(I is for Invitations and Incidents Around Town)
News clipping from The Hogan’s Gap Gazette: September 30, 2013
Headline: Culinary Crime Wave:
Enigmatic Thefts Target Fey and Human
Specialty Markets
In an unprecedented series of thefts that has left both culinary enthusiasts and business owners baffled, specialty markets catering to both Fey and human clientele have reported a surge in the mysterious disappearance of high-valve culinary supplies. From rare herbs to artisanal cookware, the incidents are raising alarms about a potential underground black market operation that could threaten the very fabric of culinary traditions in the region.
Over the past month, reports have flooded in from various markets, including the renowned Enchanted Spice Emporium in the heart of Faewood and the beloved Urban Harvest Market in Murre let. Both venues have documented suspicious activity involving the theft of unique ingredients that are integral to the culinary arts. The nature of these supplies– often irreplaceable and sourced from both magical and mundane origins– has indicated that the thief or thieves posses a discerning palate and an understanding of the cultural significance of these items.
“We first noticed something was amiss when our rare Moonlit Basil began disappearing at an alarming rate,” says Elara Moonshadow, owner of the Enchanted Spice Emporium. “It’s not just herbs; we’ve lost enchanted utensils and even heirloom recipe scrolls that are invaluable to our trade. This isn’t just simple theft; it’s an attack on our culinary heritage.”
Murre let City’s Urban Harvest Market have reported similar losses, with owner Marcus Thorne expressing his concerns. “We cater to a diverse clientele who appreciate both traditional human cooking and its Fey influence. Losing supplies like Eldenflower Essence and handcrafted frying pans are severely detrimental to our business and to our community’s culinary landscape.”
Investigators are currently probing the incidents to determine if they are connected. Detective Fiona Waverley of the Fey-Human Cooperation Council stated, “We’re looking into several leads and examining the possibility of a Hualau-Urth (Mirror Earth) faction’s organized effort to siphon off these rare items for resales. The oddity of this operation points to a well-informed group, possibly with ties to both the Fey and neighboring Yggdrasil Worlds.”
From a WrenChester Middle School bulletin board: October 7, 2013, Monday.
New poster embossed in bold silver elvish script:
The Sleepover Horror Story Celebration:
Hosted by Tod Van Merlyn Winnokur.
Featuring Authentic Artisan Treats,
Realistic Spectral Effects and Spine Tingling
Tales Guaranteed to Make Your Flesh Creep
and Your Teeth to Chatter!
Graffiti written in black sharpie below smaller text:
“Don’t go! He’ll just take your teeth and souls!”
WrenChester Middle School,
Murre let City Section, CA
Friday, 11:48 A.M. 2013
4th Period
The stale, processed-cheese scent of the middle school cafeteria clung to Bill Dobbins like a persistent flatulent ghost. Furrowing his Dwarven brow, he poked at his lukewarm lasagna with a nonconductive metal fork. The noodles were rubbery, the sauce–a thin, watery imitation of something edible, and the mystery meat squares . . . well, the less said about them, the better. Bill sighed, the sound swallowed by the cacophony of shrieking laughter and tray clatter that filled the cavernous space. He wasn’t particularly thrilled with his lunch, but that wasn’t the problem.
In the town of Hogan’s Gap as well as the rest of the Midgard world, plant-based plastic items were more than just an eco-friendly fad; they were a fundamental part of life. However, in a magically-prone place such as this, bioplax plastic items were . . . peculiar. Not just peculiar, either.
They were conduits, amplifiers, and sometimes, downright mischievous little trouble makers. And the cafeteria, awash in bioplax plates, cups, and cutlery, was a veritable playground for the weird. Today’s plasticky/ pungent cheesy flavor was particularly strong: a low, almost imperceptible hum that vibrated in the tips of his stubby fingers. This meant something– or someone– was actively messing with the cafeteria’s bioplax.
Bill wasn’t a wizard despite his magically-inclined background. He wasn’t even a particularly academic student. He was, however, unusually sensitive to the strange energies that swirled around Hogan’s Hap, energies that usually manifested through the town’s bioplax. On a ‘good day’ when the energies were at low levels; cutlery sprouted tiny, edible leaves; water bottles yielded sweet-smelling blossoms when empty; and even the dreaded cafeteria trays, crafted from reinforced bamboo pulp, would sometimes– if you were lucky and the sun hit them just right– display miniature, shimmering landscapes.
However, on a particularly bad day such as the infamous Far Liath Storms of 2003, weird shit tended to happen– such as Bill’s bioplax dinosaur collection suddenly springing to life via static electricity, leading to a chaotic (and ultimately short-live) Jurassic Park reign of terror in his bedroom.
He’d learned from that, mostly. He’d also been learning to control this sensitivity, practicing breathing exercises with his eccentric paternal Aunt Tilly, who ran the Old Town’s antique shop and was, in her own chaotic Wiccan way, a font of knowledge on the arcane.
Today, though, the hum was different. It felt . . . purposeful. A glance around the cafeteria revealed no obvious signs of magical malfeasance. No chairs were levitating, no ketchup packets were launching themselves like tiny, spring-loaded missiles, and the bioplax spoons were still resolutely spoon-shaped. Yet the low thrum in his broad chest intensified.
He noticed a group of Canoti kids huddled near the far wall, their laughter particularly shrill. They were huddled around a pile of bioplax spoons, some of which were bent at unnatural Esheresque angles. Bill’s gut clenched like a greasy oven mitt. This felt like the source. He slowly pushed himself up form his sticky orange chair, his lasagna forgotten.
He threaded through the sea of noisy students, careful not to draw attention. As he got closer, he could feel the energy intensify, a buzzing prickle in his skin. He saw Anoki Raineri, one of the school’s self-proclaimed prankster, holding up a spoon that pulsed with a faint, sickly green light.
“What are you doing, Anoki?” Bill asked, his voice a low rumbling growl despite his short, portly frame.
Anoki and his cronies jumped, startled. Their dark quilly hair bristling like a mop brush.
Anoki’s foxy grin faltered. “Nothing, Dobbins. Just . . . uh . . . admiring the . . . artistic bends in these fine faux utensils.” He shoved the spoons behind his back, but wasn’t fast enough.
Bill had seen it, the faint emerald glow intensifying as Anoki’s hand tightened around the spoon.
“That’s not just as ordinary ‘bend,’ ” Bill said, his voice surprisingly firm. “You’re using actual arcane energy. That stuff’s not to be fracked with especially in an insecure location such as this place.”
Anoki scoffed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dobbins. You’re always seeing things that aren’t there.” His pointy-faced friends snickered.
Bill reached out and carefully touched the edge of a spoon on the table. The energy surged, a wave of chaotic vibrations threatened to overwhelm him. It was definitely Anoki. He was amplifying the natural magic inherent in the bioplax channeling it into something . . . unsettling.
“It’s going to get out of control,” Bill said, his focus on the spoons, trying to ground the wild energy. “You need to stop.”
Anoki just laughed, a mocking, high-pitched sound. “Or what, Dobbins? You gonna kiss me with your scary lasagna?”
As if on a cue, one of the spoons on the table began to vibrate violently. Then another. Then all of them, rattling against the faux wood tabletop like a trapped swarm of angry bees. The air grew thick, heavy with the scent of ozone and the erratic pulses of strange, unnatural energy. The overhead fluorescent began an erratic flicker as the cafeteria’s din began to shift, morphing into a chorus of panicked shouts.
Closing his eyes tight, Bill took a deep breath. He focused on the calm he felt most at home in Aunt Tilly’s cluttered shop, surrounded by old books and forgotten artifacts, the only real kind of magic. He reached out, not with his hands, but with the part of him that felt the magic part that knew the molecular language of the bioplax. He pushed back against Anoki’s chaos, gently, steadily, like calming a frightened animal.
The vibrations gradually slowed. The spoons stopped rattling. The green glow faded. Anoki’s thin, pointed face went from mocking to confused. The random chaos he’d unleashed, the chaos Bill had calmed, was gone.
The cafeteria fell silent, staring at Bill. He opened his eyes, his chest heaving, but his sharp gaze fixed on Anoki. “You have to be careful,” he said, his voice still low, but now ringing with authority. “This arcane stuff isn’t a toy.”
Anoki, momentarily chastened, finally dropped the glowing spoon back onto the table. He didn’t say a word, just gathered his nervous friends and slunk away. He got more than just a dirty look, a few of the bystanders that were close enough even took a step away from him.
Ignoring the wide-eyed stares and whispering, Bill simply returned to his seat and limp lasagna, and found his friend William Tahl now seated across from him, sampling a veggie pizza.
“Dude, that was Mega-Dope!” Willie exclaimed. “Showing that Churcka kid who’s in charge!”
Ever since Willie’s super-critical, religious mother’s permeant move to Montreal last year, he had really come out of his shell, becoming more lively and excited to meet new friends and explore fresh ideas. Even his health had taken a turn for the better, with his asthma attacks dropping to just once or twice a month.
Bill simply shrugged, “Yeah, well, that idiot sprite was probably going to blow the whole freakin’ cafeteria to Kingdom Come if I hadn’t stepped in.” He started picking at the remains of his lunch again, the processed cheese aroma still clinging to the air. “We all probably would have ended up like those folks down in Curtisville and all those other Hume enclaves– all pulped to compost!”
Willie’s expression shifted from jovial to serious in an instant. “Exactly,” he said, leaning in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I heard that they had to call in several forensic teams from out of state just to sort through the DNA. It was a mess, man.”
Bill raised a brushy eyebrow, intrigued by the dark turn of their discussion.
“I even heard there was a Hualau doomsday cult mixed in with the rest of it,” Willy continued, his eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and fascination.
“They probably thought they were summoning up Jesus Christ but they got some Scotts/Irish Death God instead.”
