9 Tales Told in the Dark 23

by 9 Tales Told in the Dark

  “Through slaughter?” Bave asked bitterly.

  “Through many things,” Gendell replied slowly. “Most of them terrible, all to stop the people from turning on me. There is a lesson I have learned, as our lives lurk longer we kings lose pieces of ourselves.” Gendell glanced to his missing fingers as Bave glanced to the wings upon his waist. “The price we pay for the terrible things that torment us, the things we have done, the things that subjects both new and old want. The same can be said for my daughter.”

  When Bave glanced back into Gendell’s eyes, he knew the fairy king was waiting for an answer. “Did you ask her to remove her gloves?” Gendell asked, his words weakened by worry.

  “No,” Bave answered, the heat that once fueled him replaced by hesitation. Gendell nodded a single time before he said, “When frostbite found my fingers my daughter cut off her own fingers to mimic mine.”

  “Why?” Bave whispered, knowing the horrors of self-harm.

  Gendell didn’t smile, but his lips spread for a second as if struggling to speak. “I am an old man,” he began. “Much older than my father was when he died. In his final year, he was youthful enough to take the field, to participate in tournaments, to show the people how strong he was. My bones are too brittle for battle. I can no longer show my power through strength only through sacrifice. My daughter destroyed her own digits to deceive the people. I received countless complaints about the cold, from baron to beggar they all wanted something to be done. I held their allegiance by a thread, if they knew that I had succumbed to frostbite that thread would have been torn. So my daughter cut off her own fingers saying it was a sacrifice that both her and I made to the fire god, hoping it would heat every house and hall in the kingdom.” Gendell took several short sharp breaths as if his own body was brutalizing him as all shine was sucked from his sapphire eyes. “I couldn’t save my own daughter from such savagery. Nor can I stop my own people from plotting against me.”

  Bave’s head tilted then, but he remained silent.

  “From House Hark to House Ulsoon, they are counting the days until I die. They want my throne and the only thing that is stopping them from taking it is tradition.” He straightened his spine as best he could but even then Gendell remained slightly bent. “My daughter needs a husband in the same way I needed a wife when I was ready to take the throne. Tradition states that in order to be suited to take my daughter’s hand in marriage, they must be able to best her in a duel. A task made easier by the mauling of her fingers. She doesn’t want to marry any man from those houses and I don’t want her to marry any of those men. But how long will it be before one of them triumphs over her? When that happens I can do nothing, because tradition is the only thing that the people will withstand and all tradition ultimately is are words said to be as old as the world. Words are the only thing I have left to wield.” Gendell’s words wept through Bave like waves, each crashing down upon him heavily. What Bave saw before him now wasn’t a horrible man, but a helpless one. His crown a cage, one whose bars were not all that different to the ones that imprisoned Bave. His own people, his fellow fairies no longer followed him, because he couldn’t give them what they wanted, he didn’t have the strength and his sacrifice wasn’t sufficient. He stared into Gendell’s sapphires and saw himself in them, the man he had hated for what felt like a hundred years had suffered the same.

  “My king,” a voice said. “My king,” the same voice repeated itself several more times but it felt faint and far away. The world had washed away for Bave the only thing he could see was Gendell’s sapphire stare. That only changed when movement motioned his eyes to look away from Gendell and towards the horseman who was removing his helmet.

  When Bave saw what was under the helmet, the world returned but not as Bave knew it. “Alsafifth?” Bave gasped, the name tasted strange on his tongue, for he hadn’t spoken such a name nor seen such a face in a long time. Bave only then looked away when the other horsemen removed their helmets, revealing fairy faces. A small part of him felt betrayed, but the largest part remained bewildered. He knew these fairies, they had fought on the frontlines alongside him against Gendell, and each had the scars showing it.

  “What?” was the only word Bave could say.

  “When you lost your wings the four of us searched the kingdom, seeking sanctuary, a place where our people wouldn’t have to freeze or fight, we found nothing, except the cold and cranks who believed the king had cursed them, because they weren’t living in luxury. All men did was moan, ungrateful for what Gendell had done for them.”

  “When these four came to me, something happened that hadn’t happened in a very long time,” Gendell said. “They didn’t come looking for trinkets or triumphs they came to tell me how my subjects spoke about me when they weren’t within ear shot and how the noble houses whispered war. The very reason why I am standing before you now, is because of them. No assassin would dare attempt killing me when I have four warriors of this size watching over me, warriors who couldn’t be bought, warriors whose faces were never seen.”

  Bave looked back at Alsafifth as the mounted fairy said, “We had already abandoned one king, we couldn’t abandon a second. Day after day we listened to the humans leach about Gendell even though he gave them gardens to plant crop in, farms to feed themselves, they never praised that because of him they wouldn’t starve, they were never satisfied. It was then we realized we were guilty of the same. You didn’t failure us my king, we failed you, you saved us from slaughter, we missed the songs of the streams and the shine of the sun, but we had forgotten that we were alive to miss them in the first place, because of your sacrifice. We shouldn’t have forgotten that and we never will again.”

