Traveler's Haven

All content © C.E.Vance.

 

 

Outstretched shadows from the surrounding trees were growing darker along the dusty road as the sun began its slow decent behind the valley’s hills. Soon night would fall, making the roadway perilous to traverse. Avoiding the deep ruts carved into the earth by horse drawn wagons, and seasonal rains would be practically impossible. Stepping unexpectedly into an unseen trench could possibly twist a person’s ankle, or break ones’ leg. With that assessment, Andrew decided he had better set up camp and settle in for the evening; besides, he was getting tired, and the pangs of hunger were becoming more noticeable. Tomorrow he would get a fresh start and continue his journey in search for work as a farmhand, which was his chosen trade.

 

Pacing his steps slightly faster, Andrew was hoping to soon find a suitable clearing to set up camp. His anticipation increased the further he went, because on either side of him an envelopment of shrubs and bramble extended along the roadway, well beyond his range of view, making it unfavorable to host an evening’s retirement. Thoughts of camping on the roadway atop the hard dusty ground didn’t escape his consideration, but his preference was to find a soft grassy clearance to spread his bedroll upon. So, steadily he proceeded with hastened stride, continuously searching for an opening in the seemingly endless array of thickets.

 

Finally, up ahead the entanglement of undergrowth ended, and he saw a very welcoming sight. Beneath a stand of maple trees was a small clearing covered with a thick carpet of moss. Without delay he made his way toward and into the awaiting haven of the forest, stooping occasionally to gather sticks for a fire.

 

Up through the valley a cool breeze slightly stirred the evening blaze, and overhead with soft rustle, leaves shimmered in the amber glow. The chirping of nightly creatures filled the air as the eyes of the forest looked upon the stranger in their midst, and in the distance with faint echo came the haunting call of an owl. Millions of stars lit the cloudless sky as the moon in full grandeur rose steadily above the hills’ summit. Andrew knew the sights and sounds of nature well, and they gave him a feeling of serenity.

 

Stretching out on the bedroll after a supper of beans and crusty bread his gaze fell upon the arising moon. Reaching beside him, and fumbling inside the old worn knapsack which accompanied him on his journeys, he produced an apple from several he had gathered during the day. While continuing his gaze toward the sky’s glowing orb he savored the sweet tangy fruit.

 

Few minutes had passed, with finishing of the apple, when serenity ended by the sudden hush of chirping insects in the surrounding. Only the hiss and crackle within the camper’s flames broke the silence.

 

Startled, Andrew sat up quickly. Instinctively, his hand grasped the revolver’s grip lying holstered beside him and withdrew it as he peered passed the campfire into the darkness. Intensely he listened for the slightest sound of movement beyond the outer edge of the glowing fire, but he heard nothing. Hunkering low, he inched his way into the shadows and waited as he slipped the holster around his waist.

 

Someone was out there. A bandit perhaps had seen his fire from the road and circled around through the woods intent on robbing and killing him while he lay sleeping. Occurrences of such treacherous deeds were often, and if that was the intent of the intruder, the sudden forest hush had given them away. It clearly wasn’t an animal on the prowl. The singing creatures wouldn’t have paid much heed to the familiar sound of a nocturnal hunter. Whatever or whoever was out there, hiding amongst the trees, was unknown to this part of the forest.

 

Andrew lay motionless for what seemed an eternity, keenly listening for any indication of movement. Then he heard it. The intruder had made the first mistake. A snapping twig had given the scoundrel’s hiding position away. The sound produced amid the silence reverberated through the darkness like cannon fire. The culprit, if human, which was the most likely assumption, would realize the mistake they had made and lay low for a bit, waiting to see if anyone stirred within the campfires light.

 

 

Carefully, Andrew eased the hammer back on the revolver, while muffling the click with his hand. If it was a bandit, he would meet his maker on this eve. "Murderers and cutthroats deserved no less," he thought to himself.

 

Andrew's heart began to beat faster, and he could feel sweat forming in his palms. Pointing the weapon in the direction of the snapping twig, with eyes squinted for added sharpness, he made effort to discern any shadowy waver of movement within the faint light cast by the moon; prepared to unleash a hail of bullets into any assailant that came forth.

 

Another snap, and a rustle of brush gave Andrew a breathless startle, and he peered hard in the direction it came. Seconds passed; then, he saw the outline of a figure in the night’s dim illumination dash behind a tree.

 

"Yes," he said to himself. "It’s a man." No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, when again, the figure crouching somewhat dashed out carelessly, thrashing through the undergrowth, and made his way behind another tree.

 

"The fool," Andrew thought. "Doesn’t he realize his bold carelessness is going to prove to be his fatal undoing?" It had to be obvious to the intruder that his intended victim was laying in wait for him. With that thought, Andrew shouted out, "whoever you are, I know you’re there, and I have you covered, come on in, or I’ll start shooting."

