The Law Men weren’t supposed to come out here, out so far into this holler, but here they were. They started in large cities, full of millions of people, who eventually fought them off. They invaded the suburbs. The occasional family would fight back, but most would move on about their business or turn the other way. They thought to themselves that the white vans were only delivery vans, and the nice police officer was there to serve and protect. They infiltrated small towns, turning neighbor against neighbor until they fired guns between families in the street.
The Law Men may have taken the state, but they would not take this holler.
The Regime is supposed to come down here, down yonder. These men are cowards who prey upon the weak, and I’m about to let them know how little I tolerate cowards. I’m the seventh son of the seventh son. They outlawed magic after they realized it worked. After their generals started dropping like flies from sickness, storms stopped their battalions. Word has it that one of their lead politicians became possessed and took their own life.
In my kitchen, I have all the rudimentary things —eye of newt, toe of frog, and whatnot — your jars of moon water and crystals, and more than enough banned books to have me federally charged and hauled off. But I also have the worst nightmare they’ll ever see.
As I see the van down the road, I cast a circle of salt and a pentagram of herbs, giving praise to Gia to ward and protect myself. I set the heart of my hunt next to the flowers on my altar. Like my ancestors with their pyramids, I take the hearts of my enemies. Not something I care to do, but it gives me some power.
A spirit that seethes in pain, but only numbness fills my bones. Those emotions I’ve swallowed and shoved down until they felt hollow in my chest.
*May you be still, and may you be silent. May no one tell of your tale.* I whisper, pulling the energy out over the cabin, chanting until my heart pounds. I pulled the energy outward and drove four nails into the heart, sealing it shut. I had to protect this house, this holler, the leading network from the mountain to the old town, one of the last bastions of community. The old mine tunnels under the house formed a network.
I take the meat, bless the altar, and blow out my candles before leaving the cabin. The trail behind my house travels for miles. It used to be the Appalachian Trail, before the Regime took over. Weeds and plants now grew over discarded beer cans between the dirt and stone path.
I didn’t plan to take the trail; it was too easy for them to follow. I make my way through the twisting brambles and thorns and boulders, crawling up a steep ravine as they leave their van and take off toward the cabin.
The cold wind blew past me. I curse that it’s winter and I can’t rely on the trees as cover.
I couldn’t hide for long, and I doubted I could outrun them. Fighting was my only choice. If only these agents knew what they were up against.
I buried the heart under a tree. Blood pours from it and feeds the frozen roots, and the tree lives again. I pull that energy out and direct it toward the soldiers as I’m hit with a wave of dizziness.
They screamed as the ground beneath them shifted. A boulder fell from underneath one man, pinning him to the ground. The other soldiers pointed their guns in sweeping motions through the forest.
I gritted my teeth and breathed in the damp and chilly air, pulling on my willpower. I crept through the forest, avoiding the trails. I hunched down and crawled past a soldier, missing the sight on his rifle. This wasn’t my first rodeo, another battle in a war. I had won past battles and taken weapons and supplies as the spoils, sharing them among the town.
We were revolutionaries, fighting for what was left of our freedom.
Lying flat, I breathed in the air; it smelled of wet earth and decay. Underneath the house, under the cellar, there lay a network of tunnels. These tunnels led deep within the mountains, the only place left to hide and escape.
Half a dozen guards stood in my way, making escape impossible. A young soldier called on his radio for backup. I took a deep breath and concentrated with all my strength. Energy arched in a thin silver line that led to his radio. I focused on the line and severed it, boosting energy into the spell. My head ached as another wave of dizziness hit me.
The radio squawked in his hand, followed by feedback and a static hum.
The young soldier cursed after yeeting his radio to the ground. Not much of a victory, but I would take the small ones where I could. I held my breath as I crept through the thick vegetation and boulders. The cellar sat five hundred feet away.
I vomited as sweat poured from me despite the chill air. I was almost out of juice; I had used so much in my spells that getting up felt impossible. I sucked my breath in and moved forward. Jagged gravel cut through my hands and knees. Just three hundred feet left. I put my hand down to move forward when a twig snapped beneath it.
My heart leaped into my throat. The soldiers’ voices echoed around me as the Regime ran along the surrounding path. I lay flat and gathered what little energy I had around me, trying to make myself dim. A boot landed on my back. I thrashed beneath him, but the boot wedged even deeper between my shoulders. The cold muzzle of a gun bit into my back.
“I got him, but I need backup!”
I saw seven pairs of black boots, one by one, surrounding me. I screamed in frustration, only to be kicked in the ribs. The other officer tased me, and the shock of electricity coursed through my body. I channeled the pain outward. The electrical current moved through all seven soldiers’ bodies, and they fell writhing on the ground.
Blood poured from my nostrils as darkness and pressure knocked me to the ground. My ears rang. It was now or never, and I couldn’t leave anyone alive. I had a grenade that I kept on me, stolen from an artillery tank moving through my property some time ago, another battle in the war.
I didn’t want to resort to this, but I had little choice. I pulled the pin and threw it into the pile of dazed soldiers and limped toward the cellar door. I shut the door behind me as the explosion knocked me off my feet and towards the ground.
I took a deep breath and swallowed hard. The scent of blood and cordite filled the air. The men lay limp in a pile of bodies. I cleared through them till I found the commanding officer.
His breaths were short and shallow as I pulled out my knife. I slit his throat and waited a few minutes to let the blood drain from his body. I cut a hole through his chest and pulled out his heart, and placed it on the altar. It’s good that I now have a replacement. I hated taking it, but he was dead, and I let nothing go to waste.
A surge of power washed over me. The chills left my body, my head stopped aching, and I could go on.
It would only be a matter of time before people discovered their secret police were not returning. So I packed a bag and ran to the cellar, finding the door that led to the tunnels underground.
It would only be a matter of time before they found me. Until then, I would lie low in a cavern underneath the mountain, with my heart in my hand.
Category: Supernatural Horror
This Call is Monitored for Quality Assurance
This Call is monitored for Quality Assurance
I stepped through the sliding doors into the freezing office of HumanTech, Inc.—a gray brick building with no windows and buzzing fluorescent lighting.
Management kept the air conditioning blasting to keep the servers from overheating. They reprimanded me last week for bringing a hoodie from home, as all clothing needed to have the HumanTech logo. I would have to purchase the jacket with company credits. I’d need to work overtime to make up for the lost income. Otherwise, I would lose my right to housing and have to go back to the Department of Labor Resources.
If no jobs were available they’d throw me in prison for the worst kind of labor. People who went to prison never came out the same, if they ever came out at all. Most disappeared forever once they sank that low. I couldn’t fail at this. I had no choice but to move forward.
I paid another five credits for over-brewed coffee that looked like tar. Its heat melted the sides of the foam cup, bubbles breaking on the surface. I put a lid on the beverage and carefully walked over to my desk.
I scanned my retina into the system, and the computer whirred as it sluggishly booted up. The screen loaded, starting a dozen applications, all of which took their sweet time to load.