“Yeah,” Bill mused, shivering at the though that their own cafeteria could have turned into a scene from a Hellraier movie if things had gone differently. He glanced down at his lasagna, which now seemed even less appealing.
“Man, I guess we should be grateful for the little things, like not ending up in a forensic report,” he said with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood, but failing.
Willie nodded, still munching his pizza with relish. His attention quickly shifted to a much more recent subject.
“So did you get an invite from Tod?” he asked, his voice low.
Bill, finally, taking a carefully bite of his lasagna, considered the question. “To the Halloween Sleepover Extravaganza? Yes, I believe I did.” He meticulously wiped a stray cheese crumb from his lip. “Hand-delivered, parchment paper, wax seal featuring a stylized lily insignia on it. Quite dramatic, wouldn’t you say?”
Willie groaned. “Dramatic is an understatement. The guy thinks he’s actual royalty. It’s just a sleepover, for crying out loud! Last year, he dressed up as Louis XIV of France, and made us all address him as ‘Your Divine Majesty’ for the whole night. I thought I would die of second-hand embarrassment.”
“Yeah,” Bill conceded. “And the year before that, he was a ‘Master Alchemist’ from the Harry Potter franchise, and insisted on ‘potion mixing’ which involved pouring various sodas into a fake cauldron. I still have a lingering stomachache just thinking about that shitty concoction.” He shivered theatrically. “It wasn’t even my idea of going to his party in the first place, it was my mom’s, and all because she thought I was running wild since I decided to go on that half-baked treasure/geocache hunt in the Swanwick forest.”
They both fell quiet, lost in thoughts of their other friend Alex, who had a crazy Halloween adventure that ended with him stuck in a tree and trip to the hospital.
“Do you ever wonder what really happened to Alex?” Willie asked, his curiosity piqued. “Do you think it had something to do with that crazy-hobby horse-spiral thing at that beach?”
Bill just shrugged as he shoveled another bit of sad lasagna into his mouth. “No clue; he never really told me the details. All he said was that it was hiding something bad, and then Tod went back later and messed it up, which might have let something out.”
“What do you mean by ‘let something out?’” Willie pressed, intrigued.
Bill paused in mid-chew, trying to remember what Alex had told him during that one hospital visit. “I’m not exactly sure, but he said it was something weird. It sounded like a big deal, but he never went into specifics. All I know is that whatever it was, it caused his mind to go into full-on survival mode, and made him go into hiding for the rest of that night.”
“Willie’s expression turned grave as he asked, “So, how’s Alex doing now?”
Before Bill could give his honest opinion; Tod Winnokur, their infamous classmate and subject of their earlier discussion, floated into their periphery. Tod, with his perfectly-styled, almost-ash-blonde hair that looked suspiciously like it spent an hour under a dryer, could probably glide anywhere with the sheer force of his self-confidence. He was wearing a new bright orange hoodie, with “Prince” embroidered in what looked to be gold thread. He offered them a saccharine smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Gentlemen,” Tod purred, his voice a smooth, practiced drawl. “Discussing the upcoming festivities, I presume?”
Bill just grunted while Willy gave a curt nod. Tod took that as an invitation to continue.
“I’ve meticulously planned every detail. A haunted maze in the backyard, a costume contest with exclusive prizes, and pumpkin spice flavored everything! It promises to be an exceptionally refined and sophisticated gathering.” He finished, puffing out his chest a little.
Before either Bill or Willy could muster a response, a spiky-haired figure landed at the end of their table with a thump. Alex Thompson, sporting a perpetually dishevel Scene look and an attitude to match, plonked down his lunch tray with a clatter. His black band t-shirt was slightly askew, and he had a smudge of something vaguely purple on his check.
“Let me guess,” Alex said, cutting through Tod’s self-congratulatory monologue. He glared at Tod with undisguised disdain. “Little Prince Tod’s annual ‘I’m better than everyone else ‘Halloween Extravaganza?’”
Tod’s smile faltered. “It’s simply a celebration, Alex. A chance to enjoy the spirit of the season with refined company.”
“Refined company?” Alex scoffed. “You mean ‘enablers’ who put up with your pretentious garbage just because you’ve got the biggest house in the neighborhood as well a swimming pool and mantuary? Let’s be real, Winnokur, you’re not a prince, you’re just a spoiled, entitled, Eloi, trust fund kid. You could serve us cat food and claim its gourmet tartare and half the neighborhood would pretend it’s really amazing, all because they just want to use your pool and indoor arcade!”
A beat of stunned silence followed Alex’s outburst. Tod’s face had gone a shade of pale pink that clashed horribly with his orange goodie. Even Willie looked slightly impressed by Alex’s blatant honesty.
Bill choked back a laugh, while Willie discreetly coughed into his fist. Tod, momentarily speechless, finally regained his composure.
“Well,” he stammered, his voice a bit shaky, “I suppose some people simply lack the appreciation for . . .elegance.” With a haughty flip of his (perfectly styled) hair, he stalked off towards the other side of the cafeteria, leaving a trail of snickering and snide looks in his wake.
Alex watched him go, a smirk playing on his lips. “Elegance? More like egomania. And you guys are actually going to go?” He turned his gaze onto Bill and Willie. “Seriously? You’re gonna subject yourselves to that torture?”
“Well,” Bill admitted, shrugging. “The free candy is usually pretty decent.”
Willie considered this for a moment, nodding slowly.
“And the opportunity to scientifically observe the phenomenon that is Tod Winnokur in his natural habitat does present a certain . . . sociological appeal,” he remarked. “Plus, who knows? Maybe this year’s party will be so bad, it’s good.” He tried to inject some enthusiasm into his tone, though he wasn’t entirely convinced.
Alex raised an eyebrow. “Maybe. Or maybe it’ll just be another display of Tod’s complete lack of coolness.”He leaned back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Either way, I’m gonna make sure it’s interesting.”
Willie and Bill exchanged a confused look.
“How?” Willie finally asked.
“Play a little prank on him,” Alex promptly answered, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
Intrigued, Bill leaned forward. “Yeah, what do you have in mind?”
Alex shrugged, a devilish smile playing on his lips. “Let’s just say, it won’t summon a ghost, but it might make Tod question his definition of ‘authentic terror.’” He winked before walking away, leaving Willy and Bill to wonder just what kind of chaotic scheme he was cooking up.
The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, and they shuffled out of the cafeteria, the conversation lingering in the air. Willy found himself strangely excited, a sliver of anticipation cutting through the looming dread of Tod’s party. The possibility of a little chaos, meticulously planned and executed by Alex, was a far more appealing prospect than another night of forced politeness and condescending costume critiques. He had a feeling this year’s Halloween might just be interesting after all.
Historic Simargl Bakery,
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section,
Commonwealth of Toria,
Friday, 5:18 P. M.
The aroma of cinnamon and spiced apples usually filled Simargl’s Bakery with a comforting warmth, but today, it was laced with a sharp tang of suspicion. Simargl, a massive creature of feathered wings the color of burnished gold and sharp, amber eyes, surveyed her rows of cooling pies with a face that could curdle milk. Her muzzle-like mouth was set in a tight line, each scaly feather around it bristling with indignation.
“Forty pies!” she exclaimed, her voice a low, grating rasp that echoed off the ancient stone walls. “Forty bloody pies missing. And don’t even think about blaming that Rodney kid again! He’s a good lad incapable of such a well-orchestrated theft. We’ve been stuck by a sneak-thief, I tell you!”
Beside her, Scoria, an equally large zmei dragoness with scales the color of smoldering lava and charcoal, shifted her hefty weight, her padded clawed feet clicking on the stone floor, each moment a low thump. “Probably that álfr boy who was here earlier,” she rumbled, her voice a deep, resonant hum. “He’s been asking if we had any snowdrop berry pies. Kept on saying he was doing research for a school paper.”
A small, fluffy canine server named Pip, with ears perpetually perked and a tail that drooped with worry, tilted his head. “Snowdrop berry pie? Aren’t they . . . poisonous?” He asked, his high-pitched voice trembling slightly as he clutched his order pad, a tiny notepad looking absurdly small in his paws.
“Not to troll, goblins or gorals,” grunted Barnaby, an elderly mole man who was currently arranging a pyramid of gingerbread men, each tiny face as identical, disgruntled frown. He was always a wealth of odd though often practical knowledge. “They’d probably consider it a delicacy. You know, the kind of thing they use to spike their tea and wine, similar to the humes’s cocktails like a gin and tonic.
“Funny that an álfr’s asking about snowberry pie,” drawled a surly licorne named Hornsby, his single horn glinting under the dim light of the bakery. His fine fur coat, once a pristine white, was now a dingy gray due to age as well as a fine layer of stone ground flour. “It’s not something we carry. You’d think he’s planning something nefarious. Seems awfully suspicious. Don’t suppose it’s that Winnokur Kid. I heard he’s really bad news. A notorious trickster, that one . . like most of the men folk in that Gentry family. “ He then snorted, a puff of air sending a cloud of flour into the air.
Scoria’s nostrils flared, puffing out a wisp of smoke that drifted up to the ceiling. “If he’s a High Born then it wouldn’t surprise me. Those lot are always up to no good. Sneaky as snakes, the lot of them. And a bunch of leachers too! Why, half the working community are related to many of the Noble Houses around here! They think they’re entitled to everything.” Her spiky tail swiped angrily, knocking over a stack of parchment order slips.
Simargl gave a sharp flap of her majestic wings. “Enough!” She began circling the room like an agitated hawk. “Let’s not jump to conclusions. An álfr looking for snowdrop berries could be many things, from a bumbling amateur herbalist to . . . well, an idiot youngster on an Ether Stream challenge with friends.”
She glared at a particularly plump pie, as if it held the answer. “But forty pies? This thief is organized, and quite possibly, connected to this Winnokur Kid.”
“Perhaps we should check the back?” Pip suggested, his squeaky voice small. “Maybe they just . . . moved?”
