Ghost Story Challenge: "I Gave You My Heart"--Marlene Simonette

I Gave You My Heart

By Marlene Simonette

Roland paced his cabin. The dim firelight across the room cast the dark wood into further shadow. “Why does no one heed my warnings, Evgeni?”

At the mention of his name, the hearth sprite crawled out from behind the coals. He cocked his head, which set a cloud of soot hovering about him.

            “How long has it been now?”

            The sprite held up five fingers.

            “Five years, and no one heeds my warnings!” Ignoring the agitated scowl that narrowed the sprite’s eyes, he tilted his head towards the rafters. “I must change my tactics, for certes. Who is her next target?”

            Bearing a fistful of glowing coals, Evgeni scuttled towards him. Roland instinctively knelt to look into the fire.

            The form of a young lad—who had seen perhaps 16 winters—became apparent. “I recognize him.” Roland jabbed a finger at the image. “The young Clement Smith. Has he taken up apprenticeship with his father yet?” At the sprite’s silence, Roland frowned. “A pity. He would have made a fine smith.”

            Standing, he began to pace again. “Who was her previous target? Does breath yet tether them?”

            Evgeni held up the coals. There was no image, but the flames pulsed like a heartbeat. A weak, fluttering heartbeat.

            With a nod, Roland stepped outside. There were fewer trees than he recalled seeing last time he ventured outside his home. Otherwise, it looked the same as it always had: blanketed in heavy snow, the clouded sky lit silver by the moon, and the tracks of animals about the house.

            A blast of wind surrounded him. He leaned into it. In a flurry of snow, he vanished.

***

Roland materialized on the edge of a settlement, whose name had been Maur last he checked. Only, it was larger than before. It had suffered many more changes than his home had over the years. Several familiar shops were gone or moved. The people—bundled up in their long coats, red scarves, and leather boots—seemed more distant, and less inclined to talk with him. Even the cobblestones were changed.

            He shook his head. “No time,” he breathed. Normally, he would bind his eyes, and pose as a blind man. But the people of the town this year didn’t seem to notice him much at all. So, he closed his eyes, and began a slow walk through the town. The pulse called to him as clearly as a singer.

            He found the victim in an alley, between a bakery and a curio shop. The man appeared to have seen more than thirty winters; his hands were gnarled from work, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. His coat and boots lay against the wall further down, violently discarded. He seemed to be waiting for death.

            Roland knelt at his side. The man stirred, shifting his half-closed eyes. Through blue-tinged lips, he croaked, “You.”

            Roland just nodded.

            “Should…should have listened…” He sighed and closed his eyes.

            Hurriedly, Roland gripped the man’s shoulders. “Will you accept healing?”

            The man frowned. “My heart’s been broken. What could heal that?”

            Roland put his hand within his coat. He withdrew some of the coals from his fireplace. “Just hold these. Look into them. Hold them close.”

            The man opened his eyes. He looked at the coals, moved as if to take them. Then he dropped his hands and tilted his head to the side. “No. I don’t deserve…a second chance…leave me be…”

            Knowing the finality of the decision, Roland wasted no time. He stood. He vanished in another flurry. When he materialized, it was in a much more familiar place.

            “Ah, Hartlepool.” Thoroughly disheartened, Roland walked along the shore of the half-frozen lake. He wasn’t left to his thoughts for long, for shouts soon came to him from across the lake.

            Materializing among the trees, he watched the frantic group of men, young and old, clustered at the water’s edge.

            “Have y’i seen anything like it?” There was a wet thwap. “Y’ich!” One of the men reeled back, clutching his face. “Cuts like the ‘ithers!”

            “Hold it, hold it!”

            Roland tread silently around, so he could get a better look at whatever it was they were trying to drag from the water. He glimpsed flashes, a dark fin, and a thrashing tail that was far too large to belong to a mere fish.

            Siren.

            Stepping out from among the trees, Roland cupped his hands to his mouth. “Cease, miscreants!”

            Only one of the men—the one who had shouted “hold”—looked up. His grey stubble was coated in a mix of blood and the freezing water. “If you want a share, vagabond, you’ll have to help!”

            “I’ve not come to aid you; I’ve come to stop you.”

            The men gave one last heave, and dragged the now-unmoving creature onto land.

            One of the younger men straightened, swiping his damp brow. “What’s this nonsense?”

            Roland tramped forward. “Harm her no further!”

            The men looked thoroughly confused.

            “The world really has gone to the dragons if you think this is proper practice!”

            “He’s got to be tipsy. Trip, get him to the village.”

            The younger man who had spoken stepped towards Roland. Holding his hands up placatingly, he said, “Come on, old man, let’s get you home.”

            Roland side-stepped, and caught his foot behind Trip’s ankle. With a quick lift, Roland sent him sprawling. “I’ve not imbibed the drink of the gods for years. Now.” He planted a foot on the back of Trip’s neck, and the other on the flesh of his arm. Trip cried out in protest. Roland continued, “Let. Her. Go.”

            The men looked wary now. A few clustered closer around the body. Two others came forward, and Roland glimpsed dark green hair and skin so white it seemed the color of the snow.

            “She needs to get back in the water,” he said, hoping they would see sense. When they came forward, looking more angered than anything, he sighed. “Very well. Tally-ho!”

            In a puff of snow, he disappeared. The men started violently.

            “Where’d he—”

            “I didn’t sign up to mess with spirits!”

            “Got to be a wizard or somesuch.”

            “That’s even worse!”

            By the time Roland materialized behind the group, it had lessened by half. Howling like a banshee, he charged against the men. His hefty frame sent them stumbling away. A few tripped over their own feet and landed on their faces.

            “We’ll come back another day! Trip, let’s go!”