“Come the fuck on,” I muttered under my breath, making sure my headset was off. A quiet rebellion, one of the last still allowed. The last thing I needed was HumanTech to dock my pay for profanity. The apps came to life, designed to keep track of my every move and breath. Cameras swiveled everywhere, from this office to my spartan, company-approved living quarters. I grumbled under my breath. But it could be worse. I could do hard labor in a wellness camp instead.
Management made our desks stand only to fight obesity rates. A stationary stair climber waited under my desk like a threat. They required us to hit a minimum of 5,000 steps a day, or they would increase our health insurance premiums and deduct the amount from our credits. And they expected us to make these steps between calls.
My headset rang before my computer fully booted itself up. Static crackled on the line.
“Human Tech services, this is Karen speaking. How may I help you?”
“Karen. You said your name is Karen?” an elderly voice chirped through static on the other side of the phone.
I rolled my eyes; I knew all the jokes surrounding my name, and I was not in the mood. My computer dinged. “Make sure you smile. We do not permit eye-rolling. Our members are important to us.” I forced a smile. “Make sure the smile reaches your eyes. We can always tell. Service with a smile, our customers can hear it.” I slammed on my mouse, minimizing the app.
“Yes, my name is Karen. This call is monitored for quality assurance. How can I help?”
“Thank you, Karen. I’m sorry I’m hard of hearing, but I need your help, please!”
My stomach dropped as I heard desperation in the older woman’s voice.
“Certainly, I’ll see what I can do. But I need your name and file number.”
“I don’t know my file number, but I can give you my name. It’s Edith Meyer.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Meyer. I.. I’m going to need something more specific, a date of birth.”
“June 14, 1984. Please!”
I searched the system and breathed a sigh of relief to find only one Edith Meyer with that specific birthdate. Her file sat in front of me. It detailed her entire life. Every click, every search, every swipe of data stood before me.
“I have your file. How can I assist you?” I asked.
“My smart vehicle is out of control. I asked it to drive me to the grocery store, and it was going on its route, but then, before it turned on the correct street, all the doors locked, and it sped to an undisclosed location. Ma’am, I’m moving so fast, I’m scared. Help me.”
“What is the make and model of your vehicle?” I asked.
“What does this matter? 2055HumantechSUV Alto.”
My heart pounded against my ribs as I pulled up my troubleshooting manual. The page slowly loaded while my AI chirped at me for the long silence.
“Thank you for holding, Mrs. Meyer. Let’s walk through some troubleshooting steps,” I said, trying to hide the shaking in my voice.
“My car almost ran into someone on the highway!” A horn honked in the background.
“Did you try to switch it to manual-”
I gritted my teeth. The troubleshooting steps were asinine, and every minute in counted. It had already been five minutes, and that was too long.
“Karen, that’s the first thing I did. Can you remote in and stop this thing?”
“I wish I could, but we don’t have that ability.”
I submitted a suggestion for an override switch to the back office months ago, but they denied it as it would cause too much disruption to system efficiency. I wanted to scream.
Edith sobbed on the other end of the line.
“Have you tried turning the power off or hitting the emergency brake?”
“Yes, I’ve tried both and nothing.”
I frantically searched through the operator manual but found nothing to stop the runaway smart SUV. The call passed ten minutes. I’d get docked for hold time-but I couldn’t let her die.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need to put you on a brief hold,” I said.
“Please don’t leave me!”
“I can keep you on the line, but I need to reach out to the help desk. It might take a few minutes.”
Edith sobbed through the muzak. Fifteen minutes passed like a lifetime. I winced as I glared at the holdtime.
“Hello, this is Brandon, with the help desk. How can I assist?” said a cold voice.
“Hi, it’s Karen. I have Mrs. Edith Myer on the line with me, and her 2055HumanTechSUV Alto is stuck in smart mode. It’s an emergency, and we need to remote in and stop the vehicle.”
“Oh. This is a common problem,” said Brandon, matter-of-factly. “Let me pull up her file.”
After a few more minutes of sobbing and hold music, Bandon picked up the line again. “So, Mrs. Meyer, HumanTech Industries has yet to receive paperwork that lists a caretaker since you’ve left employment.”
“What does that have to do with my car being out of control? I need you to help.”
“Mrs. Meyer, all Smart Vehicles take you to an Elder facility if the caretaker clause is not filed within one year. You are on your way to Lakeview retreat. You will receive the best of care there.”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. Lakeview was where HumanTech sent elderly people who could no longer work and had no one to care for them. No one ever saw them again.
“Lakeview?” asked Edith through tears. “I was a nurse at Lakeview before everything changed. When we all had freedom, that’s why they want to get rid of me. Because I still remember freedom.”
“Do you have any family and friends that can verbally stand in for your care?” asked Brandon.
“We can’t send her to Lakeview!” I yelled. My AI burning red, I would receive coaching on my tone, but it didn’t matter. I took a deep breath. “Edith, do you have any family members at all, any friends? Is there any way you can apply for work? Just something.”
“Karen, I need you to take a deep breath. Edith will receive wonderful care at Lakeview,” said Brandon, his voice unctuous with corporate speech.
“I don’t have anybody,” cried Edith. “I can’t work, and I’m nearly blind.”
“I’m so sorry. You will arrive at Lakeview within ninety minutes. There is no override.”
“You’re sending me there to DIE!” screamed Edith.
“This call is over. You’re no longer productive and we all die eventually.”
The line went dead, and a cold stone formed in my stomach. My chat box lit up with the name Brandon Foster.
: PLEASE AVOID TRANSFERRING CALLS TO MY DEPARTMENT. THE EMOTIONAL OUTBURST WAS UNCALLED FOR AS WELL:
What would you say if that were your mother? I was trying to care for her.:
: Edith has already served her function. Lakeview will harvest her organs for reuse and provide her with a free cremation service.:
: You’re a sociopath.:
I’m also your supervisor. I need you to take five minutes to meditate and do what you need to do to serve your purpose. Otherwise, we can look into the reassignment of duties. :
I wanted flip my desk, scream, break something- but I swallowed it down. My phone beeped, and I thought of warmth as tears welled up but I smiled.
“HumanTechServices, my name is Karen. This call is monitored for quality assurance.”
The Hunter of Predators
They found her hunched over her computer, eyes bleeding, muttering words of madness. Her screen screamed in blank static, and I knew—he had found her.
I took a deep breath, lit my candle, and connected with my server. The sound of connection—like a million microbial flashes—lit the online plane and led me to him. His websites, his address, his name.
Is this how you found her? How you stalked her and broke her down?
It didn’t matter. I was in the driver’s seat now.
With your name and your face, I could find you. I dove into the astral plane, into the dark void stitched from pixels and stars. I found your silver cord—gleaming, vile—and severed it.
I watched your body convulse in sleep.
The next post was an announcement of illness. You said you saw shadows at every turn, that you couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. Post after post, the doctors cannot find a cure. Then—nothing.
You were gone.
And girls could go online and be safe again.
Because I am the hunter of predators.