“What? Moved themselves to the forest?” Scoria scoffed, but grudgingly she moved towards the back of the bakery, Barnaby and Hornsby trailing behind her. Pip, ears drooping, trailed in their wake. However, they found nothing. Every nook and cranny, from the sacks of flour to the cooling racks, was empty of pies.
Simargl remained in the main area of the bakery, her burning gaze fixed on the empty space where the pies should have been.
“This isn’t some simple pasty theft,” she growled. “This is . . . personal.”
As soon as the others returned with no results, Simargl simply nodded, her eyes narrowing with determination. “Right, that’s it. We can just sit here, fretting and speculating all day, or we can go out and check for blasted clues!” She fixed each of her staff, one by one, with her sharp unwavering gaze. “Barnaby, you know the access tunnels around here like the back of your hand. Check for fresh signs of tunneling, and see if any of the Urth-Fae settlements have had a sudden abundance of freshly baked good, especially berry pies. Scoria, put your excellent nose to work. Track any strange and suspicious scent near here, see if it leads anywhere useful. Hornsby, see if you can charm any of the local gossip into speaking, especially that Ole Boisvert fella. Find out what else they’ve heard about this here Winnokure Kid. And little Pipkin,” she said, her raspy voice softening as she looked down at the smallest and youngest member of the baking crew, “you stay here and keep a sharp eye on the remaining pies. If someone even looks like they’re going to steal one, you bark loud. Understand?”
A chorus of affirmations followed. Barnaby disappeared into a trapdoor under the counter, the sound of his muffled shuffling footsteps echoing through the bakery. Walking outside, Scoria snorted loudly and her snout began to twitch as she scented the air; Hornsby sauntered out the door with a flick of his scraggly mane, and Pipkin, chest puffed with importance, positioned himself like a tiny furry sentinel in front of the counter.
Simargl sighed as she perched herself on a hefty stool. The bakery fell silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire in the hearth and occasional crunching from Pip, who nibbled on one of Barnaby’s discarded gingerbread man.
Simargl’s amber eyes narrowed as her mind raced through possibilities. Forty pies vanishing. It wasn’t just about the lost product, it was about the violation, the disrespect. She had pored her heart into those pies, each one a tiny testament to her skill and patience. And someone, somewhere, was enjoying them without paying.
As she began to reassess the situation, a new though niggled at the edge of her mind. Snowdrop berries . . . why would an álfr specifically ask for those? Perhaps, it wasn’t just about the pies themselves, but about something more . . . and that something more, she suspected, was the key to finding her thief.
An hour passed, punctuated by the rhythmic crunching of pip polishing off another discarded gingerbread man. Simargl tapped a claw on the counter, each tap a beat of mounting frustration. Then, she caught a whiff of a faint, sweet scent. She sniffed again, puzzled. It was different from the usual bakery smell; it was the unmistakable musty-spicy aroma of elder flowers and . . . something else, something earthy and slightly metallic.
Still sniffing, Simargl got up from her seat and stepped around the counter. Frowning, Pip followed her, still gnawing on his treat. He soon found Simargl crouched down, her sharp muzzle probing the shadows beneath the counter. Finally, she spotted what she was looking for and pulled it out.
Pip padded forward and blinked, perplexed at what Simargl clutched in her massive palm.
“What is it?” he asked, as Simargl scowled at the mysterious thing, turning it over in her scaly hand.
“A wicker basket by the looks of it,” she muttered, raising her fringed eyebrows. “Doesn’t look like one of ours though.”
Pip leaned in closer, carefully studying the intricately woven basket. It was made of carefully knotted willow twigs and lined with moss and ferns, and it held the faint scent that Simargl detected. More importantly, its base was stained with a faint purplish residue.
They both heard the rhythmic clatter of cloven hooves on the front step.
“Hornsby!” Simargl called out, her voice sharper than usual. “Come here, quickly!”
Hornsby trotted over, his single horn tilted in curiosity. “What is it, Simargl? Have you found something?”
Simargl held up the market basket, the purple stain stark against the soft green lining. “This was hidden under the counter behind some grocery sacks. And look at this,” she said, pointing at the purple residue. “This isn’t just any basket. It’s clearly been used to carry those snowdrop berries.”
Hornsby’s deep-set eyes widened slightly. “So the álfr was not just asking about the pies . . . he was gathering ingredients? But why, if he’s not a rival baker or a wannabee herbalist?”
Just then, Barnaby popped his tufted head up from behind a stack of display barrels near the front door.
Scoria and I found tracks!” he squeaked, his voice unusually high-pitched. “Small, neat tracks in glittery dust, leading away towards the Swanwick Woods. They’re not of a grown human or troll or even goblin. They’re like . . . Well, elegant sneakers.”
A collective gasp filled the air. “Elegant?”
“And what sort of thief leaves elegant sneaker tracks?” Scoria rumbled as she lumbered in, her face grim. “One of those poshy flipping’ Gentry, of course.”
Simargl felt a sudden click in her mind.
“Elegant glittery tracks, a hidden basket, a poshy álfr asking about poisonous specialty berries . . . “ She looked at her gathered friends, her eyes burning with a dawning realization. “It’s about something else.”
“And what is that?” Hornsby asked, his brisk voice now laden with concern.
“It’s about crafting,” Simargl declared, her voice gaining a newfound edge. “This álfr isn’t just a mere juvenile thief out for some Ether Stream fame . . . he’s a newbie dark mage.” She began to slowly pace, her wings itching with the need to take action. He probably needed our pies as vessels either for concealing those snowdrop berries or maybe he’s creating some kind of potion to put into those pies, one infused with this poisonous herb!”
“But why steal from us? Why not make his own?” Pip asked, his tail drooping again.
“Because making pies from scratch takes time and energy,” Barnaby offered with uncharacteristic authority, “and snowdrop berries are notoriously difficult to harvest due to the specific environment conditions they require to grow.”
Pip, curious about what Barnaby meant asked, “What do you mean by ‘specific environment conditions?’ Are you talking about something like a greenhouse?”
Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, Barnaby elaborated, “It’s less about artificial settings like greenhouses; rather, it’s about the natural settings that snowdrop berries require. These berries flourish in some truly remarkable magical conditions that are hard to come by, primarily found deep within the heart of Witch Territory, which complicates the whole gathering and lengthy process of negotiation with the local witch tribes, and obtain a licence, our mysterious cat burglar decided to obtain them through theft.”
Simargl nodded in agreement. “And maybe because the thief knew my pies are the best,” she added, a hint of pride returning to her voice despite the situation. “He stole the pies, he stole the ingredient, and now he has something he couldn’t have created without us.”
“So what do we do now?” Scoria asked with a growl, ready for confrontation.
Simargl looked at each of her friends, their eyes sparkling with anticipation. “We’re going to go out and look for this thief,” she said, a determined glint in her amber eyes. “We’re going to go out and try to find this bastard, and see just what nefarious plan he’s concocting. And we’re going to ensure he never underestimates Simargl’s pies again. This isn’t just about the lost pies . . . It’s about proving that our hard honest work, our traditions, actually mean something and are not to be twisted up into something corrupt.”
And so, the unlikely group of a feathered Simargl baker, a zmei dragoness, a soft-spoken mole man, an elderly licorne, and a small timid canid, set off up on closing shop, following the elegant glittery sneaker tracks, the lingering scent of elder flowers and wet earth, determined to reclaim what was rightfully theirs and uncover the secrets of the mysterious pie thief. The aroma of suspicion had given way too potent mix of determination and intrigue, and the scent of cinnamon and spiced apples was now a distant memory, replaced by the thrill of the chase.
(J is for Judgement)
Swanwick Woods, near Orth River,
Commonwealth of Toria
Saturday, 12:340 A. M.
The flickering oil lamp cast long, dancing shadows across the cold, damp stone of the basement. A single Edison Bulb hummed overhead, doing little to dispel the gloom. Here, in this subterranean den, the air hung heavy with the odors of mildew, dried herbs, and something vaguely clear– a thick, glistening coil of lamia venom sat simmering in a clipped ceramic bowl.
Working with meticulous care, a figure hunched over a crude wooden table. The figure was unnervingly tall, its posture hunched and its movement precise. Atop its massive shoulder sat a wolf-like head, the fur a coarse, grizzled gray, with sharp, intelligent eyes that burned with a cold, simmering flame. This was no regular forest beast or fae; this was a cynocephaly, a creature born of ancient Yngvi magic and twisted by circumstance.
And, to add to its unsettling presence it wore a plague doctor’s suit, the wide-brimmed hat and beak-like mask doing little to hide the fact that its snout protruded rather than ended in a gentle slope.
This creature, once known as “The Beast of Bray Road” or “Wisconsin Werewolf” by the few human witnesses unfortunate enough to have crossed its path, was not a herbal alchemist nor a healer of shamanic traditions. No, it was a witch, a secret practitioner steeped in the darker currents of magic. And tonight, its focus was on a peculiar object: a perfectly baked, golden-crusted apple pie, nestled on a cooling rack beside the work table.
The cynocephaly’s long, gloved fingers delicately plucked a handful of snowdrop berries from a small, woven basket. Their ivory white flesh pulsed with an unnatural luminescence, a clear indication of their potent toxicity. With a practiced gesture, the berries were crushed in a mortar, the sound like tiny bones cracking.
The extracted juice, a milky white, was then carefully poured into the venom bowl, the venom instantly turning from a shimmering green to a viscous, bubbling putrid ochre.
The cynocephaly murmured a series of deep, guttural sounds, rich with hissing consonants and elongated vowels, the ancient Yngvi language echoing within its elongated jaws. The contents of the bowl began to emit steam, releasing a sharp bitter aroma that could easily turn a mortal’s stomach. Yet, this cynocephaly was no longer mortal.
The stolen pie sat innocently, oblivious to the dark magic swirling around it. This pie wasn’t just any pie; it was a symbol of the slight, the injustice, the unbearable humiliation one of its adopted grandpups had suffered.
