Eshspoyeofdoom
Sigh
[Slight Gore warning, you have been warned.]
Just beyond the rays of light, stood a young boy.
He pulled his lips back, his teeth smiling his joy.
The fire cackled and groaned as the boy opened his eyes.
Pin-hole pupils tore into the man's soul. His plea for help, dies.
The sticky red sap dripped off its jaws, onto its nightgown.
It's skin, cracked and crumbled. Its smile twisted into a sickening frown.
The sun begins to set as the moon starts to rise.
The man returns home, his family listens to its lies.
Just beyond the rays of light, stood a young boy.
He pulled his lips back, his teeth smiling his joy.
The fire cackled and groaned as the boy opened his eyes.
Pin-hole pupils tore into the man's soul. His plea for help, dies.
The sticky red sap dripped off its jaws, onto its nightgown.
It's skin, cracked and crumbled. Its smile twisted into a sickening frown.
The sun begins to set as the moon starts to rise.
The man returns home, his family listens to its lies.
**
"Another one was found last night, Father," the scout sighs, "Just like the rest..."
The air was thick with smoke and ash. Their cries were long gone...replaced with the occasional cracks of the firewood. The crowd has long left to tend to their morning affairs. Fathers to their fields and mothers to their children.
Alban remains. Bent over the dying light of the fire, he dismisses the scout with the wave of his hand. He has failed once more. The beast has not been caught, at least not all of them. No... the plague of death and deceit continues to live, to breed, to infect his populus once more. Disgusting vermin.
He rises, gazing upon his fields with the great, white mountains dominating the surroundings. The fog has stayed and settled for the past week, accompanied with the blue, bitter air of winter. The leaves have fallen and the birds rarely chirp. The foodbanks have been filled, enough to last through the season. Still, many will perish from the stabbing gusts of the midnight winds. The weak are killed, the strong retreat.
And yet, the disease lives on.
Alban turns from the charred remains of the devil worshippers. Their faces, still twisted in horror and fear, capturing the last moments of their lives. They will serve as chilling reminders for the townsfolk. Those who stray will be put down like dogs.
He knows the things are still out there. Lurking beneath the cold earth, catching small prey, breaking their necks and feasting on their warm blood. Their existence was ignored in past years. They were inferior to the human race... incapable of slaying man.
Yet the taste of human, like the fumes of tobacco, were irresistible to them. One taste of human blood claimed thousands for years to come.
He rushes back to the town, he must act quickly. In the town hall, whispers are thrown about between advisors and the chief until the candles are set for the night. A decision has been reached. The church bell rings, an emergency meeting has been called.
The townsfolk flock into the small, wooden shack, huddled together like sheep to the slaughterhouse. Their god, nailed onto a cross, is their only salvation. Standing behind his holiness, Alban gazes upon the crowd, analysing each person, each terrified soul. Faces twist and turn in the warm glow of the candle light. The air is still and solemn, each fearful breath echo throughout the hall. The doors close. It is time to begin.
"Brothers, Sisters... it has come to our attention that our current strategy of solving the Witch question...is failing. Aye, our populus still suffers from the unholy effects of devilcraft despite numerous efforts to... uproot... those who negotiate with the beasts and practice in the dark arts. This has lead the administration and I, to approach the situation in a more...aggressive...stance for the sake of our community and future generations."
Alban reaches under the altar and produces a small, wooden jar.
"This my brothers and sisters," Alban declares, raising the jar above his head, "This contains the names of each and every able-bodied, adult male in this settlement. I will pick four names from this. Those who are called please come to the altar, take your musket and join me."
The horrified crowd remains silent, holding back their cries. They know, all of them know, what needs to be done.
"Edmund MacArthur."
A gaunt, aged man wades through the crowd. He trudges up the steps, slowly mustering energy to move forward. His dead and baggy eyes drag through the hall as he clutches the rifle in his wrinkled hands.
"Richard Bannerman."
