Halloween Story Chazwriter Challenge
- Thread starter Renee750il
- Start date
Samhainʼs not generally considered an auspicious night to go wandering in old places in
strange moods, not when thereʼs something in your DNA that calls out to the Old Ones
hidden in the deep places . . .
I knew better than to drive through that particular mountain pass, the one that goes to
my favorite trail -- that peters out to a deer path, then diminishes to the gray fox runs
and disappears to the subterranean realms of the burrowers; where the cedar and
sumac give way to the birch with her trailing bark tresses and the wild cherry trees spin
branches gnarled and elf-locked outward -- on that particular evening, in that particular
mood.
But itʼs a section of the Smokey Mountains I love. It stretches across the Tennessee-
North Carolina border, back where my ancestors settled; the Irish and Scots, seeking to
escape British tyranny; a deep place, where they could wear the forbidden plaid and
play the pipes and harp, a place that reminded them of home. And deep within this new
world some of them found their oldest roots -- a faith and wisdom all but lost in the
hellfire and damnation brought by Patrick, knowledge and power all but buried under the
weight of the foreign gods, old gods mocked and painted over to be hidden and
hopefully rendered impotent as images of demigods belonging to the harsh new
religion, older Powers, their Names usurped to be sainted or demonized. Old Gods, old
secrets. The Oldest Powers, old as the land . . . older.
So off we went, the three dogs and me with a roiling case of the Celtic Blacks, that
deep, dark dudgeon that takes hold of the Irish soul from time to time for no explainable
reason. It rolls in on a riptide of despair and subsides in its own inimitable time and
takes the soul along -- sometimes leaving it adrift far from shore. Itʼs not a good mix with
a fair bit of anger and a hunger for vengeance, however justified.
The sun was up when the dogs and I left the car and started our walk. It was hazy and
the light was soft, but looking at my watch and the position of the sun assured me we
had plenty of time for a leisurely trail tromp as long as we turned back before the sun
neared the top of the farthest ridge. Once it dropped behind the ridge darkness would
fall like a shroud and the mountain mists would make a flashlight nearly useless. Not a
big deal, weʼd walked this way uncounted times and had the timing down to a science.
Even without a watch, I could trust the dogsʼ instincts to head us back to the car in
good time.
Besides, what was there out here to be afraid of, me, with my three?
Irritation and that “itchy†feeling drove me to move faster than my usual wont, and my
black mood had me too wrapped up in myself to be aware of my surroundings. Normally
I move through my world with hyper sensitivity. I may not notice people around me, but I
absorb everything else in my environment. I wonʼt be able to recount conversations, but
I can describe, in detail, any creature, any event, any thing and the feelings, emotions
and sensations theyʼve evoked. Long before I would have thought it possible, we had
reached a small clearing Iʼd never seen before, where a large, low mound of earth rose
in the center, too even to be natural, covered in the green of spring rampant with violets
and starflowers blooming -- amid the dying leaves falling around the perimeter of this strange dell.
I was lost in my own dark reverie, weaving curses and sating my evil mood with
scenarios of well-earned revenge, satisfying fantasies of myself as the Morrigan, Babh,
the Battle Crow . . . and didnʼt notice the mist moving in until it had enveloped us. The
dogs were dim shapes ahead of me and I shook with relief when they came immediately
to my side when I called. Clipping their leashes on, as much to keep from losing myself
as to keep them from roaming off, I tried to calm myself by talking to them, but my voice
fell, strained and dampered in the fog.
Silence enveloped us. I felt the dogs straining their senses, listening, tasting the air for
scents, alert, looking for out of place shapes or movement, waiting to be alarmed, ready
to strike at anything that ventured within our circle.
I had to try.
Gripping all three leashes tightly in one hand, I unhooked the maglite from my
waistband, twisted it on and shone a broad beam out into the milky mists, looking for a
break in the fog, something that would let me get my directional bearings, something,
anything recognizable in the landscape of phantasms that surrounded us. Nothing
looked real. The light splattered against the fog and bounced back.