A few years prior, while the pup, a scrappy little thing named Philip, was returning home with a similar pie from the nearby town, he had been confronted by a Gentry youth. Tall and cruel with eyes like chips of smoky-blue quartz, he had ridiculed Philip’s scraggly appearance, belittled his chimeroid heritage, and then smashed the freshly baked pie into the pup’s face–a sticky, sugary humiliation that had burned deeper than any fire.
And the cynocephaly, who had once tried to integrate, who had hoped for acceptance and eventual justice, had finally decided that enough was enough. Vengeance, cold and methodical was the only path left.
The portion was almost ready. The cynocephaly dipped a long, thin sliver of wood into the bubbling brew, pulling it out slowly. The viscous liquid coated the wood like a deady glaze. With a deliberate, almost ritualistic precision, the cynocephaly began to apply this poisoned concoction to the entire surface of the apple pie, ensuring that no crust, no filling, escaped the deadly grace. The stench intensified, making the dampness of the basement feel palpable.
The task took time; each stroke of the poisoned brush was a meditation on the wrongs inflicted. As the last drop was applied, a grim satisfaction settled within the cynocephaly’s beastly heart. The pie, now a shimmering canvas of death, looked deceptively delicious, a cruel masquerade beneath its golden, seemingly wholesome exterior.
The cynocephaly took a step back, its eyes glowing with an unnatural light behind the dark goggles of the plague mask. Its canine nostrils flared, inhaling the intoxicating stench of its completed work. Soon, the Gentry Brat, and perhaps others in his immediate circle, would learn the price of their cruelty. Soon, vengeance, a dish best served cold and laced with deadly magic, would be served. And the cynocephaly would watch from the shadows, its twisted satisfaction a grim echo in the silent, forgotten depths of its basement. The laughter, it would know, would be all its own.
WrenChester Middle School,
Murre let City Section, CA
Tuesday, 11:30 P. M., 2013
4th Period, October 15th
Hume Holiday–”National Mushroom Day”
The air in the WrenChester Middle School cafeteria crackled with unspoken tension. Not the usual kinds, born of spilled goat milk, stray currents of wild magic, or even a particularly heinous mystery meatloaf or lasagna. This was the tension of being in the vicinity of Tod Winnokur, a creature whose very being radiated an air of self-importance that could curdle licorne milk quicker than you could say “pumpkin spice.”
Tod, with his wiry frame and hair the color of spun moonlight and a wardrobe so fabulous it could make even the richest mortal scion weep with jealousy, was currently holding court at his usual table. As he discussed his upcoming Halloween party, he gestured with his well-groomed hands like a conductor. His admirers bobbed their heads in enthusiastic agreement, perhaps wondering if they should come as spooks or just his shadow.
“Okay, acolytes, we’re not just doing spooky. We’re doing absolutely terrifying,” Tod declared, his voice almost a purr. “Think Edward Gorey/ Charles Adams gothic grandeur, with a dash of eldritch horror.” He paused for dramatic effect and also to shove half a sandwich in his mouth. “And for that, I need someone . . . special.”
Searching around, his gaze soon landed on Twistle Tullugaq, a Churcka girl hunched over her mushroom and moss salad at a nearby table. Twistle was, to put it mildly, not your typical fae student. She was a Changer, a multi-talented shape shifter nearly on par with the old trickster gods such as Raven and Coyote. Her skin could shift from the pale green of moss to the deep brown of rich earth, her eyes sometimes glowed with an inner amber light, and her hair, a constantly changing cascade of natural texture, was currently a tangle of autumn-colored oak leaves. She was, in short, a prodigy, a living demigod–force of nature through and through. And she wanted nothing to do with Tod Winnokur or his extravagant nonsense.
Undeterred by Twistle’s obvious disinterest, Tod approached her table, his delicate silver-tipped boots clicking against the linoleum. “Twistle, Mon chou,” he began, his voice dripping with false sweetness. “I have the most marvelous proposition for you.”
Twistle sighed, stirring her leaf style in tiny ripples about her pointed ears. She knew this was coming, had felt the weight of Tod’s avarice from across the cafeteria. She took another bite of her salad, deliberately slow, ignoring his presence.
“You see,” Tod continued, oblivious to her lack of enthusiasm, “my party this year requires . . . a creature of truly unsettling proportions. And well,” he gestured vaguely at Twistle, his lip curling slightly, “I can’t think of anyone more . . . well, suited.”
Twistle finally looked up, her gaze sharp and unflinching. “Suited for what, exactly, Winnokur? To be your grotesque lawn ornament?” Her voice was low, a rumble like distant thunder.
Tod’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. “Oh, Twisy, don’t be so dramatic. I was just thinking more . . . like a centerpiece. Something truly . . . mind blowingly monstrous.” He waved a hand dismissively. “I’m thinking some kind of tentacled Kaiju horror from Mariana Trench, perhaps? With lots of glowing eyes on stalks? I’ll have the most totally Knockout costume made, of course.”
Twistle remained silent for a moment, chewing her food slowly, the rustling of her leaves the only sound. Then, with deliberate precision, she took a long sip of her green tea. Her gaze didn’t falter, the amber flecks in her eyes glowing faintly. She then placed the cup down with a soft thud.
“Let me get this straight,” she began, her voice still low and ominous, “you want me, a respectable Changer, to spend hours of my life pretending to be a monstrous creature I am not, just for the entertainment of a bunch of entitled little elves and faux fae? Just because I’m . . . ‘suited’?”
Tod’s brows furrowed. He seemed genuinely confused. “Well, yes, precisely! It’ll be a great opportunity for you to . . . mingle. To social-stream-network. And just imagine the publicity!”
Twistle chuckle, a low, guttural sound that made the hairs on Tod’s arms stand on end. “Publicity? Winnokur, I’d rather spend the evening licking moss off rocks than attend one of your so-called ‘terrifying’ parties.” She leaned forward, her gaze locking with his. “So, to put it in terms you might understand, sod off.”
The word, simple but forceful, hung in the air like a poison needle-dart. Tod stared at her, speechless, his perfect composure shattered. The sycophants at his table shifted uncomfortably, not quite sure what to make of the situation. Meanwhile, onlookers at the nearby tables began to snicker and exchange snide remarks. Meanwhile, a handful busily typed away on their smuggled in BlogCubes and shell phones.
Twistle, having delivered her pronouncement, returned to her salad, the rustling of her leaf style as she took another bite the only acknowledgment that Tod Winnokur even existed.
Tod, for once, seemed to have nothing more to say. He stood there for a moment longer, his face a mask of bewildered blushing indignity, before finally turning and stalking back to his table, leaving a trail of bruised ego and mockery in his wake. The air in the cafeteria felt a little lighter. And Twistle, well, she had a rather delicious salad to finish. She couldn’t wait to spend Halloween exploring the deep Yggdrasil Woods, far, far away from Tod Winnokur and his terrifying party plans. Some horrors, she knew, we’re best avoided.
As she ate, Twistle felt a strange sense of satisfaction. It wasn’t often she stood up to someone like Tod, but something about his assumption that she would she would be his party prop had rubbed her the wrong way. Her leaves fluttered slightly like banners, as if sharing in her victory. She had always loved the solace of the forest, the quiet whispers of the trees and the gentle rustle of the underbrush. It was a stark contrast to the cacophony of school, where she often felt like a leaf out of place in a gleaming sea of gold, silver and copper.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a chair scraping the floor as someone sat down next to her. She glanced over to see a bespectacled boy with mischievous brown eyes and a mop of dark curly hair that looked like it had never seen a brush. His name was Jasper Cullis on, and while he wasn’t exactly a close friend, they had a mutual understanding. They were both outsiders in their own ways.
“You really told him off,” Jasper said with a smirk, his teeth flashing white. “I’ve never seen anyone shut him up like that before.”
Twistle rolled her eyes. “It’s not like it’s hard.” She took another bite of her salad, the flavors of the early mushrooms and tangy moss mixing on her tongue. “He thinks just because I’m a Canoti, I’ll jump at the chance to be his freak show.”
Jasper chuckled. “Well, you did make quite the impression.” His cheeky smirk. “But, seriously, you should come to my place for Halloween. I’m throwing a party too. Just a small gathering of friends who won’t expect you to be a monster.”
Twistle raised a leafy eyebrow, intrigued despite herself. “And what’s so special about your party?”
Jasper leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s going to be epic, Twistle. We’re talking real magic, not the glitz and glamour stuff Tod’s into. I”ve got a friend who’s bringing over some authentic incantations. And, if we’re lucky, we might even summon something.”
Twistle’s curiosity piqued, she swallowed her last bite of salad. “Summon something? Like what?”
Jasper’s grin grew wider. “I can’t say for sure, but my friend swears by it. Could be a minor spirit, a forest creature, or maybe even a last artifact. It’s all part of the thrill, you know?”
Twistle considered the offer. While the idea of summoning something was admittedly tempting, she wasn’t keen on letting her guard down around anyone from school. But there was something genuine in Jasper’s enthusiasm that she couldn’t help but be drawn to. “What’s the catch?” she asked, her skepticism evident.
“No catch,” Jasper assured her, his eyes bright with excitement. “Just a group of us wanting to have a real adventure. It’ll be a night to remember, I promise.”
(L is for Lakien and Liam Steiger’s Accounts of Parties Past) Later Told to Local Investigators
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The autumn I turned eleven was blistering, the kind of heat that warped the pavement and the air shimmer like a mirage. My little brother, Liam, just nine boldly declared he could match me in just about anything, a challenge only a twerp his age would make with such dumbass bravado. We were typically a dynamic duo, always getting into trouble together, whether it was sneaking cookies or tormenting the neighbor’s ornery goats. But that scorching autumn, I chose to go alone to a Halloween party in our neighborhood.
