathing is suddenly difficult. It makes no sense— you do it for fun, but breathing is not a necessity.
Being submerged in the boy's damaged soul is killing you. Should the mercs deal a fatal blow while you traverse his soul, you will disappear with him.
You choke through the blood to seemingly no avail. Where is the boy's name?
The faintest silhouette of the red moon peeks through the black blood.You inch toward it, but the blood fights against you. Its current is strong enough to tear you apart— and it will. Remaining in this boy's soul will be the death of you.
But you made a promise. Not just to Sitherine, but to…
The currents waver. Is it at the thought of his sister's name?
Sitherine.
They shift again, and this time the moon's silhouette pulses. You keep the thought of her name present, but the currents are harder than ever before. You can feel your soul peeling back like an orange, but you came here to do a job. A vampire’s work.
You take the risk of securing a foothold by injecting part of your own soul into his. Vines wrap around your ankles and feet, holding you in place, and stones solidify them.
Still, the currents rip at you. Your vines sway and your stones chip. But vines and stones are resilient things. And if you can't travel to the moon, you will bring it to you easily.
Steadily, you beckon the moon to come to you. Its face breaches the blood, and the boy's name begins to become apparent.
Mar...
Marz...
Almost. Just a little more, and your work is half-done.
You fully submerge the moon into the black blood, and the boy's name is clear in your soul. Now you must usher the boy into realization. But the moon slings back into place, as if tethered by something just above the surface. The waters become chaotic as it waxes and wanes.
The boy is fighting back. Fighting too hard. The flow of the blood drags you back toward the crack, and you feel a harsh, sickening tug at your own soul.
You cannot stay here any longer. You don't know the outcome of beginning a renaming rite and leaving before it's finished, but it's leave or die.
Before you go, though, you leave a seed. This untested magic you just came up with on the spot will work with his soul, but it is temporary. With luck, the boy's soul will nurture the seed and sprout his name.
You're thrust from the boy's soul and find yourself alone in the dark ocean. Muffled sounds of war light the surface above.
You follow the flashing yellow explosions and drag yourself up onto the broken-down boat. Mercs line the bow in pieces. Now, there is only the merc boy and your vampire kin.
You can see his skin beginning to harden, slowly regaining the toughness of a named vampire. The seed must be sprouting.
The human boy, though weak in stature, is strong in resolve. He’s reading from a book stolen from his captain.
Your vampire kin roars in defiance. He will not be restrained. But the boy will not give in, either. He goes on reading while dipping and dodging every attack, even as they further wreck the very boat he stands on.
A whip from the Vampire boy throws the merc to his belly, but he quickly sweeps up a fallen sword and plunges it deep within the vampire boy’s heart. You know it for certain, because you can hear the damnable pop from where you stand.
Just as it happens, a light reawakens in his eyes. The seed has sprouted.
You hear him whisper the last word he'll ever choke out: "Marzerus."
"You have your sister's eyes,” you think, as he slumps over.
Holes
You are a Devil. It's the end of the year, and you and your Devil friends make yourself giant and terrorize the people for fun. Only, this night is the night of the Reaping. You scan the night, drinking in the screams of the tormented blasting through your headphones. When your friend finishes recording another album of it, it'll be another lovely night in hell.
Out in the distance, you spot your friend, Handeen. Gleefully, he jumps in the air and falls flat on his behind, surely killing hundreds. Hundreds more go flying just above his crossed knees and fall strategically into his well-placed blender. Once half full, you watch him pour in sinners’ blood. A delicate base. Joy rumbles in your chest as you continue your trek. You'd like to collect your part in the night’s end’s festivities.
Your every step sends rumbles and quakes through the ground, and waves of screams ring out from the people below. The crunching of bones tickles your feet. You scan the ground below, making certain to only pluck the most damned of souls. The most wicked sinners of the year. You take a tip from Handeen and jump a few times before skipping off at a job well done.
Damn, it feels good to be a Devil.
You pass countless other Devils, collecting their contributions on this holiday (or damned day). Your sack of souls (or soul sack) is becoming full, so you slap the ground for good measure and make your descent back to Hell. Devils from all over gather around the sinners’ entrance to their final restless place.