            “But those scales! They’ll sell—” Trip was hauled away by the man Roland presumed to be the father.

            Now alone with the beached Siren, he carefully nudged her shoulder. The Siren jerked. Her talons and teeth slashed at him. He let one blow fall—a glancing swipe at his leg—then disappeared.

            The Siren’s eyes were closed, and covered by her long green hair. She shrieked weakly, still trying to hit something that was no longer there.

            Re-materializing, he gripped the back of her shoulders. “I’m trying to help you, lady. Will you let me?”

            The Siren went limp. Roland heaved. Slowly, he dragged her back to the water. As soon as she hit the water, she twitched and swam out a little ways. To his surprise, she didn’t dive immediately.

            She adjusted her hair so that it covered her eyes like a bandana. “Who are you?” she asked.

            Though he was technically dead, her voice sent a thrill through him. Forcing himself to focus, he cleared his throat. “I am called Roland.”

            “Thank you, Roland.” After a few moments, she said, “Ask me anything.”

            Roland blinked rapidly. He nearly blurted, “What do you mean?” But, since she hadn’t specified if this was a one-question only offer, he clamped his mouth shut. “There is a female, whom I believe to be a Siren, who is killing my people. She calls herself Rochelle Greywaters. What is she?”

            The Siren cocked her head. “What is she like?”

            “Beautiful. I could listen to her voice all day.” He sighed. “She is coy, but in an oddly dainty way. She makes you fear to break her. Then, she breaks you.” He shuffled his feet. “Average height, slender, long silky hair; with eyes that look like the moon, they’re so big and silver.”

            “Oh, dear.”

            Roland looked up. “What is she?”

            The Siren didn’t answer at first. She swam in circles, ducking in and out of the water, for several minutes.

            Growing impatient, Roland tapped his fingers to his head. “I must be going, if you’ve nothing to tell me.”

            She stilled. “No, wait. I will tell you, if you promise me one thing.”

            “What is it?”

            “Promise!” Her voice rose in pitch, sounding frantic.

            “I cannot agree to that which I do not know.”

            The Siren ducked so that her face was half in the water. Slowly, she swam up to the shore. In a whisper, she said, “A selkie. She’s a selkie.”

            “And what is that?”

            “Someone who wants a soul very badly.”

            “Who’s soul?”

            “Not someone else’s soul; she wants asoul. Sirens don’t have them, you see.” She gave a bubbling sigh. “That’s what I wanted you to promise. To help me gain a soul. That way, I don’t become as desperate as Greywater.”

            Roland rubbed his chin. “What must I do?”

            “Find me someone to love.”

            “Er…”

            “You must find someone who will love me for me.”

            “I will do what I can. Now, how can I catch this selkie? Prevent her from breaking any more hearts?”

            “Find her skin. It will be nearby, possibly guarded.”

            “Skin?”

            “It would likely be something along the lines of a seal-skin cape, or a shark-toothed necklace; it all depends on what form she chose.” Before he could interject, she added, “I’m afraid I don’t know what form that would be. Hurry. Please.”

            She ducked beneath the surface. With a flick of her tail, she was gone.

            Roland himself vanished a few minutes later. He had work to do.

***

He found the selkie’s soon-to be-victim, not in the village near Hartlepool, but in a settlement halfway across the island. Clement crouched over a thin patch of ice. He ran a bone comb through his hair and was so focused on his reflection that he didn’t notice Roland. Until Roland shouted, “Halloo there!” that is.

            Clement leaped to his feet, face flush and hands held out as if he were being robbed. “Hello, tramp. I didn’t see you there.”

            Roland grunted. He’d tried several different approaches: subtle, direct, a blend of the two. Nothing seemed to work. As of late, he’d settled for direct. The reactions were always amusing. “I know about Rochelle.”

            The boy’s already red face turned a darker shade of crimson. “What about her?”

            “She’s a murderer, young Smith. Take leave of her as soon as possible.”

            Clement stared at him, mouth twisted in disbelief. He jabbed the comb in Roland’s face. “Who do you think you are?”

            “You do not recognize me?”

            Clement’s expression changed to a mixture of pity and alarm. “Should I?”

            Roland gave his full name, complete with titles earned under King Volos. Expecting recognition to win out, he waited.

            Expression the same, Clement cocked his head. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

            “No! I knew your father. I took you fishing several times during the winter seasons!”

            “What’s my father’s name?”

            “You ruddy rascal, it’s Trevor Smith.”

            “That…isn’t my father’s name.” Clement scratched his head with the comb. “It is, however, the name of my great-grandfather.”

            Roland stared at him for a minute. “I’ll be back in a trice.” He jabbed a finger at Clement. “Don’t go anyplace.”

***

“EVGENI!” Roland stormed over to the hearth.

            The sprite glanced up. He held up a fistful of coals.

            Roland shook his head. “How long has it been since my last arrival?”

            A shrug, then a rough seasonal chart scratched out in the soot.

            “Oh, why don’t you just use a calendar?”

            Clearly agitated, the sprite glowered. Through pictograms—and with many misinterpretations—Roland came to the understanding that, shortly after his last appearance, there had been a catastrophe of some sort that had caused the king’s advisors to cease use of the calendar. Since then, five winters had passed. And the winters were getting longer every year.

            “So why haven’t I come back, or you brought me, before now?”

            Evgeni took off his cap, wringing it in his hands.

            Roland felt queasy. He felt worse when Evgeni held up a hand. Blood.

            “Tell me.” Roland went down to one knee. “How have you kept me alive?”

            The sprite refused to make eye contact. A few half-hearted attempts at sketches later, Evgeni ran a hand through his massive beard. He removed a slim notebook.

            Recognizing the cover, Roland sucked in a breath. King Volos’s book, a gift from one of his many nieces. Roland had been there when the young girl had presented it to the king.