The poster advertising it was plastered everywhere you looked, and it practically screamed “Hey, look at me! I’m Richie Rich!” It wasn’t your typical cheaply made Halloween flyer with some finger paint splatters and stereotypical ghosts. Nope, this was a shiny, fancy piece of cardstock, all decked out in silver and jet-black letters announcing:
“The Sleepover Horror Fest: Hosted by Tod Van Merlyn Winnokur.”
And just in case you missed the main event, it added in smaller letters:
“Showcasing Genuine Handcrafted Delicacies and Soul-gripping Stories!”
Tod Winnokur. Just saying his name could make even the most confident sixth grader wilt like a dying geranium. He was the son of some biotech magnate Khelvas Van Merlyn Winnokur IV, and let me tell you, he was wrapped in privilege like a burrito in foil oozing with that “I’m way better than you mortal scrum” vibes. His parties were more like royal galas than your average tween hangout. And this 2011 Halloween bash? It was set to be the most over-the-top one yet.
And then there was me, Lakien Steiger, who was definitely not part of the Hogan’s Gap royal elite. My family lived in a cozy, slightly shabby house on the working class side of town. My Halloween costume this year? A totally classic Wizard of OZ (and cheap) scarecrow. But somehow, through some weird twist of fate and a seating arrangement that probably should’ve been rethought, I got an invite.
The Winnokur estate was everything you’d expect from a family with way too much money and free time on their hands. A long, winding driveway led to a mansion that looked like it belonged in some gothic fairy tale. Torches flickered along the path, casting dancing shadows on the hedges that were trimmed into bizarre shapes. The air was buzzing with the excitement of kids in costumes that were way fancier and better-made than mine. There was a tiny, cartoony dragon, a vampire that looked like he just walked off a movie set for a much-needed break (seriously, those fangs looked real), and a full-body robot costume that probably cost more than my family’s hover car.
Inside, the house was an opulent mix of fancy and spooktacular. Cobwebs made of shimmering tie-dye threads draped over antique furniture. Spooky music, carefully selected to avoid the pop genre echoed through the Art Nouveau hallways.
Oh, and those so-called “genuine handcrafted delicacies?” Yeah, they were just sitting there on shiny silver platters like they were the Crown Jewels of London or something. We had all these tiny pumpkin tarts sprinkled with edible gold and silver leaf– because who doesn’t want to eat gold and silver, right? Then there were these Ghost Face meringues that looked so perfect, I was pretty sure they were just props like that fake food you see displayed at the Japanese restaurants. And let’s not forget the hand-carved chocolate skulls filled with raspberry panache, because nothing says Halloween like a sugar rush from a skull.
Tod, decked out in a dark velvet ensemble getup that looked like it belonged in a Christopher Lee movie, greeting everyone with a smile that was way too polite for my taste. He was the picture of eerie calm, with his pale weasely features somehow showing both amusement and total boredom at the same time.
“Wow, excellent costumes, everyone,” he said, his voice all smooth and melodic. “Now, let the soul-gripping stories commence!”
So we were crammed into this hugemongous library, which honestly had more leather-bound editions than the entire public one downtown, and probably more silverfish and mice as well. The lights were soon dimmed, and a crackling fire made the shadows dance on our faces like we were in one of those Hammer Horror productions. One by one, we told our stories, each one attempting to be more terrifying than the last with the usual rehash of haunted houses, ghostly encounters, and the obligatory urban legends.
My own story, about a vengeful creepy scarecrow that comes to life in a Nebraska cornfield, felt super lame after hearing a goth girl tell about how she saw a spectral figure in grandma’s antique mirror.
Then it was Tod’s turn. He lounged back in his fancy armchair, and the fire light made him look all mystical and stuff . . . like a miniature, younger version of Peter Cushing. And that was when the atmosphere in the room shifted. It wasn’t just some boring, pointless piece of crap we all heard countless times before. It was . . . like the party vibe in that room did a complete 180 into The Twilight Zone.
Tod’s story wasn’t about ghosts or ghouls or even serial killers in cheesy costumes. It was about us. About the whole freakin’ town of Hogan’s Gap shortly after its first settlers cleared it from dense tangle of the Yggdrasil Wood. He spun a tale of a hidden secret history, of numerous druid-type sacrifices, made to appease the ancient spirits that were supposedly chilling right underneath the very foundation stones of the Winnokur estate. He also spoke of the dark shadows lurking in the manicured hedges, dry whispers carried on the wind, and a pact made long ago that demanded . . . Well, he didn’t say what it demanded, exactly.
He didn’t need to. The way he looked at each of us, his eyes glinting in the firelight, made it clear that whatever it was, it was something we should be terrified of. Then he ended his story with a bone-chilling smile, and the silence that followed was so thick you could hear the rats scurrying in the walls. At least, I hope they were just rats.
From that moment on, the party was a completed and total flop. The carefully orchestrated fun was replaced by an underlying dread. Every creak we heard sounded like approaching footsteps, every gust of wind felt like a whispered threat. Even the artisan treats tasted less sweet, more like sour pissy clay and moldy graveyard dirt.
Well, by the time the sleepover was called to order (in a room that was surprisingly free of the spooky decor), Tod’s story had burrowed into my brain like a really bad ear worm song you couldn’t shake off. I lay there staring at the ornate ceiling, convinced I could hear the rustling of leaves (or maybe silk fabric) just outside the closed door, and the faintest whisper of a pleading voice.
As dawn broke, pointing the sky in dull grays, I realized I wouldn’t be catching any z’s until I was safely back in my side of the neighborhood. Meanwhile, Tod looked like he’d just had the best night ever. He was standing on the grand staircase, his fancy cape billowing in the morning light, with this smug little smile like he’d just pulled off his greatest performance ever. My fists clenched and I wanted to slug him right then and there. But instead of making a scene, I choose to brush past him pretending he didn’t exist.
As I walked away, the poster for his “Sleepover Horror Fest” was still stuck to the gate, shining in the morning sun. I couldn’t help but glance back at the imposing Winnokur estate and wonder whether the real horror story was only just beginning. And whether we, the attendees, had unknowingly become characters in Tod’s most unsettling narrative yet. The one that was yet to be written, in the shadows of our own lives.
Liam’s Account of a 2011 Halloween Party–3rd Person POV for Anonymity
Join us for a Night of Frights:
The Sleepover Horror Story Extravaganza!
Curated by Tod Van Merlyn Winnokur,
With Ghoulish Gourmet Delights and
Chilling Stories to Send Shivers
Down Your Spine
Graffiti that was written in black sharpie below in smaller text:
“Don’t go! He’ll just take your teeth!”
The invitation, a heavy, embossed card with a Celtic raven design, had arrived a week prior, nestled amongst the usual junk mail.
Ten-year-old Liam had been both thrilled and unnerved. He knew Tod’s Winnokur, vaguely through school gossip he overheard. Tod’s family lived in the sprawling, turret house at the edge of town; the kind that whispered stories of eccentric old money and perhaps, something a little darker. Tod himself was a pale, intense boy with gray eyes that seemed to hold more than his twelve years, and a reputation for the macabre and uncanny. So, when Liam saw the bold longhand title of Tod’s sleepover, a shiver of excitement mixed with unease ran down his spine.
His mother, after a bit of cajoling, signed the permission slip, citing the “Character building” aspect of facing his fears. Liam, however, was less concerned with character building and more with, well, maybe not losing his teeth. The 2nd graffiti message on the invitation’s envelope, discovered pinned to his corkboard that morning, hadn’t helped. He glanced back at it, wondering if it was all just a prank from Lakien, before grabbing his sleeping bag.
The night was overcast, the moon a crescent sliver lost in the clouds. The Winnokur house loomed up before him, even more menacing in the dim light. The front door, a heavy oak monstrosity, was ajar, like a gaping maw. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cinnamon and something . . . metallic.
Tod, dressed in a velvet dressing gown, greeting Liam with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He led Liam into the drawing room, where eleven other costumed boys, all with varying degrees of apprehensive and excited expressions, were already gathered. The opulent room was adorned with dark, antique furniture and strange, ornate objects. On a low table, a veritable feast was laid out: miniature tarts with intricate, almost unsettling designs, cakes decorated with black frosting, and a strange, viscous-looking punch in a crystal bowl.
“Welcome, my esteemed guests!” Tod announced, his voice a little too theatrical. “Tonight, we shall celebrate the art of fear! We shall dine on delicacies and delve into the darkest corners of storytelling.” He then launched into a dramatic presentation, introducing each treat with a flourish. “These,” he said, holding up a small, bone-shaped cookie, “are ‘Cemetery Crumbs,’ made with the finest sprite bone marrow.”
Liam exchanged a nervous glance with a canid boy named Piper. They both discreetly pushed the cookies away. They also avoided sampling the punch and hex-marked tarts, although Piper quickly pocketed a couple cakes the moment Tod’s back was turned.
The stories came next, each one more disturbing than the best. Tod was a master of suspense, weaving tales of vengeful spirits of abandoned infants, shadowy creatures from sealed rooms, and disturbingly often, tooth-obsessed, blue-skinned Draugrs from the Mirror Earth. The boys grew quieter with each tale, their initial bravado replaced with a palpable unease. Liam, despite his best efforts, couldn’t shake the image of the graffiti from his mind. The “tooth taking” angle had become disturbingly central to the stories.
As the night deepened, the flickering candlelight cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe with the sound of Tod’s voice. During a lull, Liam noticed something odd. Tod’s smile, as he gazed around the room, had a strange quality. His teeth, usually hidden, seemed to be . . . sharper. And as he spoke, Liam though he saw, just for a fraction of a second, a glint of silver amidst his teeth, like polished metal.
Panic began to bloom in Liam’s chest. He looked around at the other boys. They seemed transfixed, their eyes wide and hollow, almost . . . dreamy. Had they noticed? He tried to catch Piper’s eye, but the pup just stared blankly ahead.
