Isn't it fun to get like 2k words into a story, that'll cap out at 7k whether it likes it or not, and realize... hey... this would be better in third person.
VERY interested in didnt know where else to go!! 🔥
Aaah thank you for the interest--you inspired me to write more on it, here’s a little snippet! Bradley’s having a shit old time of it but I promise he gets taken care of eventually! ❤️
He was teaching; back at Top Gun but in the instructor's chair this time. It was a different kind of pressure, but he hadn't needed to be in the air himself this week, thank fuck. He was still showing up for work, and so far nobody had noticed the cracks that had started to show. He'd been managing ok, scraping a few hours of rest here and there until he'd been unceremoniously dumped that Monday.
It hadn't been much of a relationship, and he wasn't particularly broken up about it. But she had been pretty and friendly, and happy to let him crash at her place, especially after he'd eaten her out. It made it easier, hearing someone else in the night next to him.
They used to laugh and call Rudolph names…
But then one foggy Christmas Eve, a little voice did say, Rudolph with your nose so bright use it to guide as you slay tonight.
((Figured I’d post this here as well as I wrote it out for a Discord campfire story prompt!))
A story? I have many of them! Do you wish to hear a lesson of the Lohro, or of a personal encounter?
My own experience! Excellent. It was a moonless night, the very worst kind, and I was working diligently in my forge. Though I hold no great fear of darkness, there are things within the Shroud that fear the eye of the Mother upon them. Some are more clever than others.
I heard a mix between knock and scratch at the door. As if some bony knuckle was dragging itself along the wood. An oddity of its own as my kin are not given to gentle rapping before interrupting my work. But as the only exit from my workshop within the hollowed earth, there was no slipping away. Truth told I was surprised they found the entrance at all!
The Lohro do not take visitors lightly on the best of days, and the smell of the marsh was strong as I moved to see who intruded. Though it would anger my grandmother, I drew back the door with an eye toward the wet streak running down the resistent lumber and the sopping wet figure stood before me.
It was readily apparent from their appearance that my caller was not as they appeared. Some faint effort had been made to adopt the appearance of my youngest sister, Nefalia, however it was lacking. A pallid grey, lighter than myself by a good deal, and significantly distant from the lovely chestnut tone the mother gifted her. Faded blue eyes gazed upon me as if waiting for some word to escape me. Likely of welcome, some reflexive invitation into my forge. It would not be offered! Who would be fool enough to mistake this shoddy facsimile for their true kin?
"Its cold, sister. Please let me warm myself by the fire."
With hands on hips, I faced this creature. Long, dark locks flowed down its back and slithered out into the darkness beyond the reach of the stoked flame behind me. Tattered remnants of some garb alien to our people, akin to the garments foreign traders favored when traveling through the swamps. Were I more aware of meaningless fashion there might have been something relevant to the apparel, but I have never held such interests! For the moment, I held my tongue. When dealing with unknown creatures it was best not to engage them.
Yes, I realize this is a foolish thing to say when I had already chosen to open the door!
Regardless of any error in that judgement, I would not repeat it! My treated lens was held firmly in place over my eye, I harbored no interest in seeing what twisted mass of aether might make up my visitor, and my wordless gaze stayed fixed upon it.
"I hunger, sister. Please hunt me something to eat."
While the claim of coldness might well have been a ruse, it was quite clear hunger was not. Frothing, dripping spittle hung in long strands from the sides of its mouth. Fingers curled and relaxed in sporadic motion as if it were only just managing to keep from snatching out for me. Yet there its gangrenous feet stayed. Bare, but flush with the threshold between swamp and workshop. Not even a fraction of an ilm between it and the wood lining the bottom of the frame.
Once more, and quite against my nature, I held silent. There was much I wished to say, some flippant, arrogant dismissal of their presence and a call to leave my presence. But as I said, the beings of the swamp do not always find themselves bound to the rational behavior of our fellow spoken!
"I am lonely, sister. Please let me sit with you."
There was a pause, but soon it spoke again. The rhythm breaking in its pleas, though I could not say what it might portend. Only that patterns give some sense of safety to me. Something fathomable. I do not like not knowing things!
"Perhaps your sisters will prove more soft-hearted."
Sucking sounds of footsteps through sodden earth announced its movement, drool still spilling from its mouth and the faintest hint of those wrong-toned eyes peering back at me as the being began to depart. It clearly knew the ruse had failed, quite spectacularly, but what purpose did such a taunt serve? Did it expect me to flee back to the canopy to warn my kin of its presence in the night? Though we Keepers do not fear the dark, it is inauspicious to move about without Mother looking down with loving regard. I well knew they would be about more mundane tasks. Sewing and mending, fletching and teaching. Only my workshop set apart from the comfort of our home. Several fires too many had seen to that!
Bog wraiths so rarely left the sinkholes that held the decaying form of unlucky travelers, not even to speak of their stubborn insistence on retaining their original appearance. They did not hunt out new victims to take their place in the muck, simply beckoned to those who drew near. Was this some new being then? Perhaps Cholm would know, as attuned to the swampland as she was.
But answers would not come that night. While wordlessly shutting the door once again, there was no missing the flicker of faded blue eyes peering back at me. Some luminescence to them as they peered from behind a tree. Another set from between the fronds of a slowly swaying plant. Several others perched upon branches or gazed up from just above the level of the water about me. It was quite likely there were yet more that were out of sight, particularly when there was a quiet creak from above as something moved about on the earth covered arc of wood that served as my ceiling.
I would not be traveling that night. Trying to return to my work until daylight could banish whatever had chosen to assail me in my solitude, it proved difficult to concentrate as more of those dragging knocks sounded at the door not long after it was shut.
And against the frame above, as they peeled back the camouflaging loam to scratch and slobber over the thought of me.
Warnings: BEK/BEC. Talk of deterioration, bad health, mental health implications.
Narration by Otis Jiry for Chilling Tales for Dark Nights. (Opens in new tab.)
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