The Fall of Fortriu
Story also available on Royal Road
Scotland 839 AD
The winter solstice lay upon the land, and the bonfire burned high. This ceremony was as old as the centuries, old as the earth, before St. Columba and his Christ set foot in this Kingdom. The moon rose high, and the Picts filled the night with drink and revelry. Drums sounded in the background as people danced, feasted, and made love. The old ways were strong, and the stones surrounding the shore glowed blue.
Soon, King Eógan Mac Óengusa would join the ceremony and sacrifice his best steed to ensure Fortriu lasted. The Druidess, Sorcha, piled more wood on the fire. She had led the fort in celebration; the nobles enjoyed the roasted swine and mead as they chanted around the fire.
Eógan Mac Óengusa and his brother Bran joined in the feasting. They were bare-chested, his skin tattooed with swirling blue patterns. The prince wore an eagle design, and the King wore the image of a boar.
The tattoos of their people, the Picts, the painted ones.
Sorcha stood high, her face tattooed in intricate blue swirls, her crimson and snow white hair in intricate plaits.
“Have you brought us the steed Enbar to sacrifice?”
“Aye,” said Eógan as he led out the horse with Bran. The brothers dressed an old mare in finery to disguise her from the Druidess. This act would appease the old Druidess and put some fighting spirit back into the heart of the noble families. The mare is now too old to plow. It would be an honor to be sacrificed to the sea rather than to use her old meat to feed the fields.
“Fie, what is this? This horse is not Enbarr, your mighty steed! The father of the sea may not forgive us!” Sorcha hit her staff against a stone statue of a great fish carved with intricate swirls.
“Was it not God that forbade the sacrifice of Abraham? We need Enbarr for the coming battles. Why would the Lord require the sacrifice of our most powerful steed? He serves the Picts as Isaac did the people of Israel,” said Edwin. He was a young man of slight build with cropped dark hair and a curving shepherd’s staff.
Sorcha remembered the old gods—the Morrigan, the Danu, even St. Bridget and her Cross—who were once goddesses before St. Andrew and St. Columba. They were not the children of Israel but the children of the wild mountains, of the cold, stark ocean. But it was best not to argue with Edwin. The small man would report them to Northumbria, where they would gain the ire of other clans.
The rest of the villagers murmured. One noble drowned a tankard of mead. “Edwin, why are you even here? If you don’t follow our customs, go back to your flock. I’m sure they would enjoy your company more than any of the maidens here.”
A few nobles cheered in laughter as mead and ale sloshed on the table.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t be here reveling in sin. My soul will live in paradise long after Fortriu has fallen.” Edwin walked back to his pastures, the noble jeering at them. A few threw bones at the shepherd. He winced as one hit his shin. May I turn the other cheek, they will all burn.
“If the Lord God serves us, he gives us this swine and a bountiful harvest. If the father of the sea serves us, offering him an honored plow horse should still be a fitting sacrifice. I’ll need Enbarr for the battles ahead.” Eógan raised his glass to Bran, and they both drained their mead.
“Very well,” sighed Sorcha as she raised her staff.
“Here we are now, may your messenger give us hope
May this mare lead us out of the darkness of winter and to the light of spring
May the waves dash the ships of our enemies upon the rocks
And may we dash the rest of those who land here.
Maiden, Mother, and Crone preserve us.”
Sorcha lowered her staff as the raven cawed and flew over the sea. Eógan took the reins of Eld Bess and led the old mare to the shoreline. The beast’s eyes widened as a wave crashed into them, knocking him off his feet. The horse nieghedas a wave sucked her out to shore and under the depths, her neighing screams were no more. There was a moment of silence before the music and chanting began again. A beautiful maiden, Alwyn, her dark hair plaited and swirls tattooed across her breast and down her back, led the King to bed by the bonfire. She was the daughter of a powerful noble family, the CirCinn, and he would take her as his bride tonight. The lands of CirCinn and Fortriu would join, and Fortriu would expand into the Northern Isles; this day was fated and full of luck.
“May we revel tonight, for the cold wind starts in the morning.”
“Aye,” said Bran.
Sorcha’s heart sank as the ocean swirled and clouds moved overhead. Something felt wrong, and the Father of the Sea whispered to her. I provided Fortriu with all my protection, and you cannae’ even leave me a war horse.
May the old ways forgive us. She made the sign of the Cross. And may the new ways let us in.
In the distance, ships sailed past. They saw the fire and the revelry. This land would be theirs in the morning, when the Picti were still sleeping, heads clouded by mead. Ragnar braided his golden beard and wrote a poem in Runes. The All-Father and his honor would serve him in battle, and today was a good day to die.
#
King Eógan Mac Óengusa stood in the broch, gazing at the waves, Alwyn by his side, her dark hair loose from its plaits and spilling down her back, and her baleful eyes staring at the sea. His head throbbed from the mead, but the sight sobered him, ships long and lean, swiftly cutting toward the shore.
“They come,” Alwyn whispered.
“I will meet them in battle. Fortriu is the land of my mother and her mother before her. You, guard the fort, lead the women and children. I will meet with the nobles.” He kissed her and helped him don his armor.
“We must make haste and ready ourselves for battle,” said Bran.
“T’is a dire day indeed. Gather the noble families and prepare them for battle.”
Bran paced in the longhouse, already armored. “We will ride to Ci, and call every ally. We cannot face this alone.”
“Go,” said Eógan. “Take what riders you can.”
The prince left without a word. Soon, a horn sounded. Nobles gathered in the hall, rough men inked with animals and spirals. Berserkers sat in front, grunting like bulls. Spears lined the walls. Mead was passed, but the mood was grim.
Eógan raised his voice. “The Northmen come. Their sails approach our shore. Every hand has to fight. Every farmer, every youth. Fortriu must not fall.”
Beist, his war-cheif rose. He was a giant man with a shaved head, half his face inked in blue. He drank down a pint of mead, a crazed look in his eye. “We need to call a gathering of the other clans. Fortriu cannae fight off this invasion on its own, I say we go further inland and seek out Mac Ailpin of Dal Riata.”
“He’s on campaign,” said another.
“I saved his life when we battled against the Angles,” Eógan replied. “He owes me a favor. I will send for him.”
Lord CirCinn folded his arms. “Ye take my daughter from me through pagan right and not through the Church. Can a man so impulsive be trusted with the defense of our Kingdom?”
“Your daughter will be the mother of Kings, through her, there will be the next line. It is a great honor-“
Alwyn crossed her arms and glared at her father. “I chose to have him, Father. Years ago, when he won the battle of the Angles, I knew he would be mine. It is my word, I swear we will be properly wed, if we survive.”
The old Lord crossed his arms and scowled. “May God find you worthy.”
Plans formed swiftly. Chariots were prepared. Villagers armed themselves with axes, spears, and pitchforks.
The noble families sat in grim silence. Each had a coin around their necks, a token to mark their bodies if they were found after battle.
Edwin stood off to the side. “I will go to Ci,” he offered. “I can ride, may God protect me.”
“Take the mule; it is swifter than it looks and strong,” said Eógan.