Tod had started another story, this one about a child who had refused to brush their teeth, and the horrible fate that befell them. Liam felt a chill run down his spine. He wasn’t just telling stories, he was . . . something else.
Suddenly, the front door slammed shut with a loud crash. The room fell silent. Liam jumped, a jolt of terror coursing through him as he spun around, eyes darting frantically. Piper had vanished without a trace. Tod turned, his usually pale face now flushed, and his eyes glowing in the candlelight. His smile widened, revealing teeth that were definitely too sharp, too pointed to be normal. And now more than just a tiny glint, his canines gleamed with polished silver.
“Time for the final treat of the evening!” Tod announced, his voice, oddly gleeful. “The Night’s End Nibbler!” He produced a small, velvet-lined box, and opened it with a flourish. Inside, nestled a black satin, by dozens of what looked disturbingly like perfectly formed, porcelain teeth.
Liam knew, then, that he wouldn’t stay to find out what the “Night’s End Nibbler” was for. Leaping to his feet, he knocked over a small coffee table, and charged for the door. The other boys, roused from their trance, seemed to come to their senses and followed close behind.
Tod’s high-pitched laughter echoed behind them as they scrambled out of the house, each of them convinced they’d just escaped with their lives and, hopefully, their teeth. They didn’t stop running until they reached the safety of their own streets, each one glancing over their shoulders, half-expecting to see a silver-tipped crescent gleaming in the shadows.
Liam never looked at another sleepover invite the same way ever again, and he made sure always to brush his teeth carefully, every night. Especially around Halloween. And he never forgot the graffiti, it’s ominous warning echoing in his mind: “Don’t go. He’ll take your teeth.”
It wasn’t just a prank, it had been a truth.
(M is for Mussing, Murmurs and of the Maggot Born)
Historical Elya’s Hearth
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section
Commonwealth of Toria
Wednesday Evening, October. 16th
The clock chimed 7:00 P.M., its gentle melody, a stark counterpoint to the unease that had recently settled over the Hearth. Usually, the café was a sanctuary, a haven of warmth filled with the comfortable symphony of clinking mugs and the sweet perfume of baking and roasting. But tonight, beneath the surface of contented chatter, a discordant note resonated.
Simargl, usually a vibrant presence, sat hunched in a corner booth. Her only company was Barnaby, his gray velvety head peeking worriedly over the table. The rest of her baking team had long since clocked out for the evening, leaving her to stew in the frustration that had taken root.
Her untouched hot chocolate, topped with a playful whipped cream smiley, seemed to mock her despair, a visual representation of the cheer she couldn’t muster as she watched the other patrons laugh and chat. A soft sig escaped her muzzle almost swallowed by the café ambient noise. Her amber eyes, usually bright and lively, darted around, her mind a whirlwind of frantic calculations.
Forty of her beloved pies– apple, blueberries, pumpkin spice– had vanished. Gone. Poof. They had been stacked neatly on the rear kitchen counter, ready for the evening rush, and now . . . nothing. No forced locks, no shattered windows, no signs of prints. Just forty empty spaces, an unfamiliar wicker market basket, resting forlornly underneath the front counter with a few snowberry steins, and a glittery trail of sneaker prints leading towards the Swanwick Woods, along with the lingering scent of elder flowers and a slightly tangy scent that defied identification. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it certainly not the typical aromas of Simargl’s Bakery.
Despite the baking staff’s best efforts, their search for clues soon proved fruitless. Barnaby had emerged from his foray from the Underground, covered in dirt and cobweb, reporting no suspicious tunneling or hungry Urth-Fae. Scoria had returned after a while of tracking the faint sparkling scent trail of its peculiar blend of elf musk and an oddly, damp odor. The trail, frustratingly, vanished near the edge of the Swanwick Woods. Hornsby had managed to gleamed a wealth of gossip from Hemlock Boisvert, as well as his fellow Dead Heads, mostly about Willokure’s penchant for mean practical jokes and his questionable fashion choices, but nothing concrete about snowdrop berries or a pie heist.
After having exhausted all effort, they were forced to call in the local authorities, which only resulted in lengthy written reports of their pastry loss and a rather bemused officer who seemed more interested in the details of the various missing pies than the actual theft itself. He scratched his head, scribbling down notes while muttering about how he hadn’t had a decent pastry since last Wednesday, and perhaps he could take a look at the crime scene for “investigative purposes.”
The incident quickly spiraled into a community event, with neighbors gathering to share their own pastry horror stories, turning the whole neighborhood into a comedic pastry-themed support group. In the end, they not only grieved their lost dessert but also ended up with a Ether Stream group titled “Pastry Vigilantes,” dedicated to seeking justice for all baked good gone astray, complete with embarrassing memes and hilarious sketches of pies in superhero costumes.
The sheer absurdity of it all gnawed at Simargl like a dog to a bone. It wasn’t simply the financial loss; it was the baffling nature of the theft, the sense of brazen violation that had tainted her cherished shop.
Restlessness clawed at her, the unanswered questions twisting in her mind like thorny wire vines.
“I still suspect that Winnokur Kid is involved,” Simargl murmured, her voice flat, stirring her hot chocolate absently. The whipped cream smiley dissolving into a swirling melting frown. “He probably even had an accomplice who managed to pull this off.” She couldn’t shake the image of the álfr with his notebook, with a cocky smirk and a sly glint in his eyes.
Barnaby, a moleman of few words and even fewer facial expressions, adjusted his wire-framed spectacles, his gaze patient. “He supposedly had an alibi at the time the theft occurred,” he stated matter-of-factly, his voice a low rumble. “Witnesses placed him at the Swanwick Woodman’s Hall, attending a cheese festival.”
Simargl scoffed “A cheese festival? Well, that sounds suspiciously convenient.” She ran a taloned hand through her messy auburn feathers, her frustration simmering. “I swear, Barnaby, this whole thing feels . . . unnatural. Like something is not quite right.” She picked at a loose thread on her apron. “Forty pies don’t just walk away, not here, not from my shop. And that basket with those snowberry stains. It’s not one you tend to see around here. Besides, it’s like it was purposely left there for someone to find.”
Barnaby considered her words, his brow furrowed slightly. “The scent you described to the police . . . didn’t you say it was earthly-like?” He sniffed the air tentatively, his sensitive nose twitching.
“There’s a hint of it still. I’m picking up . . . moss? And something . . . sharper. Like . . . a hint of petrichor.”
Simargl’s eyes widened. “Moss? Petrichor? That’s exactly it! But those aren’t usual bakery scents. It’s like . . . the smell of a forest after a storm.” She leaned forward, her mind racing, “I know we spoke with the police, but I will need to dig a bit deeper myself. Maybe we should consult with Mama Elya and see if she can help us with exploring new leads.”
Barnaby, sensing the shift in her mood, stood up quickly. “Alright, Simargl. I’ll help. Maybe my knowledge of the local history around here will be of some use.”
Simargl pushed her chocolate aside and stood, suddenly energized, the spark of her usual enthusiasm flickering back. “Well, let’s go see if Mama Elya is not too busy to talk.
She knew that she wouldn’t rest until she uncovered the truth behind the missing pies, even if it meant delving into the unconventional and the unknown. The scent, the snowberry stains, and the unsettling nature of the theft all pointed to something more than just a simple heist. Yet she, Simargl, the pie-baking queen of Simargl’s Bakery, wasn’t about to let it go unsolved, no matter where the trail led. Even, perhaps, into the depths of the Underworld itself.
Elya’s Hearth
Wednesday Evening, 7:26 P. M.
Sully slipped discreetly out the back exit, a familiar wariness flickering in his amber-yellow eyes. Quietly shutting the metal security door behind him, he glanced carefully around the alleyway. Near the dumpster, he soon spotted a lemur-like creature busily tying up a bulky burlap sack.
“Okay, Odora, the coast is clear,” he whispered, a note of excitement and concern in his voice. “Mom’s up front with the others. You can skiddattle now with these hat boxes.”
Odora grinned, her large, luminous eyes shimmer as she adjusted the sack.
“Im sure Tod and the rest of the gang will be trilled about getting all the pies packaged in these pretty boxes.”
“Hey, you owe me a favor for this, you know? Last time you promised me a pizza, I didn’t see one single crumb!” Sully’s voice rose in playful indignation.
Odora chuckled, her playful demeanor unflappable. “You got it! But you know what they say– no pizza, no mercy!”
Sully chuckled too but swiftly turned his attention back to the task at hand. “Well, just get moving before anyone notices you. Also if anyone does, just tell them you’re just collecting trash and recyclables.”
Odora rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Look, nobody’s going to notice a lil’ pooka-lemur like me. Plenty of working fae around here lugging large, heavy bags and baskets of stuff to and from market. I’ll blend right in like a shadow under the afternoon sun.”
“But you’re going into Grub Street, and that’s in troll witch territory,” Sully pointed out. “And they don’t like elves very much, especially Tod. If they se you with him . . .” His voice trailed off, leaving unsaid the dire possibilities of what could happen.
“Hey, I think I can handle myself,” Odora reassured him. “Besides, everyone knows I’m too quick for trouble. It’s not like we’re going into an infamous haunted house or in some forbidden fallout zone. We’re just going to bribe some witches for an indie horror game.”
“But you’re going into a really dangerous territory,” Sully insisted. “It’s like the notorious Scampi neighborhood in Naples, Italy, only instead of Camorra mobsters, there’s Witch Overloads dominating everything.”
Odora laughed lightly, her bright eyes full of mischief. “Oh please, Sully! I can charm my way out of any sticky situation– especially with pies involved.”
“Sullivan!” Elya’s firm voice emanated from inside. “Would you please come in here. There’re several people wanting to speak to you. Sullivan?”