One by one, each Devil dumps their sack down the hole, into the crazy slide slicked with sinners’ blood.
You dump yours and hold your ear to the entrance, smiling a warm smile at their screams. The sound trails out; you find yourself staring.
A Devil playfully nudges you, and you think: what the heck? It's been too long since you've followed them down. You jump in, smooshing and crushing the souls who were just dumped and are not-so-surprisingly followed by a few other Devils.
After all the twists and turns and loops, you land on top of a gaggle of sinners, dead in the center of Hell. You guffaw at their unending horror. Here, you spot your best Devil with her fancy mic, recording the screams of the tormented. You bet you and the other Devils landing in hell will add an amazing mix for her, so none of you hold back your devilish laughter.
Handeen clears a circle for the Devils and sets tables for you all. He pours everyone a sinful drink while you set up the grill. Lines of Devils form as your souls sizzle. No need to ask how each devil likes their soul burger. Handeen likes his well-done, and to wash it down with his sin drink. Most other Devils like theirs runny, but you and your best Devil won't have it any other way.
Screaming.
Veins
You take another bite of your garnished meats and swallow the dregs of the red liquid, but not before swirling it within your little glass, taking in its sweet aroma. It’s one of the few things that brings you joy anymore.
Until you realize that was the last of it. Not just on your plate, but also the last that was stored away. Now what will you do, stuck inside your little home with nothing to entertain your mouth with?
Outside the window, your people prance around without a care in this world. All the while, you muck about filled with disgust and an insatiable hunger. Take this dipshit for example. In their fluffy clothes and their idiotic little black hat. Where does one even find such a horrible fashion statement?
There is no need for fashion in this world. Especially not when they try so hard to dress and act like those people across the waters. The fools even try to emulate the people of the mountains. We are not them! These things attempting to call themselves people really know how to piss one off.
You look over to your bed. Well made. Empty. Nothing to entertain your body either. Well, it's time to go out.
Tender meats and red drinks that make your head spin are what you live for. Well, that and… the chase of it all.
On your way, you spot an old friend. Like too many others, Raiden finds enjoyment in keeping his toys at his hip. But you rarely see Raiden and his… pet separated. At least he knows to keep them on a short leash. Underneath their outward feelings of faux love and admiration lies a dark fear. And it’s that which attracts you.
You decide to cross the waters and dine amongst them there.
When you shore, you take in the air deeply and soak in the moonlight. It’s fresh with prospects; they’re walking around, just waiting to be plucked for your entertainment. You breeze through flowing scents, each unique to whomever brushes past.
Left to right, all delicious faces, gleaming with the promise of joy and debauchery. You follow their gaze to a place nestled in the shallow wood. The exotic, rhythmic vibrations reverberate in your chest all the way from where you are.
Swirls and whirls of movers and shakers dance around you; synth drums pound your ears. You revel in the moment, intoxicated by the way they all throw themselves at you. Choosing entertainment tonight will prove to be overwhelmingly easy.
You flow with the movement until there is only one. Or… maybe two, you think. Well, you haven't had fresh entertainment in such a long while. Too long, in fact.
Their inebriation makes coercing them that much easier. And they must be friends. The way they meld together in the winks and smirks and giggles they share; they think it’s a secret between them.
Feeling their full attention upon you, you lead them across the dance floor, out the door and through the shallow wood, over the waters and into your home. It amazes you how smitten some could be, to retreat with a perfect stranger, but it works for you. Filling your every desire is all people are good for.
You go through the movements; peppered with kisses, slips of the hand and tongue. One of them, the girl, just barely ruins the moment by speaking. It reminds you of the time when your people and theirs attempted to understand each other's language.
We grew tired of them hunting our kind for sport. And they grew weary of our kind, whisking them away at night. We wanted to form some type of understanding. And peace.
A treaty was created. Your kind was allowed only to target those people within a certain radius, and their kind was to only hunt those who crossed that line.
It was all in vain. It worked for a time, but humans are liars.
And you are insatiable.
You throw the thought away to fully cement yourself in the moment. You place a finger on the girl’s lips and hand her a black cloth. She only needs a little wordless nudging to do what you want. She secures the blindfold on the boy, and they both lie down on your bed— or as you like to call it, your bedroom table.