 

The moment intensified as Andrew waited for a response, by either an acknowledgement of shout or blaring gunfire. Neither of the anticipated came. Only the unexpected gave reply to his called warning. From within the coverage of the darkened woods came a secession of hideous snarling growls unlike anything Andrew had ever heard before, and a chill of fear raced through him.

 

He had been wrong. Out there, hiding among the trees, something was stalking him. Within the boundaries of diminished light, it was watching. A creature that walked upright, with appearances, human in form, is what he had seen, but he was positive it wasn’t a bear. The replying growls had convinced him of that.

 

Andrew’s mind began whirling with thoughts on what to do. He knew that the revolver he carried would afford little protection against a huge predator if it decided to charge into camp and attack him. Even while the shots were still ringing out from the revolvers barrel, without flinching, the snarling beast would be on top of him, ripping at his flesh. Needing, and not having a high velocity rifle to use in self-defense against whatever was lurking within the outskirts of the camp, Andrew realized his perilous situation, and made haste with the best course of action he could think of. Up he jumped, and headed for the nearest tree.

 

Following suit with a harsh rustling of brush, and trodden sticks snapping, ran the ferocious beast from out of its hiding place snarling viciously in pursuit of Andrew as he darted toward a low hanging branch. Grabbing it, he began pulling himself up into what he hoped would be a safe retreat.

 

Shudders of fear coursed through his body as he glimpsed the wild beast leap across the campfire from the corner of his eye. Straight for him it charged, ceaselessly snarling, and growling in a rage of wild fury.

 

"God help me," Andrew screamed, as he tried to pull his heavy frame further up into the branches of the tree, but it was too late. The snarling beast managed to grab his right leg, and began ripping at his flesh with elongated claws that cut to the bone with each slash. Adrenaline fed fear is the only thing that prevented Andrew from succumbing to a loss of consciousnesses as the pain swept through him like searing fire. Relentlessly, the beast continued to maul him. Then with raging savageness, the beast raised its horrible head and glared menacingly into Andrew's eyes. Curling its lips, in haunting similarity to a sinister smile, it thrust its head forward and sank its protruding drool soaked fangs into Andrew’s leg.

 

Screaming in pain, Andrew managed to pull the revolver from its holster, and the shots rang out like thunder. Blood spattered from between the horrible creature’s eyes each time he pulled the trigger, and finally, the beast recoiled momentarily from the onslaught, loosening its torturous grip on Andrew’s leg, enabling him to ascend further into the tree.

 

The pain in his mangled leg was excruciating, but that was the least of his worries. The hideous beast hadn’t been affected by the shots expelled from his revolver.

 

In the glow of the campfire, the creature’s eyes glistened with wild madness while it paced back and forth leering wildly up into the tree. Saliva foamed around its mouth like a rabid dog, as it growled and curled its lips back, baring razor sharp fangs. Never, even in his most frightening nightmares could Andrew have envisioned such a horror. This was not an animal, nor a human. This was a demon from the pits of hell trouncing about beneath. In full muscular stature, it stood approximately six feet tall, and was covered with long bristling hair.

 

For hours the beast paced, lurching upwards toward him, growling with drool spewing forth, and fangs lashing as Andrew clung to the branches of the tree. Finally, the beast gave up its relentless evil intent, but before it left, it glared sinisterly up into the tree at him, and emitted a blood-curdling howl that made Andrew’s hair stand up on the back of his neck. Looking down at the creature, he could now distinguish each of the creatures striking resemblances to a wolf. His blood ran cold, as he looked upon the monster and recalled tales he had heard that even brought chilling shudders to the bravest of souls. Here was a huge wolf-like monster, walking upright like a human with each of its characteristic features fulfilling the descriptions remembered so well from stories related, and he had been bitten by this devil. The realization of Andrews’s thoughts became a certainty as he lifted his eyes upward to gaze at the full moon. Reaching behind him, Andrew withdrew a cartridge from his hostler, and placed it in his revolver. Hopefully, his own hand would spare him from the hellish curse.

 

Putting the gun to his head, he knew what he had to do; but was it too late? Was he to suffer the same curse that had befallen the beast that had attacked him? Would death now prevent a life of eternal damnation? A shot rang out, and echoed through the valley. Branches gave way and snapped from Andrew’s falling weight. With a heavy thud, he hit the ground, and lay still beside the glowing fire.

 

The sky was filled with the brightness of the shining moon, and the nightly creatures began to chirp in a rhythmic melody. From across the valley the haunting call of an owl could be heard, and in the haven carpeted with moss, Andrew stirred, and emitted a low growl. Pursuit of death by his own hand had not spared him.

 

True to legend and spoken only in whispers by those gathered round the evening hearth, beneath the moon that rises in its fullness at night, foreboding beasts come forth and roam the land, and whosoever survives the fanged terrors’ vicious bite is doomed to bear the hideous curse that only the werewolf knows.