“May your Lord protect you,” Sorcha said, her tone dry. As Edwin rode off, she turned toward the warriors. She dipped her fingers into a pot of blue woad, smearing it on each warrior’s brow. She whispered blessings, kisses, and prayers from St. Andrew, the Morrigan, and the father of the sea.
“Edwin’s voice called out one last time: “Thou shalt have no other gods before Him.”
Sorcha didn’t flinch. “Yet the waves do not ask who you worship as they crush your body.” She continued blessing the nobles before traveling back to the stronghold.
“I’ll stand guard over the children, you keep watch from the broch,” said Alwyn.
“But what if there’s an attack on the fort?”
Alwyn drew her sword and swung it over her head in an intricate arc. “I’d like to see them try,” she said.
“I’ll sink the incoming ships and protect Fortriu!” Sorcha raised her hand as a wave slammed into the cliff.
Alwyn shook her head and laughed. Her dark eyes pooled with tears. “I only hope he comes back to me.”
A tear fell from Sorcha’s eye. “Promise you’ll do everything possible to keep these young ones safe.” She looked into the dark eyes of a small boy, and her heart sank. “These children may never see another day if the Northmen come upon the shore.”
“And promise me you will use all your magic to defend us.”
“That, I can guarantee.” Sorcha winked as she climbed to the top of the broch. She took a deep breath and focused all her energy on the walls. The carved stones glowed with a blue light, stretched and formed around the fort walls. Her heart pounded as she hummed in an ancient tongue, building the wards over Fortriu; she only hoped it was enough.
#
The mist rolled in from the sea, the blood red sun rising in the winter sky. The ocean lay before them, the pined cliffs and Foritru behind. Pictish warriors crouched behind standing stones, faces painted with woad beneath iron helms. Eógan Mac Óengusa gripped his bronze spear, whispering prayers to the old gods and the Saints.
A low thrum, like thunder in the bones, stirred the earth. A thread of longships dragged ashore—long ships with billowing white sails and oars, the helms carved into snarling dragons. The Vikings were a war band, hungry for blood and land—their chain mail armor over tunics of linen woven in bright yellow and crimson. Intricate runes were sewn into the Vikings’ tunics. Their shields caught the faint light, glinting red in the sun, sharp axes raised for battle.
A raven cawed overhead.
“Easy now,” said Eóganas Enbarr, knickered.
The Picts struck first—a rain of javelins and sling stones from the ridgeline. A Norsman fell, clutching his throat; another stumbled as a spear hit his thigh. A Viking Berserker roared and raised his shield, forming a wall of wood and metal. They surged forward, pressing into the hollow like a wave against a cliff face.
Then the trap sprang.
From behind the cliff, chariots creaked to life, pulled by shaggy ponies, bearing screaming warriors who flung themselves into the Norse Flank.
Eógan charged, his war cry tearing through the mist. His blade met a Viking skull with a sickening crunch.
The shore exploded into chaos, weapons crashing, war cries met with screams of death. Eogan smiled as his clan moved the Viking hoard out to sea. The glowing stones cracked, and the stench of death filled the air.
Warriors on both sides stopped to wretch and looked on with fear and awe as the terrible beast was born from the bloodied surf: the Nucklavee, a plague bringer since the dawn of time. The creature stood higher than the fort, a skinless horse with a rider attached. Muscle and pus wrapped tightly around the bone. It shrieked, a low guttural sound, and time stood still, the sky darkened, and the waves crashed into the shore.
The Viking berserkers surged forward, grinding into the melee, their madness making them immune to the creatures’ putrescence.
Eógan’s heart stopped in his chest at the sight of the aosan. The scent doubled him over. His vision grew dark when it howled, and he saw the cracks between worlds. This of a plague towered over them, its hooves crashing upon the shore as lightning struck the sand. Time grew slower as the King shouted at his troops to retreat. The ones that could hear him followed in line as the Vikings ran in hot pursuit. They ran through thick mud up the steep hill, nobles being shot down by arrows or succumbing to the odor before reaching the walls of Fortriu.
#
Sorcha’s blood turned to ice as the Nucklevee crashed ashore. Warriors on both sides scrambled desperately towards the door, the Nucklavee gaining on their heels. The doors opened, and the Picts ran past the gate. The wards and the stones flashed blue against the stormy sky, and the creature boomed and revolted back into the sea. The Druidess breathed in fetid air and coughed. The wards were enough for the monster, but not its stink.
She ran down the tower, tripping down the steep stone steps. Covering her mouth, she opened the door to the roundhouse to see all the women and older children standing, swords and axes raised.
“What a noisome stench. Is it something the Northmen brought with them? Some vile pestilence?” asked Alwyn.
“It is vile. It is the odor of the aosan from the sea. It brings death upon all those who face it. I dare not speak its name,” said Sorcha.
Alwyn’s eyes grew wide. She had heard stories of the Nucklavee since childhood and dared not speak its name. “W..what can we do?”
“My wards are protecting Fortriu, cold iron and fresh water will drive it back. I pray it rains soon.”
“The Loch, we need to drive it into the Loch. You must tell Eógan!”
Sorcha kissed Alwyn on the forehead and ran to the warriors. The stench of death and brine knocked the air from her. I call for strength, in the name of the Morrigan. She muttered under her breath as a raven flew overhead. Her heart sank; the father of the sea would destroy them for their insolence if they were not swift enough.
Eógan stood at the front of the gate as the remaining guards barricaded the door.
“I have warded the Fortriu, but we must drive the aosan into the loch or face its wrath,” said Sorcha.
“The Loch is over the cliff. We do not have the warriors to lead it. I pray we can reach Bran before all is lost.”
“I will find King Cínaed mac Ailpín of Dal Riata.”
“Woman, are you mad? Dal Riata is over a day’s travel from here.”
“By foot, I need you to lend me one of your fastest chariots.”
“You are mad, but it may be our only chance. Gavin, meet Sorcha over the walls. Beware of arrows and meet her with your chariot. You must make haste!”
The raven flew over the wall. Sorcha followed, doubling over with sickness. The crops within the walls were already withering. She climbed over the wall in the fort, and an arrow flew overhead. When she got to the other side, a pony and a small chariot sat.
She took away from the melee, hoping to find MacAlpin in time.
#
Edwin’s mule slowed as the annoyed shepherd kicked its side. The jack-ass sat, brayed, and refused to move.
“Fine, I’ll leave ya for the wolves.” He got off the noble steed and walked through the dark forest. Bran and his warriors thundered past.
“Shepherd, you wouldn’t be deserting your King at a time of war, would ye?”
“No, my Lord. He sent me to Ci. He needs reinforcements. The ships have already landed.”
Bran took a deep breath as his heart sank. The same navy that sacked Ir before landing on their rocky shores. He had to make way for his brother before all was lost. He brought the war horn to his lips and sounded as his painted troops ran through the forest.
The wood cleared to the broth of Fortriu, and a stench hit the reinforcing army, bringing them to their knees. The horses whinnied and turned in the other direction.