The bright, care-free man that was the village tanner appeared frail and weak when holding the musket before his people. His eyes bulged. His face, dripping with fear and sweat. He is not ready.
“Michael Angus Graham.”
“No!” His mother cried as she reached out desperately for her boy. She is held back by her own friends and family as the boy stepped forward, took his rifle and stood erect before his village.
“Thomas Craig.”
The nervous, shaken advisor weaves through his people. Eyes settle upon him as he gazes into the distance. He feels it. Surprise, horror, shock. He is living proof that no one, not even the highest ranking, is safe from the terror of the witch. He has just sentenced himself to certain death. His own downfall and undoing.
“My brothers and sisters,” Alban roars, “We shall vanquish the beasts from the wood. Our wood. The wood where we collected our timber. Hunted our deer. Raised our young. Tonight, we take back what was ours. And by dawn, I and these fine gentleman shall return, victorious. For you, for your fathers, for your kin and for us. And by the mighty will of god, we will return undefeated as the conquerors of his blessed kingdom.”
The crowd roars back. In hope. In grief. In fear.
**
The young blaze jeers and spits in it’s early wake, it’s laughter and it’s smoky fumes are somewhat comforting and familiar in a way. The midnight song of an owl echo in the dark. The five huddle close to the warm fire, surrounded by shrub and pine, tossing whatever lies by their feet for just a few minutes of survival.
“I used to spend my childhood in these woods,” Edmund uttered, “Before you, yourself, were in church, Father.”
Alban craned his neck towards the man before chuckling warmly, “Really? Well, I’ve been devoted to God for as long as I can remember and I'm not too young myself. Pray, what was it like during your generation.”
“Life was simple,” Edmund turned to the night sky, reminiscing of a time where no one else in the group had seen, “I had opportunities, a life… I was loved.”
“You had a wife?” Richard blurted. The cold and nerves were getting to him, his senses dampened like the earth of a winter morning.
“Yea son,” Edmund reached into his pocket and produced a pair of white pearls. The men huddled closer to see the relics. “I got her these earrings before we sailed here,” his wrinkled face grinned, “It cost me an arm and a leg but it guaranteed our marriage for life.”
The men snickered and laughed. For a while it seemed that the dangers had evaporated into the winter air. Their laughter is disrupted by a sound. A snap perhaps? A crack? Bannerman’s face turned white as the falling snow before warming up again in the flare of the fire.
“Haha. I bet that scared you lot,” Richard snorted as he stoked the fire, “My father used to bring me on hunting trips every week. We sat around open fire every one of those nights, staring at the starry sky like we are now. I visited a forest further out a few months ago to get help get leather and I pissed myself when the fire started to laugh,” he threw his hands in the air, “It’s just wet wood, lads. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“You’re quite a courageous character, aren’t you?” Thomas spat, “If you’re so brave, go fetch us some wood, we’ll need it when the beast come out.”
“Sure thing, sir,” Richard snickered as he swung his rifle over his shoulder and paced towards the treeline, “I’ll be back before you know it.” And like that, he fades into the forest.
The group stare where Richard had once been, then to Thomas. He stares down, poking the burning logs and leaves with a stick, too proud to look his comrades in the eye. The snow begins to fall like small white feathers from the sky, settling onto the men’s shoulders. They shove their hands to the fire, taking in the short lived warmth. The air now belonged to the fire, it’s jeers and cackles now heard loud and wide without the men’s laughter.
“He’s fine,” Thomas grumbled as he traced shapes onto the ground, “He’s done this before.”
“We need to be together,” Alban whispered as he shuffled closer into the circle to fill the gap, “In these parts, we have to be collected...united.”
“What do you know about unity?” Thomas snapped, whipping his head up to stare at chief, his eyes filled his hatred and fire.
The air falls silent, even the fire stays low. Thomas slowly swings his head down and the group returns to their affairs, picking nails, sharpening knives, fiddling with fur clothing. The boy, Michael, shifts his gaze to Alban and begins tugging on his sleeve.