            It was made of a shimmery material, with decorative shells and embossed underwater plant life across the entirety.

            With utmost care, he took the book and opened to the bookmarked page.

            To Roland, my most trusted knight:…

            A majority of it was sentimental, to which Roland alternately chuckled and scoffed. Then, the sentences:

            I give my life blood willingly. Please, do not throttle or throw the sprite. He wishes for you to remain as much as I.

            Roland’s free hand was already curled into a fist. He glanced at Evgeni. It was difficult to keep his voice even. “You. Killed. Volos? I—I’m—”

            A sob choked him. Knowing no other way to vent his rage and sorrow, he dashed outside. More time had passed than he realized; it was early morning of the next day. He curled his hands into fists. A few heartbeats later, he vanished.

***

Roland eyed the cringing Clement. They stood in the woods, where Clement had evidently taken Rochelle to picnic. The girl was nowhere in sight.

            “I’ve lost all patience,” he snapped. “Where is it? She must have entrusted it to you.”

Clement stammered something unintelligible.

            “She has slain countless men and boys with the potential to serve their country well! This ends—” He glanced up at the sky. “—before the sun reaches its peak. I swear it.” 

            “You know, I could call for help.”

            Roland scoffed. He noted the way Clement was sitting, the way he kept trying to hide something behind his back. He began circling the boy. “What good would your father’s sickle do against a ghost?”

            Clement threw an empty tankard at him. It went through with a puff of snow, and struck a tree behind him.

            “What good can anythingdo against a ghost who has decided…” He began to move in closer, crouching slightly. “…that the death of his quarry is worth a bit of innocent blood?”

            Blanching, Clement scrambled up, screaming, “It’s in the basket, the basket!”

            Roland dove for the basket. Something dashed from the woods—as he’d expected. He turned. For a moment, he gazed at the face of a terrified and desperate Siren: eyes wide, sharp teeth bared, claws extended, skin tinged blue. Then she hit him.

            They grappled. Afterwards, Roland wasn’t able to say what had possessed him to forgo use of his powers.

            She struck, her blows lunging and desperate; Roland struck, his concise strikes fueled by the memories playing out in his mind.

            But this would avail nothing. Not unless he could find—

            The selkie was no longer there.

            Roland drew his hand back, trying not to reel from his missed punch. He whirled around. Where could she have gone?

            A fox with a ginger coat dashed among the trees.

            Snarling, Roland picked up a bit of cutlery. Before he could throw, a small bird took off close by. He whirled again. Rabbits, ermines, quail—everything seemed to be the selkie.

            He sank to his knees.

            “Thank…”

            Roland jerked his head around. Clement. He’d forgotten the boy was there.

            Clement hesitantly came out from behind a tree. “Thank you. I didn’t see…but I did. Now. Now that you’ve…” He gestured vaguely. “She turned into a wolf. All skin and bone and teeth.” Shuddering, he came closer and offered a hand. “I’m sorry for not listening.”

            Roland took his hand, heaved himself up. One life saved. One life. For the first time since his death, he felt tired. He nodded to Clement. “What attracted you to her?”

            “Would you believe personality?”

            “Ha!”

            “Fine, fine. She was gorgeous. I think, maybe, if I had gotten to know her, I could have loved her. But…well, I don’t really know how these things work.”

            Roland huffed. “Would you like to know a Siren who isn’t out to break your heart?”

            “I would rather wait a bit. This whole experience is a bit rattling.” He laced his fingers together.

            “I can’t promise I’ll still be around.”

            “No offense, but I wouldn’t mind risking that.”

***

A week and a half later, Roland and Clement waited at the edge of the lake. Clement shifted nervously, blowing into his hands and rubbing his face. “The water is nearly frozen over. Are you sure she’ll come? I thought Sirens were warm-weather creatures.”

            Roland sighed. “Be quiet.”

            For all of ten seconds, Clement obeyed. “You know, the strangest thing’s been happening to me.”

            Roland hung his head.

            Oblivious, the boy continued. “I’ve been finding it easier to notice those in need. Earlier this week, for example. A girl, homeless, just stood out to me. She wasn’t particularly beautiful. Yet I noticed her. And I think…I think I’ll have to forgo meeting the Siren.”

            “How do you mean?”

            “I mean the mute girl’s growing on me. That is,” he hastened to add at Roland’s concerned expression, “I think I like her. It’s almost like what I felt with Rochelle, but…different.” He preened agitatedly; ran his fingers through his hair, straightened his coat, tightened his scarf. “Never mind. I’ll just…goodbye.”

            Roland watched him leave with a bemused expression. He stayed where he was, looking out at the lake.

            Slow, hesitant footsteps approached.

            Without turning, Roland asked, “Out of all the people I pointed out, you chose him?”

            A hand rested on his shoulder. He patted it. “I wish you luck. If you ever settle down, I know a good house sprite.”

Ghost Story Challenge: "A Record of these Specters"-- Benjamin Leksey

A Record of These Specters

Copied from the Historical Division of Ramortam’s Library

Written in 444 IN by a “Zeimu” of uncertain origin; archived in 452 IN by Ramortam after discovery in a desolated northern Mantizer town; published in 467 IN by the Seeker of Ramortam.

I, Zeimu,for surely I know I am Zeimu, must write of what I have experienced in these past days for the sake of any who may find themselves at the mercy of fear. I also write as a record for those who may learn to fear for themselves what I have seen.

During the white quarter in the fifth year of King Nelka, I was employed by Master Jithei to gather mystic eggs and certain tree barks in the eastern forest. I was stationed at a camp with a small number of other masters’ students. Being a tracker, I hardly spoke to any of them all the time I was there.