The girl's whimpers turn into quiet, struggling gurgles as you enter her. Down her throat you go, and up come her sweet plump insides, filling your belly.
Her eyes begin to bulge. She is just on the cusp of fear, of realization. She’s begun to sober, but it's far too late for her. You relish the flavor of her insides, consuming her from the inside out.
The boy lays smiling, blitheful and unaware of the soul that’s filled your belly, her body lifeless right next to him. It makes the taste that much sweeter.
You move on him quickly. You can't have him aware. Not yet. Fear will be your appetizer. You enjoy it more when they’re a little scared. Like ordering a slice of pie after a big dinner.
You feel your face stretch into a devilish rictus. Tonight you will be sated.
Walls Closing
“How was it your fault?” he asks, sympathy dripping from him like sweat.
The day grows short. The October night-air chill sends its warning of the cold to come. You finger at your sword belt, tracing along until you find your hilt and grip it. You have to make sure it's still there. That it hasn't gone anywhere.
It's the same type of night as that one. How was it my fault, she asks. Had she been there, there’s no doubt in your mind she would’ve thrown blame at you. She didn't see. She didn't see what you did. If she had, she’d cut you down right now out of principle.
Down the way, the new moon nestles behind the clouds past the spiral building. Where it all happened. It's as if the moon herself hides her face from you. Another chill pushes you back a month ago, helping you recount your sins.
Your head grows number by the second as your family's screams fill your head. This one looks different, you think, but they don’t all look the same. You could tell most of them apart if someone lined them all up in front of you. Although, if these things managed to form any type of collaboration, this world would be finished. It's already gone halfway to hell. No, they're all different, but there’s something about this one that feels different to you.
Just like the others, this one towers over us. It has to be over seven feet. Its grimace promises a vicious onslaught. You, your mother, and your sisters refuse the fear that boils in your bellies. You have slain a few of these kaiju already. More of them, you have strategically retreated from. More often than not, you’ve been forced to watch people get swept up in these kaiju attacks and ripped apart.
The beast you fight now slips and dodges every attack. In fact, it has you and your family on the defensive. You dip into the crumbling remains of a house, attempting to steal a breath.
But the kaiju appears right in front of you. Its fist drives through the wall where your head was a second ago.
You dash throughout the house. Up the stairs, crushed now as it smashes them with two giant fists. You slide beneath its vapor beam and leap over the banister, back down to the first floor. Through the hole it just created, your mother, from outside, releases a clip into the beast's belly. It lets out an ear-rumbling growl. You run out to meet your mother and sister, preparing for another strategic attack.
The beast stretches its arms wide, destroying the rest of the house as it grows in size. It emerges utterly unscathed, rubbing its belly where it's been shot, and you realize the growl was more of an annoyed grumble. If you and your family are to take this one down, you're going to have to use the power you claimed from the last kaiju you defeated. At the instruction of your younger sister, the three of you ate the heart of the beast, granting each of you a different ability.
You set up in formation around the block, but it's quickly broken when the beast scoops your mother up, dragging her by the ankle. It swats your sister like a fly. You watch the breath leave her lungs as her back cracks against a stone. You can hear it snap from here. As much as you wish for it not to be so, you don't need to be a doctor to know that's it for her. Your sister will not be coming back with you.
Your mother’s bloodcurdling cry breaks you from your stasis. You swallow the scream that threatens your throat and draw your blade. Scanning the area, you find all you need. It’s like taking note of all the exits at a function, in case you need to high tail it out of there. An old highway sign sits behind the head of the beast. You read out the scratched-up paint: “Twenty-five.”
You warp from where you were to the green sign, feet already propelling you forward as you grip the hilt of your sword, grit your teeth and aim for the kaiju’s nape. Too bad for you that the beast isn't brainless like a lot of the others. It turns to backhand you, but you seek another number. Quickly now. “Fifteen!” you shout, and you find yourself smashing against a black house door. Again, you spring from the door and over an upturned car. You aim for the ankles, but faster than you can react, the foot rises and comes falling over your head.