“Um, uh, sir?” Michael stammered, “When do we begin to...uh...begin to...hunt? The beasts?”
Alban looks at the boy, greeting him with a pleasant smile, “With pleasure, my boy, but first… tell me how old you are?”
“Mother tells me I was born eleven winters ago.”
“I remember when I was around your age, just a tad older,” Alban grins. Thomas, once again, rises from his still grave of isolation, glaring at the chief as he converses with the boy.
“Back to your question, boy. See this snow? It’s beginning to rest on our shoulders, blanketing the very floor we sit idle on. Now that’s a sign, usually, to draw blood. Just a little. You see, the Witches like it cold. It draws them up from the scalding heat of hell's flames. The smell of our blood should attract most or if not, all of them. And like that… BAM! We take them out, one by one. We tried this a few times in the past, but our parties then weren’t equipped with… sufficient resources or knowledge.”
“Then why don’t we do it now? Hunt them?”
“Well, you see, had it not been for...uh…Thomas taking advantage of Richard's distorted view of himself…. we would have started and ended it by-”
A small cry erupts from the wood. Silence fills the void as the four twist their heads to the forest.
“I need...help,” a voice calls out after a few agonising seconds.
“I’ll go help him,” Edmund yelled as he rushed into the treeline, leaving Alban shocked and horrified. Deep down like a hand rising from the bottom, he knew, he may have lost two good men. He brushes off his fear and begins to quickly pour gunpowder into the barrel, nudging the boy to do the same. As the men reach for their ramrod, a voice calls from the woods.
“Marium? O lord. Marium!” Edmund chokes as his cries echo off the trees, “O lord, it’s you. In flesh and in blood. Twoscore and then, you came. Please, come and embrace me. I’m so-”
Silence. Their mouths, hung open wide as the branches begin to crack beyond the trees. Growing louder. Sharper by the step. The mist begins to part. A shape in the darkness forms, just out of clear sight.
The boy lets out a small, quiet yelp. He drops his musket and runs. Runs far away into the trees. Away from the noise. Away from the beasts. The men chase after him. They call his name as the mist parts in their wake. They stray further from the light. The cold follows, nipping and biting at their fingers as they tear through the maze of bark and pine. The boy. Michael! Out of sight? Or a leaping shadow amongst the trees, just out of reach? The dark has blinded the two, bound and tied by the murky chains of night. Their pace slows to a stop. Their voices now silenced by fear.
The two men fall and collapse, exhausted. Had they been running for hours? Or had it been a short sprint, toughened with the jagged teeth of rocks and swords of sticks. Their breath melting into the frosty air, hopes and dreams of valour and glory following closely. They have have outran the beasts, but the paralysis is kicking in.
“Bastard, you sick bastard,” Thomas moans as he rolls on his back, his face to the night sky. The sky. The only view to the outside world. To safety. “You’ve killed us. You’ve killed us all. For what?”
“For what? For what?” Alban blurted as he stumbled onto his knees, “For our people! For us. Have you no dignity or courage?”
“And look at what dignity and courage got us into. Look, fool!” Thomas screeched as propped himself onto a tree bark, “We had sacrificed hundreds of our kindred to a lost cause. A cause made of dust. Dust which you call ‘Dignity’! Dust which you call ‘Courage’! Have you no shame in painting a false picture, laced with blood and showered in death, for our kinsmen to drool and salivate over? Only for them to jump to their deaths just to grasp it’s canvas? You’re a sick fool, Alban. Father would have been burying his head in shame, had be still be alive today.”
“Don’t mention him, brother,” Alban warned, “He’s far behind us now.”
“Don’t call me that, you demented being. No brother of mine would poison their own father. Yes, don’t pretend that I don’t know. I knew the very moment he suffocated on the banquet table in his own sick, it was you. I should’ve said something. I really should have. But you rallied the people against me. My friends!”