There was one girl who I knew, Kashale of Master Kajiwa. I remember clearly a sharp, frozen day when she came up to me as I prepared to head out and harvest.

“Zeimu?” she said, tapping me on the shoulder.

“Yes?”

“I was just wondering, have you seen anything creeping about in the evenings?”

“Well, of course,” I replied. “There’s some fairly big cats around here. You probably know that already.”

“I mean unusual things.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I’ve just had strange feelings and thought I saw something yesterday. Ludar didn’t notice it, and she told me to just ignore it, but I thought maybe you’d seen something as a tracker.”

“No, nothing unusual.”

She looked so disappointed that I felt sorry about it. “Well,” she said, “Keep a watch for it, right?”

“I will,” I replied.

She thanked me and was gone on her way. I grabbed my baskets, and went off in the opposite direction for my own tasks.

Quickly I noticed that the mystic eggs were at least a day old, progressively older moving toward the camp, as if all the creatures had danced away from the area in coordinated steps. But I had work to do, and their business was their own. How foolish.

As the sun set, I sealed the baskets and began making my way back to the camp. Little things scuttled about, making snapping and shuffling noises in the dark. Something about the pattern of their scattering made me feel uneasy, though I knew not what it was.

I returned to the camp with just enough light to see by. There I lit a lantern and began placing my baskets into the cellar just outside the primary long-hut.

“Zeimu!” came a shout, and I shot up from the cellar to look. Kashale was standing at the edge of the camp’s clearing, where the lantern light faintly illuminated her. She was looking straight at me with a grim expression.

“What?” I replied to the air. I was startled by my own voice, as if I were speaking from a dream at the moment of waking. There was nobody by the forest. I imagined the entire thing. Her voice didn’t sound like that, she had not been wearing those clothes when I had seen her that morning. So easy it was to dismiss the moment.

The snow crunched behind me and I whirled around. Ludar, of the same master as Kashale, was towering over me, just returned from her work.

“Tracker Zeimu,” she said, lowering her own lantern, “Kashale hasn’t yet returned. Have you seen her?”

“She’s there,” I replied, naturally pointing to where Kashale lay sprawled on the snow by the forest’s edge.

Immediately Ludar gave a cry and charged over to the fallen body. For a moment I could not think why this was unusual, but soon the realization surged up. It is impossible now for me to imagine how I did not understand at the time. How? Why? These thoughts pounded through my racing mind as I stood frozen in place, watching Ludar roll Kashale over.

“Here!” shouted Ludar, snapping my attention back. “Help me carry her in, she’s hurt!”

I set my lantern on the ground and ran to her. Though I was occupied in lifting Kashale off the ground at Ludar’s instruction, I still saw with some numb apprehension that the garments were indeed the ones from the morning, not those I had seen just a moment ago while she stared at me.

We brought her into the central long-hut and set her upon a bed. The others there gathered around as Ludar examined her more closely.

“Get blankets,” she ordered. “Heat up the fire too. She’s very cold, but breathing.”

“What’s the matter with her?” someone asked.

“I don’t know!” snapped Ludar in reply as she searched Kashale’s head for a wound or bruise.

In the end, she found nothing. Water was given to the unconscious girl, and at a loss for anything else to be done the camp dispersed to their own beds. Only Ludar, another student of Master Kajiwa named Chamudar, and myself remained awake. I sat a little distance away against the wall, still wearing my heavy coat, unable to raise myself as I shrank away from my own disturbed memory.

Midnight passed with the sound of wind and faint scampering outside the walls. Ludar and Chamudar had both fallen into slumber beside the bed. I, however, could not sleep. I stood up for the first time in hours, and went over to her. She was still breathing, I assured myself. The thought came into my mind that perhaps this, too, was an illusion of my own crafting, but I forced it from me. I was about to turn away, when her eyelids flickered.

“Wait,” came her raspy voice, a whisper in the darkness that sent a violent shiver up my back. Nevertheless I bent down to reply.

“What?” I said in a whisper of my own. “Are you awake, Kashale? Hurt? What happened?”

“Do you remember what I said?”

“About what?” I asked, though my suspicions knew at once.

She stared at me for a long moment before replying with difficulty. “The creeping thing. I can’t see it.” Her breath rattled, and her voice strengthened for a moment. “I want to go home. My head hurts.”

These last words roused Ludar and Chamudar, who both exclaimed upon seeing Kashale awake.

“We’re going to take you back!” Ludar assured her. “We’ll have the wagon ready as soon as the sun rises. Are you able to move?”

Kashale stretched her arm out, then let it fall back against the bed. “I can’t hear well,” she said, and immediately relapsed into unconsciousness.

Throughout the rest of the night she did not wake again. I brought water for her twice at Ludar’s request, while Chamudar began preparing the wagon and mule by lantern light. In the morning they carried her out and laid her limp body in the wagon, then both set off. It would take them an entire day to reach the nearest town.

As for me, I prepared for another day of harvesting. I could do nothing but that. I knew now, without a doubt, that I had seen Kashale twice that past evening. It could not be coincidence that she would speak in cryptic manner both in the morning and that night. Or could it be? The injured say all manner of odd things. She saw a cat creeping about, and it was still in her mind. My own thoughts conjured up the grim, staring version of her before I realized she was lying on the ground. It was so simple that way. I almost believed it. While thinking such disjointed thoughts I headed out for the forest.

Strange as it seemed, the day of harvesting passed like any other. Due to the recent rarity of fresh mystic eggs, I instead gathered bark, filling several baskets with the best. I stored them in the cellar, jerking around to glance at every noise while I worked in the dark.

I was about to retire for the night when Darza, of Master Sinlethei, approached me.

“You’re a tracker, aren’t you?” he said. “Have you noticed anything moving around the area during the evenings recently? I thought it might be a cat, but it looked fairly tall.”