“Fie on this! Now they use the plague?” yelled the prince. The plague did not matter. He swore to protect his clan and kin. He marched forward towards the sea when he saw the colossal creature. The skinless horse with a dead skinless rider attached. The pulsing sinew and bursting pustules, black blood flowing through yellowed veins. Sea grass withered around it, and it shrieked. Edwin’s heart skipped a beat, and he muttered the Lord’s prayer to keep from crying.
“Can you see what the witch has done?” Edwin. “She called forth this demon to our shores.”
Bran’s face went pale, and his hand trembled. “That is no demon; it is an aosan that is far worse. It is a plague from the sea, bringing death to us all. The Northmen called it upon us, I am sure of it. Let us go to Fortriu now!”
Edwin held up his Cross. “I banish you in the name of St. Andrew and Christ. Leave this land, and they flock.”
The sea hemmed in the shepherd as the beast closed in. Its breath stole the air from his lungs, and his eyes welled and bled into the sand as he cried out in agony. “Lord, have mercy on my soul. I have been a man of peace and a child of your flock, why do you forsake me and not the pagan hordes? Lord, forgive them, they know not what they do, but I know. Forgive my sins, for I am not ready to face you. The cold shadow of death crept near, and his heart beat a final, trembling prayer into the darkness. The Nucklavee trampled Edwin to a bloody pulp before consuming his flesh in a sickly slurp.
Bran yelped in terror before gaining his wits. He sounded the horn and led his army swiftly retreating to Fortriu—the Nucklavee on their heels. Bran’s breath caught in his throat, and he saw Sorcha’s blue light as the monster closed in on his men.
The Vikings stood near the door, a battering ram in hand. But before the warriors clashed, the lead Viking raised his hand. He was a tall and distinguished man, with long blond hair and a long beard, both braided under a metal helmet. He wore chain mail over a red linen tunic woven with runes.
“I am Ragnar. Give us entry into Fortriu, and we will leave in peace.”
Bran stood back. This Northman knew his language.
“I am Bran from Ci. Why should I believe you after you sacked the Dal Riata and the Ionia monastery? I do not trust you.”
“And you have every reason not to. I only have my honor.”
The Nucklavee roared in the background, and more soldiers fell from both sides. Their screams of agony filled the air, gurgling into wet cries as the beast trampled over them.
Bran could fight through the Viking Navy to reach the door to the fort, but they would lose more men. The door was the only barrier between them and the Nucklavee. He did not trust Ragnar, but he had little choice.
“Eógan, open the door to the fort.”
“Only to let the raiders in? Bran, have you gone mad?”
“The aosan will kill us all, Viking and Pict alike, and it will matter to none. If we let the Vikings in, they may take our harvest, but we’ll at least have our lives. Please, brother, let me in.”
The fort doors opened inward, and both armies rushed in, shutting before the beast reached the door. Its scream burst eardrums and caused milk to curdle, the plants withered as both armies went quietly into the central roundhouse—the monster pacing at the gate.
Ragnar, Bran, and Eógan barred the gate, shielding their mouths from the stench. Alwyn stared at the Viking warriors, drawing her sword.
“Leave it,” said Eógan. “The aosan on the other side of the wall has killed enough men on both sides.”
“My lady, if we can survive this, we will leave in peace. You have it on my honor,” said Byorn.
“Why trust the men that raid us?” Spat Alwyn.
“We have no other choice; we could fight each other and be just as dead,” said Bran.
“Do your people know how to fend off such a beast, or do we sit behind the walls and die? “
“We send a messenger, Sorcha. She’s getting reinforcements. She knows how to defeat this aosan.”
“We can banish it with fresh water. Sorcha is coming with MacAlpin to lead it into the Loch,” said Alwyn.
“Perhaps I should summon an ice giant to get us out of this. Or melt the snow on the mountains.” The Northman lowered his head in despair.
“Does anyone know of any other way?” asked Eógan.
“My mam used to tell us of the monster. I’ve only heard of it in childhood stories. It doesn’t like cold iron. That’s how the gates are holding it back,” said Bran.
“Are not our weapons forged in iron?” asked Eógan.
“It needs to be cold iron. I believe your people call it bog iron, said Bran.
“We have bog iron a plenty, back on the ship,” said Ragnar.
The Nucklavee cried a blood-curdling scream on the other side of the gate. One soldier vomited green bile before falling in a puddle of his filth.
“So, we either wait for the village midwife to return or we try to run to the ship of our pillagers,” said the King.
“That creature’s home is in the sea. It is part of the sea; returning to the ship would be suicide. We wait.”
“Wulfgar, hand me your axe!” yelled Byorn. A big man with dark hair handed Byorn a large axe, not a battle axe forged in the fire, but a rough-hewn axe for chopping wood.
“Not an ideal weapon, but made of bog iron. If what you’re telling me is true, Picti, this should fight the galkn back,” said Ragnar.
“So you’re going to fight off the beast?”
“Ha, I have honor, honor enough not to raid a fort already attacked, but not enough honor to risk my life.” He slammed the axe into Eogan’s arms. “Defend your people, King Picti.”
#
Sorcha felt her people being crushed by the Nucklevee and slaughtered by the Viking horde; she wanted to scream but kept silent.
A raven croaked and landed upon her staff. She took a deep breath and sped down the road to Dal Riata. It was as though time melted around her, and minutes instead of hours passed. The pony sped over the rocky road left by the Caldoinians. The raven flew overhead, guiding her step. Cínaed mac Ailpín camp rested at the south border of Fortriu.
Mac Ailpin had been campaigning in the southlands, attempting to unite all the lands. A red tent towered on top of the hill, and the nobles of Del Raita rushed around dressed in chain mail.
Sorcha fell to her knees and wept in relief. She dismounted and made her way to the entrance of the camp. Word of the invasion had reached MacAlpin by now. Every man was battle-ready.
A guard approached her.
“I am Sorcha, midwife and druid of Fortriu.”
“I know who you are, ma’am. I was but a wee lad when I left Fortriu for Del Raita. I was married to Lady Isla for an alliance.”
“Callum, I remember you. You used to fish with your grandfather every morning.”
“Until he sent me away for scaring the fish, what brings you all the way out to the edge of the Kingdom?”
Sorcha’s face fell as an expression became dour. “I wish I had better news, but Fortriu is under siege by the Northmen-”
Callum grabbed her hand and ran to Cínaed mac Ailpín’s tent, dragging Sorcha behind him. The young King stood, his long brown hair braided beneath a helmet, his tartan tunic surrounded by chain mail.
“You may rise. What brings you to the edge of the Kingdom, midwife?”
“Fortriu is under siege by the Northman,” said Callum.
Mac Ailpín’s eyes widened. “We were already heading in that direction as part of the campaign. We shall make haste.”
A horn sounded outside the tent, and all the nobles gathered.
“Before you go, I must tell you they summoned an aosan from the sea. It brings sickness and death, and we must drive it into the Loch,” said Sorcha.
”An aosan?”
“The horse and rider without skin.”
Cínaed mac Ailpín crossed himself and called for Callum. The young man brought forth a wooden box with ornate carvings. Mac Ailpin opened the box to reveal an ornate linen bag painted with crosses and fish in ornate blue swirls. He opened the bag to reveal a skeleton.