  Like reflections of one another Alsafifth and the other three slid off their horses and humbly kneeled before Bave. Bave looked to each of them, watching and waiting for them to raise their heads, but respect restrained them, a respect Bave hadn’t felt in forever.

  His stare was slow to return to Gendell’s but when it did the human king spoke softly, “When I received your message last night, the ghost-glass showing me you had captured my daughter not one advisor warned me about the winter’s wrath and how dangerous the dark roads would be. A decade ago when I was still strong, when I could give them what they demanded, they would have. They were hoping I would die out here, that the winter winds would do what their whispers could not. If I died, they could plot and plan a little easier. Well I say if they are so eager for a new king we should give them one.”

  Bave was silent, or rather was silenced by what he saw in Gendell’s gaze. Gendell stepped forward, strengthening his speech as he said, “Not once did you ever come to my hall and demand anything from me. Not once did you lead a raid on a rival house, not once did you ask for gold, you never even asked for a garden. The lands I claimed for my people became a part of my kingdom, just like these very lands always were. You kept your word, you never tried to reclaim the lands I took from you and that is something no other subject can claim. Nor can they claim to have bested my daughter in battle. But you can, my daughter would have wielded her sword against you and no victor I know has their hands tied together. The years haven’t yielded you, you stand as straight and as strong as the day I arrived at your homeland. You are a king, you have battled both warriors and winter and haven’t withered. You are the husband my daughter deserves.”

  Bave’s gaze broke away from Gendell’s as he heard a wail on the wind, it wasn’t a fairy, but the princess. Finally, she had woken, but Gendell did not look away from Bave’s eyes. His stare remained strong and still, his words strengthening him. If words really were the only thing the warrior king had left, they were far from worthless. Bave realized that then, just as he realized the reason why the princess never tried to show him her hands. Even when she had spoken about suffering the cold, she showed no temptation. Because she must’ve given Gendell her word about cutting off her own fingers, she would never reveal the real reason to anyone. It seemed her words we
re far from worthless as well. Yet to rule the kingdom that had once taken so much from him was a monstrous tenet. Something he never wished for or wanted. Then again, how many humans would forget the fairy that ruled over them and the fear he would fill them with?

  THE END.

  MY HAUNTED ROOM by Devin Strasburg

  You may have sat up before at the wrong time of night. You know that hour when the shadows move when they aren’t supposed to. When a closet door isn’t enough to contain the purest black. Or maybe, you just heard a noise you cannot place. Certainly, no one is running that ratty old dryer at this hour—and who would be dropping something in the unfinished attic above? Most of the time, these are just moments between sleep and wake. The end of a dream.

  But they might be Saint Sebastian of the Thames.

  You see, Saint Sebastian—recently un-canonized, was a normal parish priest in 1853. Night terrors were nothing new, and though they seemed particularly frequent in Reading, no one suspected anything devious. Not even Father Sebastian.

  Child after child, he visited, knelt in prayer, and taught them things that made them feel better long enough to bring the start of slumber. But it never lasted. Prayers were stuttered out through screams and tears and his parishioners began to seek advice from other religious orders.

  Father Sebastian couldn’t have that.

  The story goes, that he forced himself back into the home of an Irish ex-patriate—determined to prove his faith in God could excise what were nothing more than nightmares.

  After much protest, the Irishman and his family allowed the priest into their son’s bedroom. There he prayed with the young boy, until the young boy fell fast asleep. For a while, it looked as if providing an exhausting act was all it would take. The children had been restless due to the particularly cold weather that had kept them indoors more than out.

  But it didn’t last. The ginger-haired boy awoke in a sweat that seemed to be pulled out of him—as if that was the only way for him to perspire—as if he was constipated. The priest noted, the room became unexplainably warm, considering the placement of the fireplace and the draft that had preceded that very moment.

  “What is it? What do you see?” Father Sebastian asked the boy.

  Possessed by terror, the boy could not rattle off any explanation. And though he attempted to draw the covers over his eyes, Father Sebastian pulled them back.

  “Pray with me, child.”

  What wretchedly useless prayer he chose is not on record.

  The house stirred—the Irishman and his wife would awake if the hysterics were allowed to continue. Desperate to prove his point, the priest stole the boy’s pillow. The boy jerked the covers over his head and crawled into a ball. But it was the pillow that brought the boy’s screams to a short-traveling moan. And then, absolute silence.

  Realization and rationalization woke together, and an urgency to initiate the great lie betrayed all of the priest’s training. He woke the Irishman and the wife and through the tears of his hidden guilt he told them, “I was not strong enough, a devil has broken your son. All the children are in danger. The Vatican will send help, trust in the Lord, your son’s death will bring others their salvation.”

  Devout and weighted in shock, they asked no more questions and believed.

  Whether the Vatican would’ve investigated the events and revealed the priest’s treachery is debatable, but Father Sebastian took no chances. He employed foreigners in his plot—men easily bought.

  Exorcisms they called it. And for a time, a few took. The children in Reading slept, and the parents returned to church. But the Lord, as one of Father Sebastian’s collected sermons recounted, has a way of unraveling lies.