 

C.E.Vance

 

The End

Spirit of Love

Placing another log inside the fireplace, sparkling ashes stir, drifting upwards into the stone chimney. Cascading light from the flames fill the room with amber glowing warmth, while outside a blinding winter storm rages; blanketing night's landscape with impassable drifts of snow.

 

 

Along the hollow's winding course, icy winds wail furiously up the valley, surging past an ancient wooden rail fence, which surrounds a parcel of land; lending itself to the placement of an assortment of ramshackle buildings. Amid the structures, across a creaky porch made from rough-hewn timbers, unrelenting gales descend upon a center-placed dwelling. From its rooftop, swirls of smoke and lighted ash quickly disappear in a whirlwind of snow mixed with ice, as the wintry gusts ceaselessly bang and thrash against the cabin's closed rickety shutters. Cold and deadly, the malicious wind appears intent on gaining entrance into the sheltering haven.

 

Placed near the hearth, outfitted with worn rumpled cushions, sits two rung-rockers amid a sparse variety of other handmade furnishings. Adorning scuffed table tops, dyed burlap scarves are carefully arranged, and upon soot tinted walls, images of ancestors watch every happening from inside their dusty frames. Unaware of years passing, with constant ticking, and count of chimes resounding from the mantel clock, their eyes cast without seeing, follow the figure arising from the comfort of a hearth placed rocker.

 

Clad in the era's common, patched, and faded blue bibbed overalls, Arthur shuffles across the room, his walk noticeably bent in stoop, created by the never-ending toil inherited with a farm's daily labor. Pausing, he peers inside an open doorway, leading into the adjacent bedroom, and studies the form of his wife of many years. Frail and old, she lies quietly upon the bed. Only her shallow rattled breath, in conjunction with a slight heaving of the hand-stitched patchwork quilt, gives any indication that she still clings to life.

 

Into the room, passing the wrought iron bed's rust speckled foot-stead, he makes his way alongside his life's treasured companion. Brushing the strands of soft gray hair from her forehead, he bends forward, and gently kisses her.

 

"Can I get you anything?" he asks, striving to hide the sadness and anguish from his voice, so as not to upset her, if by miracle, consciousness returned. Though, the only answer forthcoming, as he reaches to gingerly tuck her coverings, is the wailing winds, and the continued rasp of her breath.

 

Unmoving were her eyes, and gone was his Jenny's lovely smile. Unaware of his presence, and to the world, Arthur knew his sleeping bride would never waken again. With thoughts of the knowing, no longer was he able to hold back the tears. Softly he wept, and with like voice he whispered, "Sweet beautiful Jenny, I'll always love you."

 

Succumbing to assured declining affects tethered to age, and the cold chill brought forth by winter, an onset of swift fever overtook her four nights ago while she slept. Hitching the team to the buckboard, before the cock's crow announced first light, a steady crack of whip speeded the burly plow horses toward town, but fetching the local doctor had been to no avail. "Her life is within God's hands now", he said. Keep her in comfort with tending to hearth's grated fire, and to her brow apply coolness with a dampened cloth. That was his prescribed summation before departing upon the journey back to town.

 

Behind a mask willed in composure, lay the hidden turmoil of the brokenhearted, as Arthur cordially extended his hand to clasp the doctor's, giving thanks, then watched as the horse drawn buggy faded from sight; descending in the distance over the narrow roadway's rise. Turning to enter back into the cabin, he noticed there were dark clouds forming in the afternoon sky, but unknown at the time was the winter fury, and sorrow they would bring in the days ahead.

 

Placing the back of his hand on Jenny's forehead, no longer was a fever discernible, but the born intensity of its fiery breath, during its horrid lingering, had plunged her into a deep sleep of death. Awaited now, was the ticking clock's chime, announcing the appointed hour for death's shrouded angel to carry her away.

 

"Rest, my love", he said, while trying to hold back the tears seeping from the corner of his eyes. "I need to cook myself some supper, because I'll be no use to you if I don't keep my strength up. I'll be no further away than the kitchen".

 

Once again, Arthur bends to gently kisses her, then ambles toward the kitchen, pausing long enough to stoke the fireplace, and retrieve some hot coals in the ash shovel for lighting a fire inside the cookstove. With a creak from worn metal hinges, he places the burning embers inside the stove's cast iron chamber, and carefully arranges strips of kindling across them. In moments the seasoned wood begins to crackle, and bursts into flames. Little by little, adding more splintery fuel, a roaring fire is soon burning brightly inside the stove.

 

Satisfied with the fire, Arthur closes the door and adjusts the stove's draft to regulate the heat. From the kitchen's small cupboard, where an assortment of home preserves are kept, he slices a goodly portion of ham to fry along with several eggs, collected from the henhouse earlier in the day. Although his evening meal is meager it will suffice, helping restore his needed energy, for tending Jenny's needs.

