13 Tales of the Paranormal Read online

  Paranormal Anthology

  13 Writers tell stories of the beyond

  Dawn Jayne, J.B. Sullivan, Theresa Oliver,

  J.S. Wilsoncroft, Roy Hudson, Rebecca Nolan, Dawn Kirby, Jana Boskey, Stephen De Marino, Jo-Anne McLeary, Caitlin McColl, Susan Harris,

  Stephanie Greenhalgh

  Firefly & Wisp Publishing

  Anthology Series I

  Paranormal

  ISBN: 978-0-9827062-5-1

  Firefly & Wisp Publishing© 2011

  First Edition Print

  This is a fiction work. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or use of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of Firefly and Wisp Publishing, www.fireflyandwisp.com

  The chills are creeping up your neck, the unknown watch you from a breath away, and the long dead seem closer than ever…

  In the modern age, our five senses are constantly bombarded by the world around us: flashing screens, loud noises, barking, yelling, horn honking, billboards, bustling crowds, arrogant bosses, and the constant hustle of a busy schedule. It's hard to even think of having a moment alone.

  But it is when we are alone, that our sixth sense has a chance to surface. I invite you to take a moment, or two, for yourself to sit down, dim the lights and spend some time with the strange and the weird. Sift through some stories that will have you looking into dark corners, listening to the creaks of the floor, and wondering if the movement of your curtain is the work of something other than a breeze.

  Enjoy!

  ~Earl Duncan

  Firefly & Wisp Editor

  Dying Embers

  Dawn Jayne

  Dying Embers

  Dawn Jayne

  I was carving out a gourd the night he came to my fire. My hands, aged as they were, still allowed me to hold a knife and perform small tasks without a great deal of discomfort. I watched as the innards from the vegetable spilled to the ground between my feet, remembering a time when this ritual had given me a thrill of excitement. Now, it had turned into an uneasy habit, though part of me longed for it to rekindle some stir of emotion.

  My back ached terribly as I sat on the log, hunched over as I was. The chill of the night, not absent despite the raging bonfire before me was a hindrance, and I could feel the sting of it in my bones, deep and biting. The turn of the season was a curse to the old.

  A small family arrived, coming up the hill at an anxious pace; a sturdy man, his wife heavy with child, and three young boys wearing masks and chortling with delight until their eyes fell on my face. Then they turned silent, averting their gaze from the sight, as was the natural response to my disfigurement. The father greeted me, and though I’d known him since he was suckling at his mother’s breast, his name escaped me; a frustrating condition that was becoming more common these days.

  “William,” he said to me in friendly voice. “Your presence is always a welcome sight.”

  I grunted and did my best to stand; using the assistance of a walking staff that had once been a faithful companion to my own father and now served me with equal loyalty.

  “I’ve tended the needlefire for more years than you’ve been alive,” I said, hobbling forward to poke at the flames, more from show than necessity as it was still burning fully. “I will continue to do so until I become bones.”

  I didn’t mention that I suspected that day was coming soon, as it would do nothing but elicit sentiments from the young family. I had no wish to hear that I was in fine health, which was an utter falsehood, or to be told I would outlive even the children of the village. I was ready to pass from this world and take my infirmities with me. I longed for the escape of the darkness with more earnestness than I had longed for the embrace of a woman when I was a young man.

  “I think we’ll be the last tonight,” the man said as he came forward and knelt near the fire, his own hollowed gourd in his hands. “There’s a storm on the wind, and most have started back to their homes.” He used a small branch on the ground to catch a flame, touching it to the timber in the gourd. He lit his own little fire, cupping his hands around the ember so it would not extinguish. He stood slowly, his family looking on with satisfaction. “Would you like to walk with us?”

  “I’ll manage well enough on my own,” I said, sitting heavily back on the log. “I’ve trudged through many a storm in my day, and if one comes, all the better. The rain will put an end to these flames better than I.”

  “Not just the storm that should cause you worry,” the young wife said, wrapping her shawl about her shoulders and looking into the sky with concern in her face. “This is no night for walking about alone. We can’t be leaving you here for the dead.”

  “I have a wife and four sons that have passed into the next life,” I said, staring into the bonfire with eyes that were starting to redden from the smoke. “If the dead come for me, I might find myself in good company.”

  I felt a cold splash of water fall upon my hand, and that single raindrop accomplished more than any words of argument I could find. The woman gathered her children to her skirts and removed her headscarf, using it to protect the small fire in the gourd her husband held.

  “We need to take cover,” she said, her voice near panic. “We should take the tree-line home.”

  “It will be a longer trek that way,” the husband said. “The children are weary, and I won’t be having you work yourself into early labor. I’m no midwife, woman.”

  “Never you mind about that. The boys and I will be fine. It’s the ember that’s important, and I won’t have it doused before I see it to our hearth. We need its protection from the evil that’s coming.”

  I almost smiled, recognizing the tone of a woman that would not be moved. My own wife had been of the same temperament, and though I would often chide her for stubbornness, I found it was the arguments the trait inspired that I recalled with most fondness.