“Oh Smerge!” Sully hissed frantically. “I think someone summoned the freakin’ fuzz! Hey, Odora, I gotta go, but we can still meet up next weekend at the Noble Nosh Pizzeria, okay? Just be careful out there, especially around Tod. He may be of the Ljósálfar,but he’s got a heart as dark as pitch.”
Odora rolled her eyes again but couldn’t help grinning. “Yeah, yeah! Just keep your vent snout clean, dragonetta! I’ll be really, really careful. Ciao!”
“Yeah, Ciao,” Sully muttered before quickly ducking back inside.
With a wink, Odora hefted the sack onto her back before sprinting toward the lit bustling street, her long limbs moving with an agile grace that had no intention of being hindered.
He watched until her small furry form was completely gone, a knot of anxiety tightening in his gut. Then, he forced a casual swing of his head towards the front lounge area, his smile practiced and just a touch too wide.
Outside, the rain commenced its gentle descent.
Noble Nosh Pizzeria
Hogan’s Gap, Old Town Section
Commonwealth of Toria
The very same evening
The cheerful jingle of the bell above the diner door cut through the dreary atmosphere outside, bringing a touch of warmth to the chilly afternoon. With Halloween still just two and a half weeks away, the lively buzz that usually filled this beloved local spot had given way to a tranquil stillness. The vinyl booths creaked softly as patrons shifted, their moments echoing on the sticky linoleum floor. A group of middle schoolers, wrapped snugly in their cold weather gear, and representing a UN microcosm of Faerie species, entered seeking refuge from the biting cold.
Tod settled comfortably in the back booth, a steaming mug of hot cocoa nestled before him, eagerly anticipating the arrival of his cohorts. His long, pointed ears perked up with excitement as he observed the rain dancing against the windows, droplets competing in a thrilling race down the misty glass. The flickering neon sign outside painted the 50's style diner with a soft, eerie glow that seeped through the vintage blinds, creating of captivating and mysterious atmosphere. It was the ideal backdrop for the spine-chilling, and Tod had crafted a tale that would surely send shivers down the spines of even the boldest of his classmates.
His audience, a dozen sprites of various sizes, a Kawaii Goth Nye-Am, and a lone Tanuki, slid into the booth opposite him, their eyes already wide with anticipation. Tod took a slow sip of his cocoa, letting the warmth spread through him before setting the mug down with a deliberate thump. He leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “So, you guys know I’ve got the biggest Halloween sleepover coming up, right?” He paused, relishing the moment before the story began. “Well, I’ve got a little . . . surprise for you all. A story, that is. It’s about something that actually happened, right here in this very town, two weeks before the most epic night of the year. It’s the legend of the Maggot Born!” A wave of excitement, laced with a hint of trepidation, washed over the diner, sending shivers down their spines, as the rain outside danced against the windows, echoing the rapid beating of their hearts.
Tod leaned back, his grin stretching from ear to ear. “You see, back when this whole Territory was under Álfr control, the government was desperate. Hualau-Urth was advancing too fast, both in population and in advanced weaponry. Time was slipping rapidly through their manicured fingers like sand in an hourglass. In desperation, they resorted to the unimaginable they harnessed ancient Yngvi gene crafting technology, and eventually . . . after 100 lunar cycles they engineered a bioware agent. But like all viral weapons, it spiraled out of control . . . catastrophically. Their aim was to create a Trojan Horse-type life form capable of infiltrating Hualau society, and thriving on flesh and blood, as well as instilling fear from the local population. All the while, able to hide and multiply in the shadows.” The flickering neon light from outside cast a ghostly pattern on his face, making him look like a creature of the night telling campfire tales.
The diner’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing a sickly hue over the group. The rain grew heavier, drumming against the windows like a crescendo of whispers urging him to continue. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a dry whisper. “This creature was birthed not from a curse or from a hellish portal, but instead, from a sterile laboratory where the Murre let University now stands. A leech maggot, infused with vampire and ghoul blood, rapidly evolved into something . . . unspeakable. It craved the flesh of the living and could only be vanquished by the light of a Blue Moon, which only occurs about every two or three years. So I guess we’re totally screwed, folks!”
Lei, the Tanuki, gulped audibly, her brindled fur bristling, despite the diner’s warmth. Irek and Griebe, bird sprite siblings ( and most chatty of the bunch) exchanged nervous glances, their tiny wings fluttering with unease. Only the Nye-Am, even the stoic Goth type, remained composed, though a flicker of curiosity danced in her black-lined eyes.
“Tell us more,” Griebe implored, her chirpy voice barely rising above the rain’s relentless patter.
Tod leaned in even closer, shadows weaving across his features like a sinister marionette. “This leech maggot finally transformed into something else . . . entirely. Something that craved more than mere bloodlust. It feasted on life force, growing stronger with each terrified soul it consumed. Not only that, but it became cunning, adept at blending in with its prey, masquerading as one of them.” The air in the booth turned chillier, as if the very essence of the creature seeped into the diner, weaving through the fabric of their reality.
The waitress, a robust witch, named Mabel, approached with a platter of kale and avocado and a round of cream soda, her cheery demeanor unfazed by the chilling tale. She set the food down with a clatter momentarily breaking the tension. The aroma of Parmesan cheese and spices wafted through the air, but the group’s appetites waned, overshadowed by Tod’s eerie narrative. He waited until Mabel had retreated, his gaze, seemingly unfazed by the unfolding drama.
Tod’s friends sat frozen, their chips untouched, their eyes glued to him. Lei, had her furry paw clutched around her soda, her knuckles white. Griebe’s wings had stopped fluttering, and Ivek had gone pale, his jaunty crest fluffed in high alert. The Nye-Am’s eyes had narrowed, her curiosity piqued. The elf leaned in closer, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate with the very walls of the diner. “The Arcane Governance tried to contain it, of course. But the Maggot Born proved to be a potent force, spreading like an insidious disease. Eventually, it escaped into the night, and now, every year, it returns, hungrier than before.”
The group darted nervous glances around the room, as if expecting the shadows to come alive and reveal secrets that were best kept hidden. The smell of grease and sugar from the kitchen melded with the cloying scent of their fear. The neon lights flickered, and the buzz of the fluorescent grew louder, as if in response to the tension. The rain outside had turned into a deafening roar, as if the very sky was urging them to pay attention to the horrors unfolding within their midst.
“But here’s the twist,” Tod whispered, his eyes alight with glee. “The Maggot Born can only be seen by those who truly believe in the darkest parts of the world. Those who let fear rule their hearts.” He paused, his grin growing wider.”So, if you’re brave enough to come to my Halloween party, you might just catch a glimpse of it.” The challenge hung in the air, a silent dare that beckoned them to step beyond their safe comfort zones and confront the unknown.
The group exchanged glances, a whirlwind of excitement and horror swirling in their expressions. They knew Tod thrived on scaring his friends, but this felt different this was a genuine urban legend, a potential reality lurking in the very scenic street they traversed daily. The diner’s lights flickered again, shadows deepening as if in response to the weight of the unfolding tale. The old goblin glanced up from his newspaper, locking eyes with Tod for a fleeting moment before returning to his reading, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.
Ah, youth! He mused, reminiscing on his own mischievous days, they’ll spin the wildest tales. But his smile faded as he absorbed the gravity of Tod’s words. Whispers of the Maggot Born Vampire had reached his ears before, dismissed as mere tall tales meant to keep children in line. Yet here was young Tod, spinning the yarn as if he had seen the creature with his own eyes. The goblin took a sip of his tea, savoring the sweet mint flavor as he contemplated the elf’s words.
The diner fell into a hushed silence, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain and the occasional clink of silverware. Even the antique jukebox in the far corner had ceased its music, as if it too was captivated by the elf’s haunted tale. The air thickened with anticipation, every droplet trailing down the pane seeming to linger, waiting for the story’s climax.
“So, you’re all coming to my party, right?” Tod asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve got the perfect spot for us to tell more scary stories and maybe, just maybe, we’ll get a visit from the Maggot Born.”
The sprites exchanged worried looks, their once colorful faces now drawn and paled. Finally, Kress; a pillywiggin, finally spoke up, “We’re not sure, Tod,” his voice trembling slightly. “It’s one thing to tell a scary story, but to actually face a real life something like that . . . “
Lei’s fur bristled, her large eyes kept flicking to the rain-drenched windows. “I don’t know if I can handle it. What if it’s real?”
Tod chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “That’s the thrill of it, Lei! But don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control. It’s all part of the experience!”
The sprites remained unconvinced. “Tod, are you certain this isn’t just another one of your elaborate pranks?” Griebe’s voice trembled with concern, her delicate wings quivering as she spoke. “You do have a reputation for going all out on Halloween.”
Tod rolled his eyes dramatically. “Come on, guys. It’s just a legend. Besides, what’s Halloween without a little terror?” He winked, trying to lighten the mood, but the look on their faces told him he wasn’t succeeding.
The old goblin cleared his throat, the sound echoing through the quiet diner. He slowly folded his newspaper and placed it on the table, his beady black eyes meeting Tod’s. “Young elf,” he began, his voice gravelly with age, “I’ve lived many lunar cycles, and I’ve heard tales like this before. Some legends hold a grain of truth, a warning from our ancestors.” His gaze was sharp and unwavering, and for a moment, a physical force. “Mess with the shadows, and you might just find yourself consumed by them.”
Tod’s friends stared at the goblin, their fear momentarily forgotten in the face of his solemnity. Yet Tod, even the bold one, brushed it off with a laugh. “Relax, old timer,” he said, his voice a little too loud. “It’s just a story. Nothing to get your golf knickers in a twist over.”
“I mean it, sonny.”
The old goblin’s voice was a mix of sternness and grave concern. He leaned heavily on his ebony cane, his eyes penetrating through the gloom. “Dark legends aren’t mere toys to be played with. They carry the whispers of the ancients, warnings of what lurks in the dark. You’d do well to remember that.”