A blast, and black smoke throws you to your back. Your ears ring, your eyes burn, but when they clear, you see the beast's foot clear of the black smoke and you wheeze through it all. On the far end, your sister's last hurrah: she lies, stiff, up against the stone that broke her. She’s unable to move, but that's no problem for her. She was granted the power of homing. A twitch of her right index finger is all she needs to send another freeze grenade right into the beluga’s chest.
When the dust settles, you find that your sister only made it angry. It grunts an annoyed growl and sucks your mother into its flesh.
You reach for your sword again, only to find yourself grasping at air. You search and search, but all that's left is the sheath.
You watch your mother sink further and further into the beast, wailing for freedom, all while your sister sits barely conscious, with a broken back and who knows what else. Your chest becomes tight, like someone placed a rag over your airway. You don’t know what to do.
Helpless, all you can do is drop to your knees, hyperventilating as you watch the last of your mother disappear. You watch the beast stalk over to your sister, finish her off. Likely its last meal of the night.
You’re brought back to the present moment.
“The next thing I knew, I was kneeling alone. In the same spot as the night before. My sword sheathed at my waist. So yeah, it was my fault,” you tell him.
Jagged Teeth
The abandoned graveyard is covered in rare October snow. You sit at a makeshift table and chairs, improvised out of old gravestones by yourself and the others. You take turns passing around your stolen apple whiskey. A third of the bottle left, it sloshes between grips, grabs, and upturns, between guffaws and inebriated conversation.
“You know,” Charlie slurs. “A damn shame.”
“A damn shame what, Charlie-char?” Shasha greets his slur with a tipsy tangle of words.
“How could someone not tend to a graveyard?”
“Shame—” Samuel tries to chime in, but falls over, spilling the rest of the bottle all over himself.
Sterling white, interrupted by brownish yellow. Snow melts through the tangles of Samuel’s hair and slips down his hoodie. He jumps to his feet, flapping and flailing and failing to escape the sudden cold.
“Damn shame!” comes the chorus of gleefully drunken young adults.
“Argh!” Samuel finally sits up with a grunt. He’s the only one unamused.
Within the dying laughter, Sasha says: “You think they all find peace?”Samuel wipes the last of the snow off his lap. “Know what I think? I think no matter what, no matter how— how you die, it don't matter. Take this graveyard. Who… who’s been cleanin’ it up? No one. But they're all— they're all still dead, ain’t it? Don't matter. You die, you're dead. Where you go? What’s heaven anyway? What's hell? It's all just— mass. Really.” Samuel smears his words like finger paint.
“The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout, my boy?” you ask your inebriated friend.
At some point during his speech, the others found themselves caught up in side chatter, so you were the first to notice.
“Samuel,” you chuckle. But he no longer responds. “Samuel?” You nudge him, and this gets the attention of your friends.
Samuel wipes himself down, confused, and stares out at nothing. “Do you… hear that?”
“Hear what?” Charlie asks, still laughing.
Samuel stands and starts walking, without another word.
“Sam?” you call after him. You receive no inkling that he’s heard you.
You and your friends share a glance at one another.
“Aw, he’s had too much.” Sasha pushes herself up off her stone seat. She reaches after Samuel, but he brushes right past her.
She gets up to follow him, and the rest of you follow suit.
“First he wastes the golden water. Now he wants to play some creepy game of follow-the-leader,” Charlie mutters.
You shove Charlie to the side. “Why would you call it that, my guy?”
“Don't make fun of Charlie!” Sasha yells back at you. “You don't know what Charlie-char’s into.”
“Hey Sam, you think we've gone far enough?” you call out to Samuel. “I don't even think we’re in the graveyard anymore.”
“Hm,” Charlie says, looking around. “Too much snow to tell, really. It really came down today.”
“Maybe he just has to pee. Anyone thought of that? We could be following him and he could've been tryin’ to shake us this whole time. Remember, Sam, shake it once—”
Sasha slams into Samuel’s back.
Samuel is reaching and waving in the air as if feeling for something. His lips are moving, but no one hears anything. Cold marches down your spine.
Sasha reaches for his shoulder, but fear keeps her from making contact. You begin to wonder if he truly did have too much to drink. Or maybe he took something before drinking.
The three of you— you, Sasha, and Charlie— each take a tentative step forward. You try pulling him away. It’s well past time to go home. You'll have him flush out whatever’s in his system.