  “Your woman speaks the truth,” I said to the man. “I won’t have you delayed on my account. See your family safely home, and think no more of this old man. I’ll be taking my own ember with me, and that should be enough to placate the spirits.”

  “Aye,” he said. “You take care, William. Perhaps I’ll be seeing you on the morrow.”

  “Perhaps.”

  The family departed, the children running ahead while the parents moved with caution, keeping careful watch on their ember lest the spark be snuffed out. I watched them until they were shadows, and then I pulled my cloak around me, tossing a piece over my head as more raindrops began to fall. The flames began to dim after a time, and I felt my eyes growing heavy when I heard a voice from the darkness, accented in a way I’d never heard in my lifetime.

  “Might I share this fire with you?”

  I squinted up, and saw a stranger before me, burdened with a rucksack and wearing heavy boots fit for long journeys. He was partially hidden beneath a hooded cloak, but I could see the edges of a beard, and wisps of dark hair.

  “I don’t know your face,” I said, adjusting my position a bit and willing my clouded vision to focus. I felt my back seize up as I moved, and I grimaced in pain. “Are you here visiting kinfolk?”

  “I am not,” he said, squatting down and warming his hands. The move was easy for him, and I estimated his age was prime. “My name is A
hriman, and I’m far from my own lands. I’m heading north to the mountains.”

  “That’s a long way,” I said, my voice starting to become rough from the cold. “And this is no fit night for traveling. If you have some coin, you might find refuge at one of the farmhouses. The harvest was a poor yield, but some might be willing to put you up, even tonight, for a fair price.”

  “Tell me, what manner of night is this that has caused such odd celebration?” Ahriman looked at me, and this time I could see his eyes. They were large and dark, but I saw no ill intent in them. “I passed through a neighboring village, and all were dressed in guise, even the little ones and the old. And fires such as this were blazing across the countryside.”

  I laughed, but it soon turned into a fit of coughing. I could taste blood in my throat, as had happened many times of late. It took several minutes to subside, leaving me gasping for breath. I wondered if this would be the corruption that finally brought my body to an end, if I would one night find myself choking to death on my own bile. I cared not; the suffering would be short-lived compared to the eternal sleep it would bring.

  “You’ve come a long way indeed if you’re unfamiliar with the legends,” I said, my voice growing weary. “And ignorance can be a dangerous thing.”

  “Then perhaps you would take pity on a stranger and educate me in your ways,” he said, smiling. “So that I might better protect myself in these lands.”

  I could hear no mockery in his voice, only sincerity that moved me to speak freely about things usually whispered in secret. I gathered my strength and breathed as deeply as my lungs would permit. “Your people are aware of the seasons, are they not?”

  “Of course,” Ahriman said, nodding his head at the flames. “And this is the time when the sun relinquishes its power to the moon. The days grow shorter, the nights longer.”

  “Aye, but it’s also the time when the veil between our world and the spirit world is thin,” I said, my voice taking on a rhythm that I hadn’t used in many long years, not since my words were used to convey stories to my children. “This night can bring terrible things to those not prepared. Kinsman long dead may appear, and evil spirits abound, creatures great and horrible with gruesome countenance and wicked natures. But, the bonfire offers protection from those, and the guise can serve to frighten them from our midst.”

  Ahriman grunted. I watched him closely, looking for a sign that he found me a doddered, foolish old man with a faltering mind and rambling words. I saw nothing of that in him, and he gave every appearance of one with a serious disposition, a quality I’d found absent in younger men of late.

  “Have your people no legends?” I asked after the silence began to drag. “I once thought I would travel, see the world beyond and learn things uncommon. But those were the dreams of youth that never came to pass. I pray you will indulge me now, perhaps with a tale of your homeland.”

  Ahriman sat back, propping his arms upon his knees. The raindrops were still coming, only a few, but creating sparks as they struck the great fire. The flickering of the light cast odd shadows on my companion’s face.

  “We had but one legend that I can recall with clarity,” he said, his voice steady and strong. “That of creatures that roamed at night, searching for blood and flesh on which to feast. It’s said these were once men, but had been polluted by evil and turned into something else, something alive, but yet also dead.” He paused for a long while and then picked up a handful of dirt and let it fall through his fingers. “I never believed in the stories. My friends and I would laugh at them, and find humor in the fear they inspired in others.”

  I leaned forward with interest, reveling in the tale. It had been too long since I’d felt the excitement of the unfamiliar, and hoped my failing mind would be able to keep hold of the words so I could recall them later.

  “Did you ever come to believe in the creatures as more than a device to inspire terror?’ I asked, my interest growing stronger even as the rain began to come with more rapidity. The fire would soon be doused.

  “I did,” Ahriman stated. “There was a girl I knew, perhaps ten years old, and she vanished from the fields one night. We searched for her, but found no trace, save her dress near the river, stained red with more blood than could be lost without death.”