“These are the bones of Saint Columba, the man who brought the word of Christ to these lands. I promised my father I would bring the bones from Iona on my campaign and carry Christ’s word. These bones may be the protection we need to ward off this aosan.”
“Any faith may help. I carved the stones along the shore to thwart evil, but they crumbled beneath it. I pray the bones of a Saint will be enough,” said Sorcha.
“It may be all we have.”
“Do you have any bog iron?”
“A few hammers and axes, but we forge all our weapons in flame.”
“It’ll have to do. The aosan cares not for cold iron. We can use that and the bones to drive it into the Loch,” said Sorcha.
“And what of the Vikings?” said Callum.
“We will face the horde when we get to the broch of Fortriu. One task at a time, and may the Lord guide us,” said Mac Ailpin.
They all knelt to pray as a horn sounded to round the nobles—another army to face the aosan of the deep. Sorcha only hoped it wasn’t too late for Eógan Mac Óengusa.
#
The creature stalked outside the gate; the reek was getting worse. Alwyn had moved the children to the back of the roundhouse near the fire, burning herbs to ward off the stench. If they were to stay within the walls, the Nucklavee’s breath would kill all of them in time.
Eógan Mac Óengusa looked at her and felt the axe in his hand. A crude thing, a wedge more fitted for hewing firewood than battle. Alwyn kissed him as she handed him a pack of herbs bound in cloth to each of the remaining nobles.
“So, we drive the monster off to the loch and you go back to your ship and leave,” said Eogan.
Byorn smirked. “Unless you have another plan, Picti.”
Beist walked through the crowd of nobles, frame towering over the Byorn’s. He smirked and grabbed the hammer out of Eogan’s hands and bowed. “I come to serve as your champion. May I drive the creature back to the depths from whence it came?”
“I am honored. But I must lead my people,” said Eógan.
“Let your Berserker fight for you, so you can live and lead another day. You have a man of great honor, and may I find you in Valhalla.” Ragnar nodded his head to Biest.
“Make no mistake, Northman, I would rather fight you and put your head on a pike than this beast.”
Alwyn tied a handkerchief with herbs around Beist to mitigate the stench. He climbed over the fort walls and landed on the other side, where the creature waited. It’s skinless flesh wet with blood and brine, pus oozing in a slow trickle. Biest breathed in the herbs and willed himself to fight. He raised the axe, and the monster inched back through the mud. He moved forward, and the aosan moved back toward the sea. Waves crashed against its hooves. Biest screamed in agony as the Nucklavee roared, but he moved forward, inching the Nucklavee into the depths. It wailed one last time as the waves swallowed its form.
Just as Beist was about to give the fort the all-clear to empty, a giant wave hit him. Beist wailed in agony, and the saltwater covered him, sucKing him down into its depths, as Eld Bess did before him. Blood boiled from the depths before washing up on the rocks. Eogan watched from the broch, his mouth agape. His strongest man, his best berserker, was swallowed by darkness.
In the distance, a horn sounded as the army of Cínaed mac Ailpín marched upon the shore. At his side were Sorcha and Callum, followed by hundreds of warriors.
Waves of crimson crashed into the army, dragging chariots into the sea and covering the beach with blood. Mac Ailpin called his troops to halt as Sorcha unraveled a silk cloth, revealing the bones of Saint Columba. The ocean grew calm as the creature crawled out to the shore. Sorcha held the bones above her as a shield as Mac Ailpin took an axe of cold iron, driving the beast up the cliffside. Crops wilted, and the painted stones glowed blue as they drove the beast back.
With the sea clear at last, Ragnar struck. He drove his dagger across Eogan’s throat, flesh splitting like a seam torn in a soaked tunic. Blood burst forth in a hot, arterial spray, painting Ragnar’s arm and the sand beneath them. The King clutched his neck, eyes wide in disbelief, breath gurgling wetly as he sank to his knees.
Bran’s heart bounded like a war drum. “No!” he roared, seizing his sword. Grief and rage surged in his veins, drowning reason. He would carve Ragnar apart, even if it meant dying by the blade.
But the Viking horde crashed into him before he could take a step. Iron slammed against his shield. A blade bit into his shoulder. Another into his tight. He swung wildly, cutting down one attacker. But there were too many. The scent of blood and seawater filled his nostrils, and he could barely see through the crimson haze. This was no battle, it was a slaughter..
“You gave your word you would leave Fortriu!”
“I said I would leave, never said I’d leave in peace,” said Ragnar.
Alwyn shut the roundhouse, locking the door behind, and gathered the surrounding children. The Picts fought the Viking army, a clash of axes and swords. Bran fought Ragnar. Ulfberht clashed against a broadsword as the two men fought, edging towards the fort’s door. Bran raised his broadsword over his head only to be struck from behind by a battle axe. Wulfgar pried the axe out of Bran’s back as the Pict fell forward.
A Viking with a torch came towards the roundhouse, about to set the building ablaze.
“No, we take the women and children, they will fetch a prize as slaves.”
Alwyn raised her sword as the younger children fell into formation behind them. Ragnar blocked her swings with his shield and put a sword to her throat.
“You can come or die!”
“I’d rather die fighting than be a slave!” Alwyn spat on Ragnar, as Wulfgar grabbed her from behind. She slammed an elbow into his chest, making him gasp for air. The children ran out of the roundhouse only to be gathered up. Alwyn cried out, realizing all was lost, she fell upon her sword. The cold steel pierced her heart before everything faded to black.
#
Cínaed mac Ailpín, Callum, and Sorcha drove the Nucklavee step by step toward the cliff’s edge, the Loch churning below like a mouth ready to swallow it whole. The stench clawed at their lungs, a foul rot that made their eyes burn, but the bones of St. Columba glowed with sacred power, shielding their flesh from the beast’s blistering breath.
Sorcha chanted to the old ways, to St. Bridget and the earth. The stone carvings around the Loch glowed a soft blue. Steam rose from the Nucklavee as they drove it into the freshwater. The Loch boiled around it like a cauldron set over an open flame. It howled, and its sound brought Callum to his knees; he knelt praying the Lord’s prayer, blood pouring from his palms and eyes. The Loch continued to boil, its waters turning red. The stones splashed like lightning struck them, and the Loch smoothed over as clear as glass. A silence hit them, thick and dark.
“It is done,” said Cínaed Mac Ailpín.
Sorcha nodded as she went to collect Callum. The poor lad’s face and eyes were crusted shut with blood.
“I cannot see!” he cried.
Sorcha took his hand and led him back over the cliff, weeping the entire time. Her tattoos burned and had a faint glow. She followed Mac Ailpin and his steed back to the fort.
The Vikings had slaughtered the Pictish army inside the walls. King Eógan Mac Óengusa and his brother Bran lay together, their throats slit, ravens already feeding on thier eyes. Alwyn lay, a sword through her chest, and the children were gone.
Sorcha chased the ravens away. The messengers of The Morrigan and Odin were only birds feeding on corpses. The corpses of men she had helped birth and raise, gone.