 

Across the yard a lone figure stands in the entranceway of the railed fence. Attired completely in black from hat to shoes, the snow filled wind whips and furrows the visitor's full-length coat; his eyes fixated toward the faint streaks of illumination emitting from the cabin's ill fitted shutters. Stepping forward, through the opening, he proceeds steadily paced in the direction of the cabin, seemingly unhindered by the accumulation of deep miring snow underfoot.

 

Sitting down to his meal, Arthur, tries to ignore each loud crashing clap of shutters in the stormy besiegement, but it's almost impossible with their continued successiveness. "Hopefully the wind will ease soon", he thinks to himself, knowing tomorrow, he will have to assess the extent of any damages done by the frigid gales, and attempt to at least make temporary repairs until better weather affords an opportunity for him to fix them properly. He was well aware that the accumulated snow and ice, combined with the wind, and freezing temperatures outside, would make even the simplest restorations into almost impossible chores.

 

Absorbed in thought, nourished by current, and speculated forthcoming events, another repertoire of banging reverberates through the cabin, bringing Arthur to startled awareness, for the sound was unlike the accustomed flailing of shutters.

 

A short pause, then it commences again.

"The door"! "Someone is at the door", was his surprised conclusion of thought. Pushing his chair away from the table, in aging hurriedness, Arthur gains his way toward the door----calling out, "I'm coming".

 

Reaching the door, and lifting the securing draw-plank. Keeping a firm grasp against the ensuing blasts of frigidness, he carefully opens the door, preventing it from swinging wide, in effort to deny the wind entrance into the cabin.

 

Looking outward onto the porch, being unaccustomed to the splattered light escaping through the doorway, his sight slowly comes to focus on the figure standing before him, but unrecognizable is the gaunt pallid face of his evening's guest with dark piercing eyes, intently peering from beneath a wide brimmed hat.

 

Undaunted by his appearance or the lack of acquainted recognition of the caller, Arthur beckons him to enter; unthinkable would it be to refuse him refuge on a night like this.

 

"Come in! Come in out of the cold and stand over by the fire to warm yourself", he said, gesturing toward the blazing glow from the fireplace while re-securing the door.

 

Removing his hat, and holding it to his side, the visitor, without expected hast from someone just entering from the bitter cold, moved over to the fire. Along with his mane of shoulder length hair, shaded closely in color to that of his apparel, neither appeared touched by the snowy wetness, blowing beyond the cabin's inner walls, and from beneath snow trodden, black glossy boots, not a single puddle formed, but in his heightened concern for the stranger's well being, Arthur took no notice to the peculiarities.

 

Standing with his back to the rippling flames, facing Arthur, unusually long pasty colored fingers, from his guest's free hand, made an unnecessary attempt to adjust the white priest's collar, now seen, underneath his outer coat. The motion seemed to be an obvious undertaking to convey his identity, and lend assurances that his intentions bore Arthur no malice.

 

"Mercy me, what in Heaven's name are you doing out on a night like this, Reverend?" asked Arthur.

 

"I am about my work", he answered, and continued in a defined assuring voice.

 

"Upon this night I come seeking those who are in need of my guidance; gathered aloft by the four winds, I've traveled unto your house to offer my assistance. Words have fallen to my ears that a resident within this dwelling is needful of my services."

 

"Yes," Arthur replied. "Doc. Amsted, who visited earlier in the week, must have mentioned my wife to you. She's gravely ill. There's nothing he could do for her. She sleeps, and cannot be wakened, but I'm sure you're aware of that if you've spoken with the doctor. Still, it's so very kind of you to travel all the way from town to see her. I am indebted to you Reverend, but you should have never put yourself in jeopardy by journeying out on a dreadful night like this. There's no telling what type of misfortune might have befallen you".

 

"The will of thy maker protects those going about His bidding, my friend Arthur", replied the Reverend with the assuredness of his calm steady voice. "I have no fear of that which is part of this world, for it is not here that provides my everlasting keep. I am just a servant sent to gather with me those of the flock, and nothing more".

 

Noting his guest had referred to him by name, Arthur assumed the doctor had mentioned it, and so inquired as to his visitor's name. The parish in the nearby town was overseen by, Reverend Malone, whom he knew, but he was completely unfamiliar with the man standing before him; so it was likely he was from a province not far away, which the good doctor on occasion visited.

 

Caught in midstream of his thoughts, the Reverend gave answer to Arthur's query, with quietness of his expected manner. "I am called Shepherd", he said, extending his hand in greeting.

 

Delayed introductions were sealed in a handshake by the fire, with ensuing words leading to the area's traditionally offered hospitality to weary travelers, but Arthur's sincere insistence of allowing him to prepare another fixing of ham and eggs for the reverend's supper, or serve him a hot drink of coffee or tea, was gracefully rejected with a multitude of thanks.