  “Tragedy, that one so young was taken,” I said. “Your people believed it was one of the creatures that was responsible for the terrible deed?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “The townsmen believed it was a wolf, as one had been sighted the week before. But there were no tears on the garment, no sign of an animal’s claws or teeth. That people were so quick to dismiss these things, never sat comfortably with me, but I was little more than a boy, and my voice held no weight. I continued searching for her well after others; even her own family had given up hope.”

  “You are a brave man to willingly risk confrontation with a being of lore,” I said. “What inspired you to such dedication? Was this girl someone you knew well?”

  “I had hoped to enter into arrangement with her father, for purpose of marriage, when she came of age.” He looked forlorn for a moment, his shoulders slouching as one burdened by great weight. “As it turned out, that was not going to be possible.”

  “Ah, so she was never found then,” I said, my voice rising in dramatic pitch, the way of practiced story-tellers. I had spent time as the village muse for a while, until my halting memory no longer allowed me to recall the stories properly.

  “That’s not the whole truth of it,” Ahriman said. “Years passed, so many that the incident had become lost. Children once again played freely in the countryside, and men traveled the road without weapons. Livestock were permitted to graze without a watchman. It was as though the terrible event had never happened, and even I, despite my doubts over the cause, had become complacent. But one night while I was walking home, I saw her again.”

  “She survived,” I whispered, marveling at the way I was being drawn into the tale, led by words dark and foreboding.

  Ahriman hesitated, but then nodded and closed his eyes for a time. “At first I thought I was having a vision. She was exactly as I remembered her from childhood. I had grown, but she was still a girl, even her hair was braided in the same way as I recalled. She was standing over the corpse of a woman, her chin and neck covered in blood and bits of meat. I was terrified and started to run, but she called after me in a delicate voice and told me not to be afraid, swearing that she wouldn’t harm me. Despite my fear, I stopped. To this day I know not why.”

  “And you were attacked?” I could tell from the tone that something dreadful was approaching, and I felt a long absent knot of anticipation in my belly. “How did you survive such evil?”

  “She didn’t lay a finger on me, nor even try,” he said. “We merely spoke, with her asking of her family and the village. Though she had the remains of the dead between her teeth, she seemed no more a monster than any other girl, and it baffled my mind. We talked deep into the night, well after the torch lights had faded. She told me of her life, how she’d been drained of blood and awoke a creature of darkness, able only to subsist on others.”

  “Horrifying!” I sat back, running a hand over my face, part of me hoping the young man was just having some fun with an elderly stranger, some brief amusement on his journey. But I doubted this, for Ahriman had turned white as sheep’s wool in the face, and his eyes seemed to grow misty as he spoke as though he were relaying the deepest of pain.

  “She told me she could tolerate the hunting, that she’d gotten accustomed to it and had learned how to kill painlessly. But the immortality bothered her beyond reason. She would never grow old or know of love. She would never find a man that would accept her, save ones who had predilections toward children, and she went to great lengths to avoid those or destroy them when the chance arose.” He became silent, his eyes vacant as they stared into the darkness. “Despite the frightful deeds she had done, I pitied her.”

  “I
cannot imagine a creature inspiring such sentiment.” The thought was so foreign to me that I could scarcely form the words on my tongue. But in the next moment, another round of coughing struck at me, taking me to my knees, which protested painfully against the abuse. I laughed a bit, drawing a curious glance from my strange companion.

  “I think, instead of pity, your monster child was worthy of envy. The bloodlust is a dreadful thing, to be sure. But to be young and supple for eternity…” I shook my head in wonderment. “I wonder if that girl, even in her youth, recognized the gift she’d been given. To never grow old, or to watch her beauty stolen a day at a time, or to feel her body become the enemy. Had I met this creature when I was a virile man such as you, I might have beseeched her to corrupt me with her unnatural power, so that I could live as such all the days of the world.”

  I shook out my cloak, which had soaked through from the rain which was now in full downpour. So involved in the tale from the stranger, I hadn’t noticed the needlefire had died away. I had a moment of regret that I’d forgotten to gather an ember in my gourd, to place in the hearth at my humble home. I’d never failed in that tradition, one of the few I had kept over my long years, even those times when my body was crippled from pain.

  “I must leave you now, stranger. I offer you shelter this night, if you desire such, though my hospitality only extends to a place on a hardened floor. Work is scarce for able men these days, and there is none for those that aren’t. I’ve had to part with most of my belongings, even the very bed I shared with my wife for forty years.”

  The visitor did not respond, nor did he make any move to stand, or seem at all concerned that the wet ground was starting to become mud beneath him. He kept his gaze on the remains of the fire, his expression one that my failing eyes could not discern with certainty, but appeared troubled. I wondered if he was in thrall of my tale, or in private agony from his own. Either way, I was content to leave him alone with his thoughts. I gathered my cloak around me, took my walking staff in hand and began the slow trek downhill, taking care on the grass that had turned slippery during the storm.