The closer you get to him, the more clear his mumbling is, but you still can't make it out. Now, you and your friends begin to panic. You keep pulling at Sam, but his wrist slips out of your hand. Each time you try— slip. Slip. Slip. One word seems to slip into your hearing. Something about a singularity.
Come on, Sam, it's time to stop playing games, is what you start to say. But like oil sucked down a drain, Samuel slips away. He melts into nothing. Nothing left of him but footprints in the snow.
White noise penetrates your ears. It's not until you're tripping in the snow that you realize you and your friends have run away, screaming, unable to comprehend what you just saw. Or— what you think you saw. You steal a glance over your shoulder, and sure enough, nothing remains but divots in the snow where Samuel stood just a moment ago.
You have to get out of here. Surely you're dreaming. You have to be.
Gradually, it becomes quieter and quieter. You turn to find that Charlie has stopped running. He’s trekking through the snow in the same direction that Samuel was. You try to grab him, to stop him, but again— just like Samuel, Charlie drips into nothing. Blots out of existence.
You fall to your back, then push yourself up and start to run away again, but— just ahead, Sasha wipes herself off and walks toward you. You run at her, grab her wrist, pulling, but you fall to your knees as she slips out of your hand.
You reach out again and face the same results.
You force yourself up and tackle her to the ground.
Still, she manages to slip out of your grasp. Continues her walk. As you watch your last friend mumble and spill out of existence, you feel the hope leave your body, like a moth giving in to the embrace of the spider’s web. Yet you still run. All that's left is the sound of your hollowed breath and the crunching beneath your boots.
You’re stopped short by an oily black orb, buoyed in the air in front of you. Before you can think, it bursts, spilling its impossibly dark, oily contents on you. Frantically, you wipe all over yourself.
You think to throw yourself into the snow, but your mind becomes muddled, leaving you unable to command your own body. Surely, steadily, the words become clear.
You understand it to be the whispering of the abyss. It repeats its mantra in you: Everything is nothing and nothing is everything. We are no one and we are everyone. You are us and we are you. The purpose of life, singularity.
(There is no life. There is no death. There is only life. There is only death. There is only the singularity.)
You find, in fact, that you want this. We’re led to the spot where our friends disappeared.
Space unzips its jagged teeth, welcoming you home.
Candy Corn
You stumble upon a broken forest, blanketed with dead crunchy leaves under a full moon. Crunch, crunch, crunch they go as you stomp through the darkness. Wind whistles through the naked branches like a tea kettle. Your teeth rattle like old bones.
You think you see a light cutting through the dark distance, and warily you drag your heavy legs on. Scraping your ankles, rubbing your wrists and arms. You pull the ends of your jacket tighter around your body and hold it there, the broken zipper biting at your palm.
You should've brought a lamp. You should’ve known this wood was too thick to traverse. Every uneven step over a thick stick or downed tree threatens the vitality of your ankles, yet you just couldn't let anyone talk you into cowardice. The stick house in the woods was probably something a third-grader thought up to get everyone worked up.
You're no third-grader. In fact, you've faced scarier things. At your age, sticks are just sticks, and there are no hidden shadows in the dark. The stick house is just a story. The hooting is just an owl. And the crunching is just the dead leaves and dry sticks under your feet. The… extra crunch, just…
In a held breath, you turn yourself around to find… nothing. Momma didn't raise no fool. Not a complete one, anyway. You know how it is in the movies.
You don't turn back to your patch immediately. That's how they always get caught. You scan the forest floor, the sky, between the trees. A bulbous shape rests nestled between them, but it could be anything. Trick of the light. Or maybe a third-grader came to scare you.
You press forward, never letting the dark figure out of your mind. You're tense. No longer able to relax. The distant light becomes a bit brighter. The wood becomes a bit quieter, except for the echo of footsteps.
You begin to sweat. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your breathing becomes shallow. You walk faster. Crunch, crunch… crunch. Faster. Crunch, crunch… Crunch. Are the crunching sounds becoming louder?
Before you know it, you're sprinting toward the light. Crunch crunch crunch crunch. You were right, someone is following you. Chasing you! Once again, you know better than this, but something in you can’t help but want to know.