“You saw it?” I asked him, avoiding eye contact as I struggled to maintain my composure. I wanted to run.

“Well, not exactly. I don’t know. It was shadowed and moving away from me.”

“I haven’t seen anything like that.”

“Oh, alright.”

He had turned to leave already, when I made my decision. Perhaps it was inevitable. Perhaps it was the last chance I had. “I’ve heard about it, however,” I said. “I’ll be looking for it tomorrow. Do you have the time to accompany me?”

He nodded enthusiastically. “Absolutely! When do you plan to set out?”

“An hour before sundown. If it moves during the evening, it is my best chance to find it.”

“Right then, I will be waiting.”

I did not sleep. I did not hear. I did not see.

In the morning, Darza was gone, and nobody knew why.

“He was just going out for a moment,” said one of his friends. “I thought he had come back in already.”

“It’s what happened to Kashale,” offered a theorizer. “It’s an illness, or a curse.”

This idea caught on. Some malady was causing people to wander off their ordinary paths and fall unconscious. Surely Darza was not far from the camp still. The entire camp went out in various directions, looking for him.

I retrieved my tracking wands and set out toward where Kashale had fallen. There was no great movement I could feel by touching my wands to the snowy earth. There was nothing even vaguely human shaped lying on the ground.

I ventured further into the forest. The sun was almost entirely blotted by giant evergreens here, and since I had no lantern I decided to go back. One more ground tap and I would return. I placed a wand to the earth and felt the vibrations. I felt, through the wand, two distinct footsteps directly behind me, yet I heard no crunch of snow.

I straightened, almost calm in my terror. I twisted quickly around, and found before me Kashale. She was pale as the snow, and wore an expression of extreme agitation.

“Where am I!?” she screamed. Spittle flew into my face.

I shrieked and ran. Let all be forgotten, I had to get away.

“Wait!” cried Kashale. “Wait! Stop running! Tell me!”

I ran faster, despite pain shooting up my side and branches slashing at my face. I tripped on something and fell, pulling myself up and plunging on before falling again. Soon Kashale was upon me.

“What do you want?” I cried, pushing up against a tree. I could see the camp from where I stood.

Kashale’s eyes slowly fixed on mine. Her pupils were incredibly small. She moved her mouth for a moment before forming words in a labored voice.

“Zeimu. Where are you?” she said. “I don’t understand this. Tell me where. Wait for me. Where is that? What?”

At this last word she jerked back, as if pulled by her head, and without a second glance plunged into the forest, leaving me behind. I was not alone for long, however. As soon as I had gone three shaky steps toward the camp, Darza emerged from a smaller concealed trail to the path just ahead of me.

“Zeimu? Was that you screaming? What happened?”

“Darza!” I cried, stumbling toward him. “I saw a ghost! I saw Kashale, here!”

Now someone else knew. I was no longer isolated in this. Relief, just from this simple act, was fast.

“Oh, yes,” Darza replied. “Anyway, I found an interesting flower over here. Want to see it?”

What? What was he talking about?

“Listen to me!” I shouted at him. “I saw Kashale! I know it is a ghost!”

“Yes, I know,” he said, nodding. He motioned toward the trail. “Come on, it’s this way.”

“Don’t you understand? Why aren’t you..?”

I knew already, at least part of the truth. I wasn’t really talking to Darza. Just something that looked like him. Something that was blocking my way back to the camp. I had calmed slightly, and was able to reach for one of the spark knives concealed around my waist. I snapped the weapon out before his face, wide orange arcs of light crackling around the end. He did not react. He just stood there, half smiling, eyes focused on me through the bright sparks.

“What… is your name?” I ventured. I began slowly edging my way around, trying to get past him.

This seemed to confuse him. “What are you talking about? I’m Darza. Of Master Sinlethei. Are you alright, Zeimu? Maybe we should get back to the camp.”

“We should. What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“I always come out here,” he said. “I’ve been taking some leaf and soil samples.” He had still made no move to actually head toward the camp.

“Would you show me?” I was ready to run now, but I wanted some kind of clarity in this bizarre situation.

He opened a leather bag hanging from his belt. “Here’s some of the soil I got today,” he said, pulling out a handful of empty space.

“There’s nothing there,” I told him.

“Oh. Oh!” He gave a choked cry. A look of intense pain crossed his face. “Zeimu, there’s something strange. I… I don’t… Look at me! Look! I saw it! Zeimu, listen to me. I don’t… Tell my master this. Tell him. I need someone to come help me, it’s getting hard to talk. Zeimu. Zeimu, I can’t hear my voice, raise your hand if you hear me.”

He vanished into the air before I could move. I could hear some faint rumbling noise, a voice spewing rhythmic gibberish that seemed ever so close to something intelligible. I was not staying here for a moment longer. I ran again. It was only after a minute that I realized I had been running further into the forest, not toward the camp. How could this have happened?

I looked around the little clearing to get my bearings. As I checked the paths, I quickly touched a wand against a nearby trunk, feeling for movement. I could feel the source of the rumbling song plodding heavily towards me, dragging something behind it. Whatever it was had a slow beating heart at least ten times stronger than my own pulse. The feel of its heart gave me a hint of relief that it was something alive, but only a hint.

The moment two black glassy eyes met mine, I felt as if I were in the pit of a nightmare, for no matter how I tried, my limbs and mouth were sealed in place, neither could I break away from its gaze. It was a giant man, covered in dark fur. It had the head of a great bull with filthy white horns sharpened to points. The beat of its heart was so loud I could hear it from yards away. It had stopped singing. Its right arm was also covered in fur, ending in wide clawed fingers. But the left arm… the left arm was a mass of thick fibers, each moving like a snake. Wrapped in several of these fibers was the body of another student, an unconscious boy whose name I did not know.