 

Continuing to speak, Reverend Shepherd added, "My sustenance comes not from the nourishment of man, friend Arthur. I am sustained by that, which is. I exist by the will that forges night and day, and into your house I've come as the guidance, to your seeking. That is my sustenance upon this eve."

 

Uncertain as to the underlying meaning of the reverend's words, although not unfamiliar with analogies used by soul redeemers, without interrupting, Arthur listened intently to the overly scored diction, with respect due to a man of the cloth, especially this man, whose faith had carried him through the perils presented upon such a formidable night.

 

As the speaker continued, his eyes suddenly glared studiously toward Arthur, and his words sent a chill down the old man's spine.

 

"Blessed is this house", he said, "and all who now endure within the confines of its walls. Concern yourself not for your ailing wife; she resides in loving hands upon this eve. Go to her, Arthur, for she has truly awakened, and offers assurances that all is well. Willingly, she embraces the peacefulness, which she is witness to. Hear her words, and allow your own peaceful rest".

 

Finishing his words, the Reverend stood motionless, and from the bedroom, Jenny called Arthur's name.

 

Tears streamed down Arthur's face as he stepped past the threshold, leading into the bedroom, and by the light of a twinkling oil lamp sat Jenny in front of the dresser's mirror, brushing her long raven colored hair. No longer bearing signs of aging, her beauty was the same as the day they had met, with skin soft and supple. Jenny was once again, the young blossomed girl he had married so many years ago.

 

"Come to me Arthur", she said, and cradled him to her, as he wept.

 

"How can this be, Jenny?" He asked.

 

Looking away, and toward the bed, she pointed to the figure lying beneath the hand stitched quilt, gone unnoticed by Arthur when he entered the room.

 

A witness to the obvious, his glance fell away from the bed, unable to look at the unmoving outline which no longer heaved with the rasping of breath. Arthur now knew his beautiful Jenny was dead, yet he felt no apprehension or fear in the wake of what should have been mind numbing to the senses, because the specter before him presented an aura of reassurance, along with a tightening of the warm tender embrace.

 

"It's time for us to go, Arthur", she said. "You are no longer bound to the earth, for I am with you now, and will be forever".

 

"Go, go where my love", he asked? Not understanding, he pulled away slightly from the embrace to look at her with an air of ponder, but in return she smiled as only his Jenny could smile.

 

"Please tell me what you mean? Go where, my love?" He asked again.

 

"My dearest Arthur, unknown to all, while you tended me in sickness, you lay in a shallow within the snow covered field. Given to age, your heart could endure no more. Your passing came before mine. From death you walked, and in spirit came back to me, and here you still are, my dear sweet Arthur. I love you the same as you've proven you love me. Be at peace now, and fret no more, for once again", Jenny said, "I'm with you".

 

Into the mirror he glanced, and Arthur saw a young couple held in each other's arms.

 

Throughout the house the eyes of ancestors watched, and for a moment their eyes seemed to twinkle.

 

"Come children", the Reverend Shepherd said. "Come unto the flock. Upon the four winds I came, and on them we'll make our journey home." With that, the shutters ceased their banging with their departure.

 

C.E.Vance 

 

The End

 

Pauper's Grave

Through the woods and down the hollow, with the sun approaching evening's edge, Zachary, being surrounded by the disquiet of looming darkness hurriedly makes his way along the shortcut from town toward the cabin, hoping to settle in before the formation of twilight's roving shadows stretch across the forest, consuming all with their endless reach before leading into the complete onset of night.

 

"I was a fool for not paying more attention to the time," Zachary thought to himself as he stepped out of the woods and onto the dirt roadway at the bottom of the hill.

 

"I need to hurry, it'll be dark soon."

 

Adjusting the feedsack full of bartered staples slung across his shoulder, he precedes with an almost feverish pace, wishing he hadn't lingered in town at the general store, listening to heart pounding tales related by the town's loafers, who have nothing better to do than sit around all day spinning yarns.

 

Silently he cursed his own foolishness for allowing his idleness to betray him. Here he was, several miles from home, trudging against the fall of impending darkness, and he had no one to blame but himself.    

 

Zachary's heart started to pound as he recalled the details from some of the unnerving accounts related by the storytellers; details about bedeviling spirits following along the road, whispering in hissing voices, calling the traveler's name, and specters rising up from the ground as white foggy mists with scowling eyes of pitch, sinisterly reaching out to brush a person with their icy fingers while rushing forward with their hideous blackened mouths gaped open as if trying to scream.

 

Some stories centered on the unbeknownst traveler or foolhardy naysayer that literally ran for their life while being chased by horrors that lunged forth from their hiding place along the road. Some even died in their tracks from the fright thrust upon them by the abominations. Others completely disappeared after beginning their journey along the road at night.

 

Giving effort to push the frightful thoughts to the back of his mind, chills coursed through Zachary's body, not unlike the described touch from those said to haunt and torment the person daring to trek through the darkness alone.