You chance a glance behind you, almost tripping in the process. You’re sure it’s that same dark shape as before. Only closer! You scream, a futile cry, for these woods are empty of all but you and the shadow.
Brighter and brighter the light becomes. You didn't know you were this agile, ducking branches and hopping timber. Finally, you reach the light, which lies inside an impossibly large mound of sticks.
Out of breath, you stare at it, bewildered. Where do you go from here? You don't have time to think. The thing touches you, and your soul leaves your body. It flinches backwards, and you fall on your behind, scooting backward toward the mess of sticks.
Your mind is in a horrible disarray. Your assailant throws its hands out in defense. Like it doesn’t want you to do… something. It steps closer and closer to the light. Orange? Yes, its outstretched arms are orange and ridged. So is its face.
It steps closer again, and you can’t stop the scream that rips through you. It flinches again, but this time crouches with its hands out, showing its fleshy palms. Its face is carved with the most horrible rictus. Its eyes, dark triangles.
You back away, and it waves its hands fervently. It doesn't want you to back into its stick house. You look back at it— from this close, you can see it actually does have the structure of a home. Not a whole lot of insulation from this October chill, though.
You turn back to the orange thing. Sure is cold to be out here at night, and so skinny with no jacket. That’s right: it is a rather small thing. And it’s shivering.
It looks at you— no, at your jacket. You remove it and offer it to the thing. Without wasting a single second, it snatches it from your hands and throws it on. Then, it actually looks you in the eye. It invites you into its stick house, where you stay the night. Boy, will you have a story to tell.
Blood and Bones
It's only at this point that you realize that you never should've put lizard eyelashes in the witch’s tea. Her shoulder digs into your gut as she bobs up and down, carrying you through her forest.
She plops you down in the dirt, removing the ropes and the blindfold. Foolishly, you bolt. You almost make it past an even thicker path of trees before the roots bend around your ankles, tripping you.
The night wind carries the witch’s laugh on its back. Hyperventilating, you dig and scratch and peel the vines away, but they regrow and rewrap themselves around you.
The witch is upon you now. She cackles harshly, directly in your ear, and it fills you with ice. You know what she’s capable of. You've seen her wrath inflicted upon those two little kids. Imagine what she’ll do to you.
She carries you backwards. You can't even scream, since she stole your vocal cords a long way back. But now that you can see, your heart leaps out of your throat.
You know this path. You helped her dig the hole, though you didn't know what it was for. All you knew was that it was impossibly deep and she made you do all the work. What she filled it with was anyone’s guess.
With one maddening laugh, she nudges you over the edge. You fall, and she watches as you hit the bottom, then disappears into the night. Now, only wispy clouds and glittering stars take up the dark circle above you.
Once you overcome your initial shock, you find yourself tumbling right into another one. It’s the smell of gore that hits you first. Your nose burns; your gut gurgles. The witch’s beetle pasta threatens to make a third appearance. The second time, the witch had forced it back down your throat.
Falling on your behind doesn’t stop the turning in your stomach. This time, when you fall, you notice an odd shift in weight under your hands. Your fingers burrow deeply into something moist and clumpy. You’re lying within a pit of bones and gore.
This time, the hot bile meets no resistance in you. It violently escapes your body as the rain comes. It's a heavy rain; one that presses firm on your back, gives you pause when you try once again to stand. You slip on the wet bones.
You can't stay here. Looking up, you find that the rain is washing away any foothold that could possibly secure your ascent out of this place. You try anyway, but get nowhere. Earth clogging your fingernails and your clenched fist, you slide back down again and again and again. It’s no use.
The rain makes it hard to breathe when you look up. The moon teases you, peeking out just at the corner of the pit hole. You can't stay in this muck. You'll lose your mind down here.
Fear rises in you, even heavier than the rain. You scrape at the earthen wall, making more of a mess than anything. In fact, your feet never leave the bony floor. And this time, there’s a jiggling beneath you, making standing even more difficult than before.
The more the moon shows her face, the more intensely the bones beneath you tremble. You know the witch has completely left you; nothing will bring her back, but her cackle haunts you. You hear it echoing to the jingle of the bones. You howl a horrible scream into the full-faced moon that now shines above you completely.