The dogs stiffened and their hackles rose at the same instant as mine. I cursed my own
foolishness under my breath, worried more that something might happen to them
through my folly and foul mood than about myself. I was still angry -- truthfully, angrier
than ever, at the fog, at the asshole Iʼd thrown out of my house -- finally -- at my boss
who was letting his paranoid wife ruin my job, at myself for not walking away from it all,
at the only man who ever “got†me for being afraid to be happy, at everyone and
everything that had ever thwarted me, cheated me or broken my heart, and at myself for
getting us into this mess -- whatever it was.
“Take us back to the car.†I trusted my dogsʼ sense of direction. Mine was completely
confounded.
They looked at me and whined softly.
“Cʼmon, letʼs go home!†My voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Please . . . letʼs go,†I
repeated and joggled the leashes in entreaty.
All three sniffed the air, then the ground and moved forward tentatively. I followed,
tethered to them, hanging onto their leashes as the fog parted reluctantly around us. We
swam through a viscous pool of silvery, shimmering veils. Anywhere I shone my light
turned to a wall. It made me claustrophobic. My imagination began to take over. We
were prisoned in a saining pool. If I looked up, I would see the outlines of a face
looming, looking down, seeking a vision.
Shuddering, I tried to rein in my imagination before it took off to places I did not want to
go.
The dogs and I all stopped.
We held our breath to listen.
The smallest -- well, sheʼs fifty-five pounds of muscle and moxy -- reared up and threw
her head back and shrieked out her battle cry. Iʼd never heard the banshee -- The Ban-
Sidhe -- but that long, wailing scream had to come through the DNA from her Blue Paul
ancestors just as surely as my own . . . well, feyness, runs in mine. The swirling fog
stilled. It glittered. It glowed. It thinned.
That scream pierced the waiting silence again and I moved to hush my dog, but she
was sitting quietly. They were all quiet. Waiting. Ready, on edge, quivering with
something -- not fear, more than anticipation. I braced myself and hung onto the leads,
praying that the dogs would stay silent and whatever that cry had come from would
pass by without noticing us.
The mists shivered and parted, sheer curtains in a breeze, I looked around. Turning
off the light seemed like a good idea; no sense making it easier for whatever was out
there to find us. Behind the mists it was full night. There was light ahead . . . the full
moon? No. “Sh1t,†I muttered to myself. “Shitshitshitshitshit.†I remembered. Tonight was
the new moon. On Samhain. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.†I searched my mind for more ways
to mentally castigate myself for this monumental folly.
Shapes moved within the glow. Muffled sounds. Bells. Hooves. The soft jingle of bridles.
Silhouettes floated forward in the shreds of the fog. I knelt with my arms around my
dogsʼ necks, whispering to them to be still, quiet,
“Danu, Lady, Mother, Goddess . . . Cernnunos . . . . watch over your own . . .â€
The rade turned before the riders saw us. The dogs stayed motionless, soundless, I
breathed again.
And one rider, the last, broke away from the rest and I found myself looking up into a
cloak of endless shadow, a face unseen save for burning green eyes . . .
***************
My hounds and I . . . . Now we ride to The Hunt. We will never grow old. We will never
falter. We will never be parted. We are a new legend in this latter land, given life by the
legends of our ancestors.
Watch for us where the mists swirl near green mounds; me and my three -- one red as
autumn bracken, one black as deepest night, one dappled gray as twilight shadows.
Listen for the song of our hunting. If the blood in your veins surges to the sound of the
harp and your skin thrills to the drone of the pipes, watch and know the Old Ways are
alive and well.
But if your belly clutches in a knot and your throat closes in ragged terror and you claw
at your crosses with clammy hands . . . aye, well, you will learn . . .
My name is Morgan.
waistband, twisted it on and shone a broad beam out into the milky mists, looking for a
break in the fog, something that would let me get my directional bearings, something,
anything recognizable in the landscape of phantasms that surrounded us. Nothing
looked real. The light splattered against the fog and bounced back.