 

Realizing the similarities of the coldness gripping him, like the touch of a menacing specter, he quickly peered around as if trying to stay any haunt's approach.

 

"Get a grip", he mumbled to himself. "I'm letting my imagination get the best of me. I need to quit this nonsense".

 

With succeeding thoughts, "all are just farfetched stories created to make light of fretful women, and scare misbehaved children". Every town has its share of haunted houses, hollows and cemeteries that amount to nothing anymore than silly, unsubstantiated ghost stories. Only a fool would believe such buffoonery", he tried to assure himself.

 

Looking toward the horizon, the sun was setting over the rise, and shadows beneath the trees were steadily growing darker with each passing moment. All were now beginning to resemble strange creatures, huddling close to the ground, intent on watching him with secretive eyes.

 

Consciously, he stilled his urge to shudder.

 

Continuing on his way, his pace increased with every step, and fear ensued with every breath.

 

Zachary had recently moved to the area, settling into old man Pritchard's place, as referenced by local town's people. For years the cabin set vacant. No one had occupied it since the old man passed away.  It wasn't much to look at on the outside, appearing as no more than a makeshift building built of hewn logs and rough cut lumber scavenged from the scrap pile. On the inside, it only consisted of three small rooms, but in reality, it was all he needed; a place where he could lay his head down at night with a roof over his head.

 

Journeying through the area about three weeks ago he happened upon the aging homestead, and without much ado made arrangements to purchase it from Pritchard's son, Johnston Pritchard.

 

Johnston, the proprietor of the town's general store seemed more than eager to transfer the property to a new owner. To him, it was just an out of the way useless plot of ground that required a payment of yearly taxes. He regarded it without any sentimental attachments to his father whatsoever; being that his father only built and used the place as an occasional getaway, because he enjoyed the solitude that it provided.

 

The purchase consisted of a handshake, and Zachary agreeing to work off the selling price by plowing grounds, cutting firewood, and doing a number of other jobs that Johnston occasionally needed a hired man for.

 

It wasn't long after moving into the cabin that Zachary began hearing tales about ghostly apparitions supposedly haunting the roadway, while also becoming aware that a pauper's cemetery lay just a short distance up ahead in a small desolate clearing.

 

Some suggested that the spirits were haunting the area because they were angry, and seeking revenge for their namesakes being buried and forgotten in unmarked graves without so much as a hymn or prayer to send them on their way. This evening though, the rumors had turned into complete stories of horror that befell people, not unlike himself, who dared to venture the road after dark. Not knowing whether the tales were true or not, they were still frightful enough to make anyone cringe, especially now as the last hint of the sun dropped below the horizon.

 

Overhead, a waning moon and a pattern of stars began to glimmer in the darkness as he continued on his way toward home.

 

The sounds of the night echoed through the hollow. Frogs singing amid the chirps of a million crickets lent an eerie feel to the air with their high pitched drone. Joining the chatter was the flow of water in the roadside creek, rippling and sloshing, mimicking noises similar to approaching footsteps, and low uttered voices in a secretive conversation.

 

As the darkness continued to close in around him, Zachary realized he was afraid, and the cabin was still about a mile up the road, and between him and it was the pauper's cemetery.       

 

Plaguing uneasiness was overtaking him. The urge to toss away the feedsack full of bartered foodstuff and run was overwhelming, but he knew that would be a foolish mistake. Running headlong into the night he would surely trip in one of the many ruts in the roadway, causing him to stumble and fall, perhaps breaking an arm or a leg.

 

"It's best to try and stay calm while cautiously navigating the way home", Zachary thought.

 

"Soon I'll be home, make myself some supper, and have a good night's rest, and in the morning I'll have a good laugh about all this tomfoolery."

 

Still! Even with his own self-assurance, the fear enveloped him, rising into his chest, causing him to momentarily gasp for air.

 

Taking care, Zachary eased his way through the darkness, listening intently for a rustle or breaking of twigs, indicating something might be stalking him. His eyes darted back and forth, pausing to glare into the stillness of night, trying to discern any movement in his forward path and the adjacent area.

 

Continuing onward, he seemed to be laboring somewhat to catch his breath, and small waves of weakness were causing him to become unsteady on his feet. Even the surge of fear that had whelmed to his chest earlier was becoming a nagging discomfort. His heart was pounding like it was ready to explode. He assumed his nerves were taking their toll.

 

Nearing just up ahead was the pauper's cemetery. The place he dreaded passing. Stories he had heard in town were now resurfacing, and revisiting each of their ghoulish details, making his mind race with fear. The thoughts of hideous spirits rushing from the darkness and grasping him with their cold dead fingers sent shivers coursing through his body. With those thoughts, his heart started thrashing even harder in his chest.

 

Then he saw it. A glowing orb of light was coming toward him from the cemetery, and through the distance, he could hear voices.