  Most left the church as initially planned. But a few sat in pews and let their anger simmer—as the night terrors returned.

  “This is your last chance, priest!” One proclaimed. “Rid us of these demons.”

  The terrors struck a young girl this time, and the foreigners abandoned the priest, having been paid and being wise enough to see inevitability peering out from the shadows.

  The one witness—the father of the young girl—recalled the priest offering his soul to end the child’s suffering. But it is believed, through the priest’s own journal that he had long wondered and debated if the Lord would forgive the selling of one’s soul if it was for the sake of another. Believing the Lord to be superior to any power of Satan, then why would God allow him to burn for an eternity when his cause was noble?

  With that in mind, the priest gave his soul.

  The girl’s terrors ended—forever—or so the story goes.

  She died in shock.

  Father Sebastian was blamed.

  They drowned him for being the last Catholic—hence his temporary sainthood.

  And all would be well—if the world worked that way.

  But the Lord did not accept Father Sebastian’s offering as noble. He was not taken granted eternal rest among the heavens.

  He followed the ginger haired Irish boy’s family from generation to generation, to the Americas and to me. Night terrors run in my family, they tell me.

  For Saint Sebastian of the Thames refused responsibility. So he lurks there in the shadows of my room. Between the rungs of the still rocking chair in the far corner of my room. Behind the air vent in my ceiling. Between the crack of my closet door. In the years he has haunted my ancestors, he has mastered the craft of devils.

  What did he hope to accomplish?

  More terror?

  Did he long for someone to join him in the dark recesses of night?

  Saint Sebastian was a sinner.

  But I do not believe he was wrong to trust in the Lord.

  My mother has told me this much, and she nervously taught me the prayer that will save my family. And I know that I am acting noble enough for the Lord. I believe my sacrifice is pure.

  So I pray take my soul and end our family’s suffering.

  Free Saint Sebastian of his cursed existence.

  I forgive him.

  For I promise to haunt no one.

  Amen.

  THE END.

  OUIJA by Anddre Valdivia

  It is interesting when we stop and ponder about how much evil the night can conceal from our eyes and the mysteries that lurk beyond our feeble senses. During this state of meditation, we are often left with our minds astound at the complexity of unexplainable events and an unsettling sensation of insecurity. It is with the inquisitive nature of humankind and the aid of nefarious objects that we are able tap into unknown territories that lie beyond comprehension. However, with every attempt at reaching farther into the abyss, the risk of not been able to find our way back home is inevitable. Such is the case that was brought to my attention during my studies at the medical school of the National Autonomous University of Mexico. During the fall of 1974, I encountered a case that would perpetually alter my mind and cause me to tremble in fear when I think about the horrors I have witnessed. Such traumatic experience has been the origin of many sleepless nights and the necessity to write these dreaded pages.

  The small town of San Rafael is situated 40 miles southeast of the Mexican capital and it is where I was to fulfill my community service requirements. The rural countryside provides all the fresh air and tranquility that lacks in major metropolitan cities, and as such, I was looking forward towards a placid rotation and alleviation from the stressful life of medical school. Upon my arrival at the 74th clinic of the Mexican Social Security Institute, I was received by the head of my department, Dr. Luis Baca, a local hero and celebrated physician for the years of dedication to the community. He kindly introduced me to the staff, gave me a tour of the facilities, and later proceeded to show me to the dormitory where I would be staying.

  It was not long into my rotation and towards the end of my shift when a local boy arrived at the clinic, hysterically screaming and pleading for help. The nurses quickly tried to silence and dismiss the disturbance but I elected to a
pproach the boy and determine the source of his agitation. He spoke in an incomprehensible manner as the result of his frenzy, and the only words I was able to discern were “sister”, “dying” and “help”. Those words were more than enough to convey his message and despite the disapproval of Dr. Baca, the look of desperation in the boy’s face prompted me to grab my medical equipment and accompany the boy back home. During the walk to his home I could not help but feel a dismal sensation in the air and the singularity in the sound produced by the wailing of cats and dogs will forever be engraved in my ears; those loathsome sounds that could not be made by natural beast but rather unhallowed as if the shrieks were coming straight from Cocytus.

  Arriving at the home, the site I witness was horrendous and the hysteria in the family members was inconceivable. In the child’s bedroom laid strewn a little girl with hands and feet tied to her bed. She wore torn clothes and had recent scratches all over her body, as if she had been clawed by a wild beast. Her mouth was packed with cloth and sealed with an adhesive band, to prevent further self-mutilation of her lips and tongue. She was writhing in pain, eyes rolled back exposing the inner sclera, and convulsing with such a force that the entire bed was shaken. I was startled by the scenario and was unresponsive for a few seconds until Father Diego Limon, the local catholic priest, asked me to commence my medical assessment. I approached the child and began measuring her vital signs, but my efforts were futile since her uncontrollable movements would not allow me to get an accurate measurement. She was unresponsive to any inquiries about her state and therefore I decided to give her a small sedative. As soon as the sedative took effect, her frantic movements ceased and the child was calm in a supine position. Her vital signs were stable and for a moment, everyone had a sigh of relief, but my assessment was only beginning.