No matter how I struggled in my mind, not one twitch reached my body. I was paralyzed standing upright as the bull-man stared into me. It approached, bringing with it the stench of death. Several fibers rose from the boy it dragged, wrapping their coarse texture around my head. They pressed in and tightened, as though to crush my skull.

Yet even in the face of this, a chance appeared. As one of the fibers passed over my eyes, the gaze of that monster toward me was broken. Immediately life returned to my limbs. Like a cornered animal I lashed out. I ignited the spark knife and drove it blindly into the great hairy chest. There was a screech of fury or pain. The tendrils gripping my head loosened, and I ducked away.

The monster began speaking in incomprehensible sentences behind me as I ran. Something grabbed my legs, and I fell on my face. It placed a tremendous foot upon my back, preventing me from rising. One of the fibers wrapped around my face and neck again, tearing at my skin and digging into the back of my head.

“Stop!” I shouted in desperation, unable to reach it with the spark knife. Something massive flew toward my head, just visible in the corner of my eye. “Get-”

“-off!” I jerked up, frantically searching for the monster. Had I gone blind? No, it was now night. The moon was shining its cold light toward a calm forest. My entire body ached, but for all that I had been subject to, I expected pain far worse.

I stood. I could see someone lying face down on the ground a few yards away. I knelt beside the body and rolled it over. It was me.

I stared at it for a while. It was still breathing. I saw drops of blood on its clothes and the thin layer of snow around it. I stared for a while more. I wore the same coat that surrounded this body. The same coat, down to the tatters and scrapes. The torn fibers. The damaged cloth. The minuscule holes. Torn. Damaged. Fiber. Cloth. Look how the fibers are built from smaller fibers. It grows infinitely smaller, smaller. The walls of fabric built around me, surrounding the fabric of each fiber.

I screamed, snapping myself out of the trance. I knew I absolutely must not let myself descend into such a state of mind again. What had happened, what was I doing? There was an utter lack of urgency to my thoughts. This was just the way things were. There was no hurry to stand again.

At last, something happened. My scream must have disturbed the body, my body, lying on the ground.

“-off!” it cried, violently waking. It swung the spark knife still gripped tightly in its hand, then clutched at the back of its head with its other hand.

“Who are you?” I asked, leaning out of the knife’s reach.

The body mumbled something I couldn’t hear as it peered into the darkness, shifting into a crouch. It ignited the knife, and for the first time saw me illuminated.

“Are you me?” came the question asked in reply.

To admit this was unthinkable. How could that body be my own? Yet as I sat there silently, I could see it. Blood. Scrapes. Sharp pain. A hand frozen in desperate grip on the weapon. Lying unconscious at the scene of that terrible fight. All of these things belonged to that body, and not to me. That body was real, that body was alive, and that body was me. It seemed that my body had also seen the same evidence, realizing the mirror image was, in fact…

“Yes,” I replied. “I think that is true.”

“What happened?” was its –no, her– next question.

“I don’t know.”

There was silence for a few minutes. Then she rose, leaning against a tree to steady herself. I stood as well. The movement made me realize I was not breathing. There was nothing odd about it until I noticed it. I couldn’t even feel the pulse of my heart. My stomach lurched, and suddenly my heart began beating and I took a breath of frigid air, letting out the invisible return.

“Are you really me?” said my body. Her own breath was manifesting in periodic clouds illuminated by the moon. “Tell me something only I know.”

I told her a secret. “Do the same for me,” I said. “Something only I know.”

She gave me another secret, and I knew without a doubt I was speaking with myself. A thin mist flickered before me as I exhaled.

“What now?”

That was a difficult question to answer. Why should I do anything? Look here, the cloth caves around my arms. Fabric stitched to fabric, fibers wrapped around fibers. Fibers composed of fibers below still more. The strands twine through, under. There is cloth covering me, fibers touching in layered contact. Threads. Strands. Cloth.

“Can you hear me?” said my body. She touched me, and I was jolted back from the depths.

“I was sinking into a dream,” I told her. “A dream of fabric. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go. I don’t know. I can’t...” Forming sentences felt like I was pushing against a steady current, wearying my mind. I tried to speak slowly and simply. “Give ideas. Difficult to think.”

“We’ll get out of the forest, then,” she replied. “I don’t know what to do about… this.”

She tried to grab my hand, but her fingers passed through mine. This, strangely enough, was sufficient to startle both of us. Her surprised reaction was immediate, but mine came soon after. I leaped to my feet, for a very brief moment feeling alert. Then it passed. She tried again, and now her hand contacted with my own.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling at me. She had brought out a compass to find the direction of the camp. We walked south in silence for several minutes. Then I heard a low rumble.

“Listen to that,” I said. “It’s the monster.”

“I see it.” She pointed to our right.

Indeed, the hairy bull-man came plodding through the forest on another trail just visible from our own. It was moving north, and behind it, wrapped in the long tendrils, was a silently struggling body.

This was what pierces my indifference? Why? Is this the new nature?

“Give me the other spark knife,” I said, but my body was already presenting it to me. In her other hand she gripped the first knife that had struck the monster once before.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

We charged the beast. I found myself flying through the trees as I ran, while my body followed fast behind. The bull-man glanced behind and saw us just as we left the cover of the bushes. Our knives ignited simultaneously.

The dark muzzle barked a single syllable. I felt like I stumbled, but my movement had not changed. Disoriented, I stopped just short of impaling the monster. I had not pierced the fur. The coarse fur, built from hairs rising in random patterns. Some bound together, like fabric. Hair in unity, a warm cloth. Strands intertwined. Each hair growing, a fiber among fibers.