The Gales collected the dead of the Picts, burning away the Nucklavee’s stench with incense and herbs.
Mac Ailpín bowed in mourning before removing his helmet and addressing his troops. “I knew Eógan Mac Óengusa and Bran Mac Óengusa, who had fought in the battle against the Angels. Fortriu has fallen, and my Kingdom of Dal Riata will accept the remaining villagers. “
They murmured a mournful aye as they brought the fallen warriors to a stone cairn outside the fort. Sorcha and Callum keened in mourning for the fallen as they packed earth around them to form a mound. The cairn stood for the fallen Kingdom and all they lost that day.
#
The abbey is quiet in the early morning. Mist rolling in from the hills, softening the stone walls and cloaking the past in silence. Sorcha walks to the cloister garden, the hem of her habit damp with the morning dew.
Mac Ailpín had ruled the land for the cycles of the sun. The Gales now ruled over Pictland. The language had changed, leaving Sorcha and Callum relics of their time. They had renamed the land Alba, but she remembered Fortriu. She remembered the Picts. The stones with beasts and swirling patterns still stood.
Her hands are weathered, but they still remember the blade’s weight, the salt spray sting, and the firelight and kin’s warmth. Beside her sits Callum, in a monk’s robes, hood over his blinded eyes.
A bell tolls- gentle, not summoning, but reminding. The tide comes in.
She kneels at the edge of the herb garden, where she’s coaxed the rosemary and thyme through the hard earth. She whispers as she works-not in Latin, not in Gaelic, the new language of Alba, but something older, the language of the Picts.
They won. But everything was lost.
She and Callum survived, but left behind the weapons, names, and lands of the Picts.
But not all of it.
They went to the chapel, each lighting a candle and whispering a prayer of remembrance:
“Lady Brigit of fire and spring, you are cloaked in a habit and crowned in flame. Guide our trembling hands toward peace. Watch our hearth, bless our bones, call our remembrance in these stones, lest we not forget.”
The flame flickers. There is no fear. No magic, just presence and ease. As if the goddess-saint smiles from the shadow. Not lost and not forgotten, only changed.
The bell tolled one last time, bringing peace upon the land.
Spirit Board
The police found her car parked on the side of I 70, abandoned. She was dead, most people missing past 48 hours don’t make it.
“We found her this morning in a wooded area, the dental records were a match.”
“Yeah, it’s her, how did -”
“The autopsy hasn’t been preformed yet, but they’re assuming it was blunt force trauma. There’s an open investigation on details I can discuss.”
The phone went silent and I nodded, in a daze. Feeling sick to my stomach, I and told the officer I had to leave, hanging up the phone. Walking into my living room I grabbed a pillow, crying until my throat hurt and my eyes swollen.
Come on, you have to pull yourself together. I blew my nose and hiccupped. The silence was peirced by a phone call.
“This is Detective Thompson. I know this is a difficult time for you, but can you come into the station for questioning?”
“S..sure.” All the tears had left my voice, at this point everything was cold and numb, like wading through static.
“Will three-thirty work for you?”
No time was good for me, but what choice did I have? If I refused it would seem suspicious. “Yea, I’ll come down.”
“I’m so sorry this happened, Ms. Kelly, but the more information we have the sooner we can solve this.”
Or the sooner you can lazily pin this on someone and close the case. “I understand, you have my full cooperation. I want this solved too.”
“Alright, we’ll see you then.”
The phone went silent.
She had died horribly, and I was going to find out who did this and make them suffer. Suffer worse than she had. Outside of my house was a pile of firewood. I searched it until I found a plank of oak. I would make a spirit board, but not the cheap Ouija that Parker Brothers shilled out to curious teenagers.
I carefully burned the words into the wooden panel. The smell of scorched cedar stung my lungs and my eyes were sore from crying , it didn’t matter. I found a pattern of the sun and moon and followed each detail until both images were pristine. I struck my index finger with a sewing needle and the thirsty wood absorb my blood. Choosing a smaller block of wood, I carved a planchette, it was nothing more than a simple pointer but it would work. Finally, I placed a photo of Lily at the top. By the time my work was completed my hands were sore and the sun was breaking out over the sky.
Concentrating I asked what the board wanted. I was so exhausted the planchette floated to the letters with no fanfare.
G O T O SLEEP.
“Lily, is that you?”
YES.
“How can I help?”
D R E A M
The air suddenly grew cold and I wrapped a blanket around me. I wanted to sink into the couch, into the floor and into the cold damp earth, never to wake again.
I woke to the weight of cold chains around my ankles, pleading with the man to let me go. The smell of exhaust at the engine started and the searing pain at my body dragged against the road.
I woke to my heart pounding and my couch drenched in sweat. It was dark out, the clock silently ticking. My phone read that it was close to three am, the witching hour. There were five missed calls from the local police department.
I made some coffee and drank it black, enjoying it’s warmth and bitterness. My phone vibrated against me and answered. The tired officer on the other line, I told him that I passed out and I was sorry and agreed to meet him in the afternoon for questioning.
I reviewed my handiwork from the night before. A plain cedar board with ornate wooden letters carved into it. The sun and moon looked ornate, the yes and no were slightly off center but that didn’t matter. I took some silver and gold paint and filled in the sun and moon before slapping a clear code of lacquer over the board. Parker Brother’s eat your heart out.
I got into my small silver car and left toward the police station. Entering the office to a tired looking officer with thinning hair.
“Candace Williams, I’m here to discuss the Lily Henderson case.”
The officer’s eyes dropped. “Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m detective Thompson. please come on back to the office.”
The office was surprisingly cozy. A simple desk with a computer sat next to a few office chairs. I took a seat in one as the Detective sat across from me.
“Ms. Williams, can I get you anything, a coffee or donut perhaps?” He smiled warmly.
“Coffee, if that’s ok.”
“Sure thing.” He left the room and came back with a small paper cup. “It ain’t Starbucks but it’ll get the job done. I am so sorry for your loss. Any information that you have about Lilly that will help us solve this case is would be greatly appreciated.”
“Do you know what happened to her?” A tear fell from my eye.
“It’s still under investigation. We’re working to resolve this for you and her family.” He lowered his head. “Do you remember the last time you saw her?”
I racked my brain trying to remember when I last saw her. “It was three weeks ago. We were going to meet up and she never showed. I called her phone she never answered, I thought she was busy. I should have checked in on her and have been a better friend.” My chest tightened as tears clouded over my eyes.
“Candace, none of this is your fault.” His tone calmed my frazzled nerves. “I have a daughter and I’m terrified of what could happen to her. Ma’am I’m going to do everything I can to get this monster off the street, but you’ve got to help me. Do she mention anyone following her? Any stalkers, or any jealous ex boyfriends?”
“Lily did mention her ex, his name was James Martin, I think. They had a major falling out and she stayed at my house for a few weeks, he had been harassing her online but I never thought it would come to this.”
“Do you know his address? What kind of vehicle he drove? Anything you can remember.”
“A Toyota Tacoma, black. I don’t remember a plate number…” A flashback of the vision interuppted my thoughts, the black truck, the chains, the screaming. “663YET, I think, I’m not a hundered percent sure on it.”