 

Zachary's mind began to scream with terror, urging him to run, but he couldn't. He was frozen in fear.

 

His breath became heavier, and a searing pain rushed through his chest while the light came closer, and closer, until it was just yards away.

 

Then he heard voices calling out! "Zachary! Zachary! Is that you"?

 

With the pain continuing to pound in his chest, his eyes rolled toward the heavens.

 

Zachary fell in a heap upon the ground, and the last breath heaved from his chest.

 

Moving faster, the light was now upon him and two voices rang out in unison. "Zachary! Are you okay"?

 

Jumping off the old rickety wagon, and grabbing the lantern, Gil, and Mark, the town's gravediggers, having just finished burying another unfortunate soul, were on their way back to town when they saw a shadowy figure standing in the road. Both figured it was more than likely Zachary, the area's newest resident, because he just lived a piece further up the road.

 

Now it was obvious that their assumption was right, holding the lantern close, they stood over the huddled mass lying dead at their feet. 

 

"What do you supposed happened?" inquired Mark.

 

"Who knows?" Gil answered. "I reckon when it's time for a man to meet his maker it doesn't matter where he's at".

 

"I guess we had better load him up into the wagon and get him back to town", Mark said.

 

Both men set about the task and headed back to town.

 

The next day, Mark and Gil returned to the clearing to bury the body of Zachary. With no money or known family, his body would be laid to rest with the other unfortunates.

 

Eventually, the last shovelful of dirt was tossed upon the newest pauper's grave, without a hymn or a prayer.

 

The sun was just beginning to set over the hill's rise, and the two grave diggers headed back toward town, and the night ushered in.

 

Surfacing from beneath the ground a white mist hovered with eyes of pitch. A gaping mouth formed of blackness, hideously screamed, Zachary realizing, he was now part of the horror that he had feared.  He was a forgotten soul abandoned and forgotten in an unmarked pauper's grave, and he was angry at the world.

 

"Revenge would fall upon all who traveled alone by night".

 

As Zachary looked around, the other specters from the pauper's graves began to rise.

 

C.E.Vance

 

The End

The Clearing in the Woods

 

In the fall of night, beneath the shimmer of stars and brightest moon, the whispers call.

 

 Inside the woodland haven in a setting away from the trodden trail, a chill, arriving with evening's sunset, begins to envelope the cabin. 

 

Placing another log inside the fireplace, Joseph slowly leans back in the old creaky rocking chair, trying to ignore the faint whispering voices, seeming to imamate from just outside the cabin's walls.

 

"Surely it's just a low gale rushing through the tree branches," thinking to himself.    "That's the only thing that it could be. Either that, or I'm becoming touched."

 

Living alone in the woods, often times created peculiarities, which a person became accustomed to.  Hearing noises, such as bumps, rustlings, or other sounds outside the cabin was usually just a rush of wind; it might also be a deer or raccoon meandering about. Even unexpected wails, some shrieking like the devil's own, could be accounted for. Those types of unearthly bellows, more or less, were attributed to a screeching owl or coyote howling in a distant hollow. 

 

The voices, however, were unsettling to say the least. Closely listening, he could almost distinguish actual words in the low breathy whisperings. They hissed, with an eerie forebodingness, unlike any utterance that he was familiar with that could be produced by a whoosh of wind. "Yet, he thought, that's all it could be."

 

Lost in the transition of thoughts, the reach of darkness began to consume the cabin, overtaking the flicker of light emanating from the fireplace. Taking notice of the encroachment of night into the room, Joseph arose from the rickety rocking chair, and lit the oil lamp atop the lone table in the corner of the room. As he adjusted the flame, his quarters illuminated with a relaxing glow, inundating the room's darkest shadows with a shower of amber light. 

 

Making his way back to the rocker, thoughts of the past sat down beside him, and began reminiscing in a constant flow of pictures; scenes that haunted his every waking hour.

 

Joseph hadn't always lived alone. His wife of three years, Sarah, had disappeared the better part of a year ago. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, and he considered himself to be the luckiest man in the world to have found her.

 

During her daily routine, before darkness had settled across the valley, she always collected the water pail from the kitchen, and headed off toward the nearby stream to fill it. Even with his daily insistence that he accompany her, she always maintained, the walk alone through the woods brought solace to her spirit.

 

"A person needs time to themselves" he reckoned. So he always gave way to her wishes. During this particular instance though, she didn't return.

 

Taking up a lantern, after Sarah failed to return to the cabin in a reasonable amount of time, Joseph set out to find her, and he searched relentlessly through the night, calling her name constantly, while desperately praying beneath his breath, begging for her safety. With morning light, he abandoned his search long enough to enlist help from his neighbors, and the local townsfolk.

 

Continuing the search for days afterwards, with the assistance of others, no signs were ever found of Sarah. It was as if she had stepped off the face of the earth. 