“You know that’s not true…”
“Oh...oh but it is! You sentenced my cousin to the stake because you feared that he’ll speak. You justified your murder with god. Disgusting,” Thomas leaned closer, eyes mad with rage, “Then you bought me with a position at the council. A leader they called you. You’re nothing but a tyrant. For the people? Please, all you worried about was an heir…”
“Please Thomas. Stop.”
“Which reminds me. That boy you talked to. There, by the campfire. Your face grew brighter than I’ve seen it in years, Alban, years! Huh? Have you been having fun with the village girls? Father this, father that. Now he’s gone. Forever. Look at you now. Quiet as death, solemn like a funeral. You never cared! Alban! You never fucking cared! You just want po-”
Like a flash of light, Alban drew his dagger and rammed it into his chest. Repeatedly stabbing him until gouts of blood leaking from his chest and mouth turned into streams, pooling by his side. Bones crunch and crack with each thrust. Thomas gazed on, a horrified expression plastered on his face for eternity.
For a while, Alban sat by his brother. Letting the corpse lean on his shoulder, like the good old days. He felt freed. Another one of those blasted witnesses, removed from earth forever. He got up. Struggling on his knees, he wobbled and made his way through the maze of the forest.
I felt like hours. Perhaps it was, perhaps it was just a few minutes. Time moves at odd speeds when the brain is tired, cold and heat oppressed. Had he not felt the blood of the late Bannerman drop on his face. He looked up.
Richard was hanging from a tree, his guts wrapped tightly around a branch. His arms either cut or eaten off to a stump. His legs had been broken and twisted to impossible angles. His mouth pooled with blood, oozing from where his tongue once was. His clothes had been completely ripped to shreds and lay below him body. His eyes had rolled back, leaving behind pasty white balls to stare at Alban as he nudged the corpse out of the way. There, a clearing and fire was in sight.
The campfire, now dead, whispered its breath into the air. Smoke and char was all that was left behind. The boy, stripped to his skin and dressed in a wig of twigs and vines and tied to a stake, was dead. Saliva and snot has solidified. He too was long gone. Edmund emerged from the treeline, shirt torn off and face scratched. He grinned, showing his array of bloody gaps and gums.
“Alban! M-m-my father! Faaaather!” Edmund called stroking the cheek of the boy, “C-c-come join me and Marium. We’ve been… waiting. Waiting for long.”
Silence.
“She’s come back, father,” Edmund giggled, caressing his thighs, “She’s baaack.”
“Where is it, Edmund?” Alban questioned, staying near the treeline, “Your coat.”
“It likes it cold, father!” Edmund roared, arms thrown into the air, “Cold! Cold! Cold!”
Alban raised his rifle, “Please Edmund, don’t make me do this.”
“Why sir? I was your cook, I was family! Remember me? Haha! Do you know why Marium disappeared? It haunted our town for months! I fed you and your family sow. Sow that had eaten her farrows for years again and again and again. I raised that meat and served it on your plate… your father loved it. Then...she found out, she threatened to run. Run away and to sail across the ocean we had crossed together. So I killed her. She wondered these woods, I saw her! I saw her every night. But now… we’re together. Finally.” Edmund reached for his dagger and charged at Alban.
BAM!
He fell, skidding to a halt and falling to his feet, creating broken trails in the snow. Alban remained, alone, tired and cold.
**
He had reached to the edge of the forest. Dawn had shined its rays upon Alban as he looked up. Sick and fever had covered and crusted over his hair. Minutes turned to hours as walking turned to crawls. He could see his beloved village, a crowd had formed. Welcoming his party.
“They are to be disappointed,” Alban chuckled. The madness had taken over.
One by one, five men had emerged from the forest. Walking proud and healthy, grins on his face. The crowd cheered as the skin walker, wearing Alban’s face and clothes smiled and raised his hands to the air. The real Alban watched as his cursed doppelgänger entered the crowds to once again, feed on the living while they sleep. It was a real shame they couldn’t tell the difference. The Witches hath won.
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