Ivek and Griebe shared a sideway glance. Even their crests quivered in agreement with the goblin’s words. “Tod, maybe we should rethink this,” Ivek murmured, his voice barely audible over the rain.
But Tod was not one to be easily deterred. He let out a laugh that was more bark than mirth. “You guys are acting like it’s the end of the world!” He leaned back, his confidence unshaken. “It’s just a story, a bit of fun. What’s the worst that could happen?”
The goblin’s gaze didn’t waver, his eyes dark with an ancient wisdom that seemed to pierce right through Tod’s bravado.
“The worst,” he rumbled, “is that you wake something that was meant to stay asleep. That you invite the night’s terrors into your own lives.” His voice was a warning, a rumble of thunder in the quiet diner.
Lei’s paw trembled as it tightened around her soda, her tail swishing anxiously beneath the table. “Tod, maybe we should listen to him,” she suggested, her voice a low growl. “What if he’s right?”
Tod waved a dismissive hand. “You guys are letting your imaginations get the best of you.” He took another sip of his cocoa, the warmth of it a stark contrast to the icy grip of fear that had settled over the group. “It’s just an old wife’s tale, that’s all. Besides, we’ve still got two weeks until Halloween. Plenty of time to get our thrills and spooks in without getting too crazy.”
The sprites’ wings dropped even further, and Kress looked skeptical. “I don’t know, Tod,” the pillywiggin squeaked, his wire-thin antennae trembling. “What if there’s some truth to it?”
But Tod just smirked, unfazed by their concern. “You’re all just a bunch of wusses,” he teased, reaching for a kale chip and popping it into his mouth. The crunch was loud in the tense silence that had descended upon the group.
The goblin watched him keenly, his expression unchanged, his deep-set eyes holding a depth of knowledge that made the elf squirm.
“I’ve seen things in my two-hundredth-and-fifty years of life,” the wizened creature said, his cracked voice dropping to a dry whisper that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. “Things that would make your blood run cold as hoarfrost. And I’m telling you, this legend . . . it’s not just a summer camp story to be told for fun.” His gaze was piercing, and for a fleeting moment, Tod felt the weight of his words pressing down like a heaving stone. “Dance with shadows, and you might find yourself ensnared by them.”
With that, the goblin stood, his ancient joints creaking with the effort. He pulled out a few crumpled bills from his pocket, tossed them onto the counter, and shuffled out the diner. The bell jingled mournfully as the door swung shut behind him, leaving the group to ponder his departing in the congealed silence.
The sudden buzz of Tod’s shell phone pierced the tense silence. By now, the rain outside had turned into a relentless downpour, painting a gloomy picture on the diner’s windows. He fished it out of his pockets, the leather of his bomber jacket creaking with the movement. The oval screen glowed with an incoming message from one of his elfin cohorts–Jarvis Giroux, a fellow member of their tight-knit group known for their love of mischief and the macabre.
“Hey, guys, sorry, but I’ve got to take this,” Tod said, sliding out of the booth. His friends watched him with a mix of relief and trepidation as he stepped into the neon-lit bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him. The rain’s fury grew louder, a cacophony of drops pounding against the window, as if the very sky itself was trying to get in on the action.
Tod answered the call, his heart racing. “Hey Jarvi, what’s up?”
“Tod, where the Frack is Odora with those pies?” Jarvis Giroux’s voice crackled over the line, tinged with annoyance and a hint of something else– fear. “I’ve been stuck out here in this kiddie clubhouse/ bus shelter for ages, and it’s getting darker than Fenris’s gullet.”
Tod chuckled, his breath misting the bathroom mirror. “For someone who’s been named after a famous elfin pirate, you’re really such a wuss, Jar. It’s just a little rain. Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted in on this.” He leaned against the sink, his eyes scanning the chipped porcelain. “Odora’s probably just hiding somewhere warm, counting her gold.”
“You’re full of smerge, Tod!” Jarvis’s frustrated voice crackled over the static. “Her family’s too poor to even buy heating spells, and she’s probably half-drenched herself! Probably dying of exposure for all I know! And why the Hel are we even doing this in the first place, huh? The other two guys who were with me already said to Hel with it and bolted!”
Tod’s grin grew wider in the reflection of the mirror, his custom-made fangs gleaming with anticipation. “Because, my friend, it’s all for the ultimate Halloween prank, remember? We need those pies to make our haunted house experience truly terrifying! And don’t worry about Odora, she’s a sly one, she’ll show up with those tasty treaties eventually. Just keep those trolls distracted with the usual bargaining nonsense until she does!”
The line went silent for a moment before Jarvis’s voice, tight with irritation, responded, “You owe me for this, you know. If I get pnemonia or mugged . . . or worse out here, I’m blaming you and that stolen pie scheme of yours! If I go down then I will take you down with me!”
Tod couldn’t help but laugh, the harsh sound echoing off the checkered tiles. “You’re such a drama queen. Just keep your chin up and your hood down. Odora won’t be much longer, I’m sure. She’s got the sweetest tooth in the whole of Hogan’s Gap– she’s not going to miss out on this!”
But his humor was cut short by a sudden shift in the tone of the rain on Jarvis’s end. It grew heavier, the drops sounding almost like footsteps. He frowned, tilting his head to listen more closely. That wasn’t right. Rain didn’t have a rhythm like that. And what was the sound? It was faint, almost indistinguishable, but it was definitely there. A heavy, dragging sound that seemed to be moving closer.
“Hey, I think I see someone,” Jarvis announced, his voice strained with tension. “It’s gotta be Odora. She’s got this really big burlap sack slung over her shoulder. And she’s definitely in a hurry, splashing through puddles like she’s got the Wild Hunt on her tail.”
Tod’s heart skipped a beat. That wasn’t like Odora. The pooka-lemur was a nimble and light-footed as the most sophisticated of cat burglars. Also, she had enough commonsense not to hauling around such a heavy load in such lousy weather.
“Gotta be her,” Jarvis replied. There was a creaking sound as if Jarvis was sitting up in an old chair. “Got the same bright yellow eyes. Can’t really see her face or tail though, got one of those green rain slickers on.”
The line was filled with the sound of water splashing and the heavy rustle of stiff fabric as whoever it was drew even closer. “But she’s moving weird, like she’s lugging something really heavy . . . like bricks, or hurt, or– “ The words were cut off abruptly, replaced by a jolting burst of static that sent a chill down Tod’s spine.
For a moment, there was nothing but the pelting sound of the rain and the scratchy buzz of static. Then, a low, guttural sound like a phlegmy, rattly cough rumbled through the phone, soon followed by a sickening wet tearing then a faint crash and clatter. The line went dead, leaving Tod staring at the shell phone in icy horror. His hand trembled, the bio-molded plastic slippery with sweat. As he froze in place, every fibre of his being screamed and twisted.
The restroom was suddenly plunged into darkness. There came a rustling from somewhere, but he couldn’t pinpoint its source. A creaking sound too. The air now felt rank and sour.
Tod’s heart hammered in his chest as his legs finally found the strength to move. Driven by primal terror, he bolted out of the restroom, the door slamming against the wall. His friends looked up, their expressions a mix of surprise and confusion.
“What happened?” Griebe asked, her wings fluttering in alarm.
Tod’s eyes were wide with hysterics. “It’s Jarvi,” he managed to say, his voice shaking. “He saw something . . . someone . . . he said it was Odora, but it didn’t sound right.” In a rush, he recounted the conversation although he omitted all the pie detail, their expressions growing more troubled with each garbled word. “Probably the rain’s messing with the signal,” he explained, his thumb hovering over the call button. “I can’t get through now.”
The shell phone buzzed again, the sound a jarring interruption to their silent contemplation. Tod’s hand shot out to grab it, his heart racing. He answered with a gasp, hope and dread fighting for dominance. “Jarvi?”
His friend’s voice came through, a mix of relief and sheepishness. “Yeah, it’s me . . . falling out of this here chair. False alarm, man. It’s just some cyberpunk guy with a big sack of laundry. Had on some night vision goggles and a respirator mask. Thought he some sorta Draugr when he came close. I swear to gods, the rain does weird things to my eyes.” There was a pause, and then a nervous little chuckle. “Must be the cold turning my brain to mush.”
Tod let out a sigh of relief so deep it felt like it could deflate him. “Don’t do that to me, Jar,” he said, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice. “You had me worried there for a minute.” He leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against his clammy forehead.
“Yeah, sorry, man,” Jarvis said, his laugh a little too forced. “It’s just . . . this rain, you know? It messes with your head.”
Tod nodded, his heart still racing. “No worries, just . . . be careful, okay?”
“Will do,” Jarvis assured him. “I’ll grab some hot chocolate on the way and warm up. Tell the others I’ll catch up with the story later, yeah?”
Tod nodded, the tension in his body slowly dissipating. “Yeah, no problem. Just be safe, okay?”
“Don’t worry about me,” Jarvis said with a laugh that sounded a little too forced. “I’ve got more layers on than an onion in a blizzard. I’ll be fine.”
Tod couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right, but he pushed it aside, chalking it up to the creeping fear from his own story. He pocketed the shell phone and turned to his friends, trying to put on a brave face. “False alarm, guys,” he announced, though the tremor in his voice bellied him fear. “It’s just some cosplayer with their laundry. Jar’s heading home now.”
The group exhaled in unison, the tension in the air dissipating like mist in the sun. They returned to their chips, the crunching echoing in the quiet diner. But the rain outside grew more relentless, and the shadows danced in a way that made the elf’s skin crawl.
Like Jarvis just said, Tod thought, trying to convince himself. It’s just the rain playing tricks on us. But the goblin’s words lingered like a bad taste in his mouth. He shivered, rubbing his arms despite the warmth of the diner.
“We should probably leave here soon,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’ve got another surprise story ready for you tomorrow. Something that’ll knock your socks off.”
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Written by mmpratt99 deviantart
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