The dogs stiffened and their hackles rose at the same instant as mine. I cursed my own
foolishness under my breath, worried more that something might happen to them
through my folly and foul mood than about myself. I was still angry -- truthfully, angrier
than ever, at the fog, at the asshole Iʼd thrown out of my house -- finally -- at my boss
who was letting his paranoid wife ruin my job, at myself for not walking away from it all,
at the only man who ever “got†me for being afraid to be happy, at everyone and
everything that had ever thwarted me, cheated me or broken my heart, and at myself for
getting us into this mess -- whatever it was.
“Take us back to the car.†I trusted my dogsʼ sense of direction. Mine was completely
confounded.
They looked at me and whined softly.
“Cʼmon, letʼs go home!†My voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Please . . . letʼs go,†I
repeated and joggled the leashes in entreaty.
All three sniffed the air, then the ground and moved forward tentatively. I followed,
tethered to them, hanging onto their leashes as the fog parted reluctantly around us. We
swam through a viscous pool of silvery, shimmering veils. Anywhere I shone my light
turned to a wall. It made me claustrophobic. My imagination began to take over. We
were prisoned in a saining pool. If I looked up, I would see the outlines of a face
looming, looking down, seeking a vision.
Shuddering, I tried to rein in my imagination before it took off to places I did not want to
go.
The dogs and I all stopped.
We held our breath to listen.
The smallest -- well, sheʼs fifty-five pounds of muscle and moxy -- reared up and threw
her head back and shrieked out her battle cry. Iʼd never heard the banshee -- The Ban-
Sidhe -- but that long, wailing scream had to come through the DNA from her Blue Paul
ancestors just as surely as my own . . . well, feyness, runs in mine. The swirling fog
stilled. It glittered. It glowed. It thinned.
That scream pierced the waiting silence again and I moved to hush my dog, but she
was sitting quietly. They were all quiet. Waiting. Ready, on edge, quivering with
something -- not fear, more than anticipation. I braced myself and hung onto the leads,
praying that the dogs would stay silent and whatever that cry had come from would
pass by without noticing us.
The mists shivered and parted, sheer curtains in a breeze, I looked around. Turning
off the light seemed like a good idea; no sense making it easier for whatever was out
there to find us. Behind the mists it was full night. There was light ahead . . . the full
moon? No. “Sh1t,†I muttered to myself. “Shitshitshitshitshit.†I remembered. Tonight was
the new moon. On Samhain. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.†I searched my mind for more ways
to mentally castigate myself for this monumental folly.
Shapes moved within the glow. Muffled sounds. Bells. Hooves. The soft jingle of bridles.
Silhouettes floated forward in the shreds of the fog. I knelt with my arms around my
dogsʼ necks, whispering to them to be still, quiet,
“Danu, Lady, Mother, Goddess . . . Cernnunos . . . . watch over your own . . .â€
The rade turned before the riders saw us. The dogs stayed motionless, soundless, I
breathed again.
And one rider, the last, broke away from the rest and I found myself looking up into a
cloak of endless shadow, a face unseen save for burning green eyes . . .
***************
My hounds and I . . . . Now we ride to The Hunt. We will never grow old. We will never
falter. We will never be parted. We are a new legend in this latter land, given life by the
legends of our ancestors.
Watch for us where the mists swirl near green mounds; me and my three -- one red as
autumn bracken, one black as deepest night, one dappled gray as twilight shadows.
Listen for the song of our hunting. If the blood in your veins surges to the sound of the
harp and your skin thrills to the drone of the pipes, watch and know the Old Ways are
alive and well.
But if your belly clutches in a knot and your throat closes in ragged terror and you claw
at your crosses with clammy hands . . . aye, well, you will learn . . .
My name is Morgan.
Dark Apparition
Dark the skies and black the night,
One faceless, cloaked rider steals the moonlight,
From without to within,
Musty mansion of sin,
Dark apparition draws my love in,
No will to recede,
fades hope to be freed,
Crashing wind, my own voice mute,
Vanishing doors never regained,
My mausoleum, vortex of regret,
Never to be seen or heard from again.
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