The monster roared as my body drove her glowing knife into its side. I pulled myself back to attention, thrusting forward my own weapon. The man wrapped in the tendrils gave a great push to free himself. It was to no avail. The monster gripped him even stronger and fled. It was fast. I was fast. I ran after it. I must stop it. I must kill it. I must destroy it.

My target suddenly shifted course, plunging into the forest. I sped after it, and my body followed. The forest opened into a clearing, where the monster slid to a stop and turned to face us. Those eyes of pure darkness stared through me. I was absurd. What was I doing? Why? I was not afraid. Fear came in a rush several seconds later. I shrank away from the eyes, cowering on the ground.

“Get up,” my body said urgently.

I couldn’t. My eyes were fixed on the thing before me. Dread radiated from the towering bull-man like a shadow, growing in strength as it tensed. Roaring, it launched itself up through the forest canopy, using the tendrils to climb. It vanished into the distance, the bellows echoing in all directions.

As the last snap of shattered branch echoed in the distance, my body collapsed, gasping breaths. I could see the exhaustion and pain written over her. My own breathing had again stopped. Shouldn’t I be alarmed about this? I tried to inhale, but it felt cold and empty. Panic surged in my mind.

“Speak!” I shouted toward my body. I needed someone to talk, to say anything. “Speak now, quickly!”

“Why? What is it?” she groaned in reply. This was enough. I drew a breath, and though the air swirled aimlessly inside me my panic subsided.

“Panic again. It… pulled. I can’t breathe… I can’t breathe as is normal.” Though I tried to speak fluidly, my voice held the pattern of the two other apparitions I had heard, slow and repeated. Was that myself, then? An apparition, shattered in voice and mind? I nearly fell into the trance again, but forced my thoughts back from the brink. “I am not sinking. No. There is no panic. I am… not sinking.”

“We lost it,” said my body bitterly. “He’s been taken away.”

I stood and went over to her, able now since the monster had left. “We must leave the forest. Get out of here. Find help. No use tracking.”

“Why… why did I think I could fight it?”

I was unable to understand why she said that. Killing the monster was the ultimate goal, it was necessary. “It must die,” I told her. “We must kill it.”

She looked at me strangely. “As you said, we need to leave. Give me a little time to rest.”

“You cannot move?”

“No, strained legs. My vision is also shifting.”

An idea came to me. I seized her by her coat and lifted her as easily as I would lift a basket.

“I can carry you,” I said. “I… now I have...” Again my speech faltered. I paused and recomposed myself before attempting again. “I have much strength now. Can carry. Tell me… tell me which way.”

There came no response. She had fallen into unresponsiveness, though I was unable to determine why. I had to find the way myself. I took the compass from her pocket to get my bearings, and began moving south.

The forest was silent as I fled it. I ran faster than I had ever run, despite my burden. The sensations I felt were cold and distant. The weight I held did not feel truly solid. I could not let my thoughts dwell on anything, so I only ran.

Movement flickered in the shadows some distance to my right. I could make out the vague monstrous shape of the bull-man as it matched my speed, swinging by its tendrils from the branches. I shifted my body to my other hand, preparing the spark knife in my right hand.

As I flew through a cluster of pines, I saw a building in the distance. There was light in it. I changed my course toward it. The monster followed, gaining on me.

The building was a small stone hut with a wooden door half-open. Perhaps I could defend this position against the monster. I flew into the clearing surrounding the hut, dashed inside, and slammed the door closed. I found the heavy latch and closed it, nearly dropping my burden due to my haste.

The hut was a hunter’s, plainly furnished. There was a fire burning, few flames remained in it though the coals still glowed. In a chair by a small table sat a man, of whom I had a vaguely gray perception. He held a book in his hand, but was staring at us now with a curious smile.

I dropped to one knee, letting my body gently to the floor. The gray man watched me, but remained silent. Only once I had stood again did he speak, but the speech was unknown to me.

“I did not understand. What did you say?” I could speak a little more freely here. Was it the air? It felt warm within my mind and body.

“I merely extended my greetings toward you,” he said. “It was but a vain hope that you would understand me. Regardless, let us make an acquaintance now. I refer to myself as Kordoset. Would you mind giving me your own name?”

I had never heard his strange accent, nor of anyone else with that name. There were more pressing issues to consider than names, however. “No time,” I said. “Monster is coming. You are hunter here? You must prepare weapon.”

“There is no monster coming here. Nor am I the hunter who previously occupied this hut. You saw that unfortunate man not long ago, captured in the tentacles of my wraithwright.”

“Your wraithwright? Explain!” I backed against the wall, pointing my knife toward Kordoset and shielding my unconscious body.

He set the book aside and stood. I could now see a great, obviously mortal wound in his torso. The flesh surrounding this wound was the color of silver. The pattern of gray flesh extended in streaks across his body, reaching his face where the silver radiated around another tremendous gash in his forehead, slightly masked by his hair. This was the source of his seemingly dim hue.

“An exhaustive explanation would be quite time-consuming,” he said. He was carefully watching the glowing arcs snapping across the knife. “Before we begin any discussion, I must ask that you do not threaten me with violence.”

“There are many dead! Tell me now what you have done.”

He did not answer, but rather stepped aside. The bull-man came crashing through the door, easily shattering the latch with its weight. Tendrils whipped through my body without making contact. Though they did not touch me, a wave of pain tore through my limbs and I dropped the knife as my hands convulsed.

“Ah!” exclaimed Kordoset, snatching the knife. “That is sufficient. I would not hurt you more than necessary.”

He spoke in his strange tongue, and the bull-man responded in kind. They exchanged a few sentences, then it stepped back against the wall and lowered its tendrils. The man had turned his attention to the knife, examining it carefully.