The bones seem to respond to your despair; they leap, surrounding you and sucking out the last dregs of air you had left in your lungs. All around the burn of your airless lungs, you can feel your own bones begin to shake.
As the minutes slowly tick by, your eyes start to swell and your face starts to itch. You feel your bones bulge through your skin, pushing until they pierce clean through. Piece by piece, layer by layer; your skin, your muscles, your tendons all peel back, falling to the bony ground.
The worst of it is, the witch has cursed you with an undying conscience. You feel it all. You're aware of it all. Now you’re nothing but bone, indistinguishable from the hundreds of others dancing under the wet moon with you.
As the moon disappears past the other side of the ditch, the jiggling begins to subside. You, and every other bone around you, lay in conscious rest until the moon returns again. At least you'll never be alone?
Jack-O-Lantern
You stumble upon a broken forest, blanketed with dead crunchy leaves under a full moon. Crunch, crunch, crunch they go as you stomp through the darkness. Wind whistles through the naked branches like a tea kettle. Your teeth rattle like old bones.
You think you see a light cutting through the dark distance, and warily you drag your heavy legs on. Scraping your ankles, rubbing your wrists and arms. You pull the ends of your jacket tighter around your body and hold it there, the broken zipper biting at your palm.
You should've brought a lamp. You should’ve known this wood was too thick to traverse. Every uneven step over a thick stick or downed tree threatens the vitality of your ankles, yet you just couldn't let anyone talk you into cowardice. The stick house in the woods was probably something a third-grader thought up to get everyone worked up.
You're no third-grader. In fact, you've faced scarier things. At your age, sticks are just sticks, and there are no hidden shadows in the dark. The stick house is just a story. The hooting is just an owl. And the crunching is just the dead leaves and dry sticks under your feet. The… extra crunch, just…
In a held breath, you turn yourself around to find… nothing. Momma didn't raise no fool. Not a complete one, anyway. You know how it is in the movies.
You don't turn back to your patch immediately. That's how they always get caught. You scan the forest floor, the sky, between the trees. A bulbous shape rests nestled between them, but it could be anything. Trick of the light. Or maybe a third-grader came to scare you.
You press forward, never letting the dark figure out of your mind. You're tense. No longer able to relax. The distant light becomes a bit brighter. The wood becomes a bit quieter, except for the echo of footsteps.
You begin to sweat. The hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention, and your breathing becomes shallow. You walk faster. Crunch, crunch… crunch. Faster. Crunch, crunch… Crunch. Are the crunching sounds becoming louder?
Before you know it, you're sprinting toward the light. Crunch crunch crunch crunch. You were right, someone is following you. Chasing you! Once again, you know better than this, but something in you can’t help but want to know.
You chance a glance behind you, almost tripping in the process. You’re sure it’s that same dark shape as before. Only closer! You scream, a futile cry, for these woods are empty of all but you and the shadow.
Brighter and brighter the light becomes. You didn't know you were this agile, ducking branches and hopping timber. Finally, you reach the light, which lies inside an impossibly large mound of sticks.
Out of breath, you stare at it, bewildered. Where do you go from here? You don't have time to think. The thing touches you, and your soul leaves your body. It flinches backwards, and you fall on your behind, scooting backward toward the mess of sticks.
Your mind is in a horrible disarray. Your assailant throws its hands out in defense. Like it doesn’t want you to do… something. It steps closer and closer to the light. Orange? Yes, its outstretched arms are orange and ridged. So is its face.
It steps closer again, and you can’t stop the scream that rips through you. It flinches again, but this time crouches with its hands out, showing its fleshy palms. Its face is carved with the most horrible rictus. Its eyes, dark triangles.
You back away, and it waves its hands fervently. It doesn't want you to back into its stick house. You look back at it— from this close, you can see it actually does have the structure of a home. Not a whole lot of insulation from this October chill, though.
You turn back to the orange thing. Sure is cold to be out here at night, and so skinny with no jacket. That’s right: it is a rather small thing. And it’s shivering.
It looks at you— no, at your jacket. You remove it and offer it to the thing. Without wasting a single second, it snatches it from your hands and throws it on. Then, it actually looks you in the eye. It invites you into its stick house, where you stay the night. Boy, will you have a story to tell.