“It’s ok, anything you can remember, you’re a great help. Do you want some water? You look a little bit peeked.”
“I’ll take some more coffee if you have it.”
“You’re going to be up all night.”
His warm nature made me smile in spite of myself as he refilled my cup of coffee and handed me a glazed donut, my stomach growled as I realized I forgot to eat since afternoon yesterday.
“Thank you, and it’s ok, I work night shift.”
“Understood. do you remember anything else about James?”
“He’s a big guy, reddish brown hair. He had a beard the last time I saw him. Lily would stay at my place to avoid him. He used to work at Wells Fargo with us, before they had layoffs.”
“Was he ever threatening towards you?”
“Not to my face, he didn’t like her hanging out with me. That’s really all I have right now”
“Ok. Are you ok to drive home?” His eyes had a fatherly concern.
“I’ll be ok, if it makes you feel better I can text you when I get home.”
“I’d hate to impose-”
“It’s no problem.” Nodding, I gathered my purse and left the station. I went home scrolled on my phone to James’s socials. They were full of the same misogynistic speeches, hunting pictures and the confederate flag. But the photo of his truck and plate were in plain view.
At sunset I placed the spirit board on the middle of my alter and lit a black and red candle. Holding the planchette in my hands, I called Lily’s name. It trembled as hit floated to Hello.
“Lily, is this you?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly.
YES.
“Was James the one that killed you?”
YES.
My rage surged. “We got him. I gave the police his plate number, he’s going to go away for a long time.”
N O T G O O D E N O U G H.
“Not enough? I’m doing all that I can, what more do you want?”
D E A T H P A I N H E L L.
“I hope he gets the death penalty. He needs to suffer.”
The planchette jumped in my hands once again.
Y O U C U R S E H I M
I was a practicing Witch, but I didn’t curse people, then again, I didn’t need to curse anyone up until now. The murder of my best friend seemed a justified reason enough to.
My kitchen started to shake and cabinet drawers opened and slammed shut. the air grew so cold I could see my breath in front of me. And at my feet there was my phone and a mason jar. Shaking I picked them both up. I wasn’t practiced in curses, but this was a place to start.
Lighting some black candles and dragons blood incense, my bedroom was filled with a soft glow and the scent of resin, wax and roses. I wrote the name James Martin Will Suffer on a sticky note, then I crossed out the vowels and repeating letters. Taking the remaining letters I rearanged them into a cryptic glyf. Folding up the sigil, spat on it in the Mason jar and covered it with dirt before sealing the lid.
I drove to a near by river. In the past I had volunteered and cleaned litter from its shores, I collected rocks from her banks.
“River spirit, I need your help. Take this jar and run it’s namesake to the bottom. May your water fill his breath and may my sister have her vengeance, by the name of Hecate and Morrigan” The river carried it before bashing it into a boulder, breaking the jar into sharp shards before whisking it downstream. I prayed that the bastard would meet his end.
Lily would pound on my walls every night and move my furniture. I went back to the spirit board asking if there was anything she wanted but it was the same message every time.
The grief and lack of sleep were affecting my job, my boss told me to take some leave and provided me the number to a grief counselor. When I was younger I used to bury myself in work to avoid pain, but now it only left me exhausted. I felt brittle as though my whole world was breaking around me.
I would give my testimony and along with the evidence, James would be sentenced to death. My job was done, the curse was only an accelerant for the inevitable. Except the trial would never come. I went back to the police office and asked for Officer Thompson.
“Ms. Williams?” said the detective. “Are you all right, you seem tired.”
“I am, have you heard anything from James Martin?”
Thompson looked back and fourth. “I think you should come into my office, I’ll get you some coffee.”
“Thank you,” I said, as he lead me back to a small stuffy room shaded by blinds.
“I’m technically not supposed to discuss this with civilians, but I know you were her friend. James volunteered his vehicle, the tire tracks don’t match and he has a fairly solid alibi. He was helping some family move some equipment.”
“With his truck.”
“Yes, his truck was out, that’s why we don’t have a lead. Did Lilly have anyone else? Like any one that was giving her the creeps, maybe on social media?”
“No. Her and James were constantly fighting, she never told me about anyone else. I’m sorry. “
“Ma’am, I promise you we’ll do everything we can. We’re talking to her family, we’ll let you know if anything changes if you do the same.”
I felt completely numb as I got into my car, as though I were on another plane of existence, slowly fading away. Rage welled up inside me. But not at the kindly old officer, he was just doing the best he could. James planned this out, and dragged an innocent woman to death where no one could hear her scream. I needed to find proof.
My phone vibrated with a text from an unregistered number.
:I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. THEY WON’T FIND YOUR BODY:
My heart froze in my chest as I looked for the number, but the message had disappeared. Fear burned into rage, the bastard wouldn’t get away with this.
I visited James’s once for a New Years Eve party, before he forbade Lily from talking to me. He lived on a farm with his parents but in a seperate house. I parked my car in a field at the far end of his property and passed through a wooded area with a sharp ravine. Clambering down the steep path I crossed a wooden bridge over the river, the babble of the water over the stones calmed my jumpy nerves. Climbing up the steep slope I followed the path out of the woods. The estate loomed in the distance.
Rather than taking the dirt road I walked through the pasture. A few sleepy cows walked passed me, unbothered by my presents. Reaching the estate, I made my way to the enormous garage. The door was locked tight.
The wind blew heavily against the garage, so heavy I had to brace myself. I ducked behind the structure as James walked out the door. Cursing under his breath he opened the door to the garage. In the corner loomed a stack of tires lying next to a chain. The image of Lily being dragged down the dirt road flashed through my mind and her screams made my flesh break out in a cold sweat. A ringing cell phone broke the silence.
“Hello?” said James over the phone.
James’s face fell, his skin paled as he ran back into the house. I took out my phone and snapped a photo of the evidence just as James screamed as I took off running as fast as my legs would carry me. My lungs burned from the cold air as he was gained on me. My legs buckled under me as I made my way through the woods towards the ravine, the river churning beneath me. Turning around to face him, his eyes wide with surprise.
“Why are you trespassing on my property, Candy?”
The words caught in my throat, I was too scared to say anything as he inched towards me.
“Now, you’re going to be a good girl and give me you’re phone.”
“Or what? Why do you want my phone. If you have an alibi you have nothing to worry about.”
His eyes went blank. “What I did to Lily will be nothing compared to what I’ll do to you.”
Death, pain, hell. The words flashed through my mind. I listened to the river beneath me. James lunged towards me but I caught him off balance. He fell sharply down the ravine, landing on a large rock in the river. His bones poking through his shattered leg as he screamed in pain.
“Help!”
Smiling, I looked into his pleading eyes before pushing him into the current, not enough to sweep him away but enough to drag the broken limb. His screams were exquisite as buzzards began to circle overhead.
The drive home was peaceful, and I felt heavy and drowsy. For the last time I rested my hands on the planchette as it drifted towards goodbye.
The Vault of Dreams and Nightmares 