I was not about to lose. Lunging forward, I drove my fist into the wound on his torso before he even had a chance to notice my movement. Though I had not felt it, the strength of this blow sent him stumbling against the opposite wall. Thin wisps of some white mist floated around him, particularly where I had hit. I rushed him again, ready to deliver another strike, heedless of all else.

“Cloth, spun and woven!” he shouted quickly, and I was taken. Only texture, only fiber. The thin lines weaving over, under, over, under. Threads wrapped around every other thread surrounding the sea of rope. Rope of twisted fiber, curved around and around again and woven once more into a greater cloth surrounding all. There was nobody to pull me back. I felt no passage of time, only the endless waves of cloth.

A moment and an age later, a fiery pain shattered inside my mind and I woke from the dream. I was still standing in the hut, but now rain was pouring down in the darkness outside, streaming along the floor as it ran in through the doorway. My body was lying on a cot, covered by several blankets.

I turned around quickly as I felt something pull away from my head. The bull-man was there, and one of its tendrils had just slipped away from me.

An impulse flared within me, it had been quelled temporarily by the dream. I struck the beast with all my force, but it took the blow without flinching.

“Again, please do not hurt my wraithwright,” Kordoset said as he entered the hut from the rain. He was completely dry. “Observe,” he continued, indicating my body on the cot. “I have ensured the safety of your root. I understand your instinctual directive of violence, but I believe you can prevent an outburst here.”

He slapped the monster on its back and spoke in his strange language. The monster said something in reply and slipped out into the wet darkness.

“What have you done?” I asked again. “The ghosts of the dead!”

“I never killed anyone. Have you witnessed any death? Your own body is there beside you, living.”

This disjointed phantom of a gray man spewed lies. I could feel it, like a hand of darkness. He was trying to pacifyme.

“Liar.”

He flinched, his entire form shivered. “I speak truth.”

“Then are they still living? I saw Kashale failing before my own eyes. I saw the monster dragging a body.”

“I cannot entirely predict the actions of the reaping process. But you have escaped its notice, for a moment at least, and I want to help you.”

The air flowed gently through me, lending its warmth to my limbs and voice. I almost felt tired, though there was neither heaviness nor blur. Something had changed in my surroundings, though I did not know what it was. My body on the cot began stirring.

I was now calm again. “I will listen to you,” I said. “But you must tell me: where are Darza and the hunter? Do they live?”

“By Darza, I assume you refer to that boy; you have seen his wraith. I cannot tell you where he or any other that my wraithwright has touched are now. His wraith is likely to have been taken by the reaper, but the root may survive if he retains lucidity.”

Now I found myself completely in the power of this man. Though he spoke so easily of these horrors, my animosity slipped away. Suddenly, at the sound of a shrill whistle like wind from outside, he darted to a window in a fit of agitation and peered out before moving quickly to the next.

“We have little time,” he said. “You must come with me. I have survived this long by distracting the reaper, without my wraithwright you will stand no chance of escaping it. You remind me of someone I knew so very long ago, and I would not have you be taken.”

All this sounded reasonable to me. “Yes,” I replied. “I will go.”

“No!” shouted my body, rising from the cot. “He is a murderer.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me toward the door, but Kordoset was already there.

“You will have no chance beside me! Do not leave me alone!”

There was another whistle, and his gray wound shimmered. I was even still unwilling to force my way past him, but my body had no reservations. She flung her entire body forward and, passing through him, crashed open the door and tumbled out onto the ground. As she fell, her hand caught his leg and pulled him out with her so that he slammed headfirst into the floor, rebounding again in a cloud of shimmering mist.

“Release me!” he shouted.

“You will not escape!” my body yelled in reply. “Grab him, me!”

I seized him by his arms. I was far stronger than him, and with little effort I had lifted him off the ground. I was about to pull him in when the bull-man appeared and brought its foot down on my body’s legs. A tentacle lashed out and struck me on my forehead, and I collapsed. The beast grabbed its master with its other arm and roared angrily.

“It is upon you. The reaper comes.” said the gray man as his monster pulled him away from the hut. Then he was gone, his bearer charging with incredible speed into the night.

“Look,” my body said quietly, gesturing. “It is the reaper.”

I saw it, but I could not believe it. Such a ridiculous concept. The reaper floated a yard above the ground a little distance away, and illuminated the forest around it. It was a set of shimmering characters engraved in the air forming these words: The Reaper Neduva. That was all. I felt nothing from it. The effect on my body, however, was violent terror.

“Help me in!” she screamed, reaching for me. I grabbed her and pulled her in, for she could not stand on her legs. I closed the door and lowered the weak, remaining latch just as the glowing writing of the reaper began warping its way toward us. When I looked out the window, it was gone.

“Are you…” I began, but my body had already become unconscious again. I lifted her to the cot.

And I waited.

Here I am.

The night does not lift. Outside this hut, the rain falls.

I have time. Time enough to write all these things from paper I found here.

Now I am finished. Night is still here. I can feel the fibers of all things shifting, the fibers of light unwinding outside this place, outside me.

I see glimpses of the reaper, but I am not afraid. I expect no fear.

There is a hand upon the door. At long last. I will go to meet it, for I will not let my body die.

-

I am Zeimu, and I have seen specters. I have awakened this morning, and there are no apparitions. I feel like a dreamer, though the memory does not fade. All these things written above I remember, excepting where I was incapacitated.

My legs are broken and my balance is destroyed, but I have found flares and sent up signals. I expect help to come, if any are left alive in this region.

I remember the reaper clearly.

-

Help came to me. I lived. I have discovered that Kashale lived. Darza was not found, neither was the hunter. Nobody else saw apparitions, even Kashale remembers nothing.

I am left only with the knowledge of these events and the realization that I saw myself beside me, and it was not me but knew and thought all I knew and thought.

My record ends.