 

However, the search did bring about a grisly discovery. While looking for Joseph's wife, some of the searchers stumbled upon the body of the old woman that lived in a nearby hovel. She was the area's outcast, who locals say practiced witchery in the clearing where she was found.

 

Recounting their stories, many testified that they had happened upon her during evening hours while returning home from hunting, and had witnessed her reciting incantations, calling upon ungodly forces to do her bidding. Fearing for their safety, all that repeated the tale, hurriedly made their way back to their homes, and prayed for their deliverance from the evil that they had seen. One to each also shared the same forethought, that no sane person would ever dare confront the old woman about her communion with the devil. To tempt the wrath of evil befalling oneself or one's family would be foolish.

 

All their fears could be put to rest now, because she lay in a heap inside the clearing. Her body bearing multiple slashes and stab wounds to her torso, with what appeared to be buckets of dried blood absorbed by the rags she wore. The remaining splatters covered the immediate surrounding's grass and vegetation. It was a scene that caused the stoutest of men to become unsteady on their feet.   

 

Looking about, the horrid scene created an obvious conclusion to those having the misfortune to view it. This was the handiwork of a madman; perhaps someone who had crossed the old woman, and was overcome by fear, thinking about the spells or curses this abomination of mankind had perhaps placed upon him or his loved ones. With a rage of fear and vengeance, he sought out and destroyed the venomous viper. Who could harbor an ounce of malice toward the person if that was the case?

 

Then there were some that speculated otherwise. Their thoughts and words were, "perhaps it was just a random murder, committed by a roving fiend. It wouldn't have been the first time someone was killed, just to satisfy some monster's bloodlust."

 

"God forbid that was the fate passed upon Joseph's wife, Sarah", was the murmurings among others. A few even suggested that maybe she had been kidnapped, and carried away to a fate worse than the death of the old woman.

 

Joseph refused to believe any of the suppositions at first, but after feverously searching the woods for more than a week, he resided himself to hope. That's all he had left.

 

The search began to taper by the locals after days of finding nothing, and eventually subsided, although Joseph clung to his hope, and searched daily for his love.

 

To the local residents, the death of the old woman was of no consequence. Being afraid of the evil that surely tainted her, no one would touch her body and give it a proper burial. After several days though, it became general knowledge that her body had disappeared. Most surmised that coyotes had probably feasted on it. Being steadfast in their lack of concern, everyone was just thankful to be rid of the scourge.

 

Joseph was familiar with the stories of the old woman's witchery, and like most people, he avoided going near her shanty, or the clearing, where she practiced her witchery when he was out hunting. He wanted no dealings with anyone that was in league with the devil. So Joseph left the old woman to herself, and was thankful that she did likewise toward him. 

 

Moving the rocker closer to the crackling fire, the evening chill seemed to be steadily engulfing him as the sound of whispers continued to announce their presence outside the cabin door, becoming more prevalent as the evening progressed.

 

Then unmistakably, he heard his name. "Joseph"!

 

Startled, he jumped from the rocker, and peered into every corner of the room, but all he saw was the lamp's soft glow, and flickering from the fireplace upon the walls. Yet he was sure he had heard his name called.

 

Regaining his composure, Joseph eased back into the rocker and listened, trying to verify that he had actually heard his name called, but the voices had ceased. "Perhaps I'm just overwrought," he thought. "I've overdone the chores today, and I'm just tired".

 

Basking in the warmth from the fireplace, and the voices no longer taunting, Joseph started to drift in and out of consciousness, until sleep finally overcame him, and he found himself immersed in a dream.

n his arms he held her, as if to never let her go. This was the woman he loved with all his heart and soul, his beautiful Sarah. Her hair was colored like riches of gold, and her eyes glistened with stars. With purest of skin, her features were born of an angel, soft and smooth to the touch. Sarah was perfection at its finest.

 

She had settled in town a few years ago, just a short time after he had carved out his tract in the woods. Finding employment as a house girl, Joseph soon learned of her arrival, and after seeing her, he started courting her that very same evening.  Within a month, to his complete disbelief, but overwhelming joy, she consented to become his bride.

 

Sarah was everything he had ever dreamed of. She was his life, and their life together at the cabin was surrounded by their love.

 

With the water pail in hand, Sarah headed out the door, and Joseph's loss and heartbreak found him inside a dream.

 

Grabbing the lantern, and down the pathway toward the stream, Joseph hurriedly made his way in search of Sarah.  "Surely", he thought to himself, "she has to be somewhere."She couldn't have just disappeared from the face of the earth."

 

His search continued for hours to no avail. Then he heard a voice chanting. A female voice! It was coming from the clearing in the pine thicket, the place people called the devil's hole, where the old woman, who lived in the nearby hovel, practiced her witchery.

 

Making his way through the woods, toward the chanting, Joseph stopped at the clearing's edge, and his blood ran cold. His body gave steady shudder at the sight he saw while holding the lantern aloft.

 

Kneeling before a makeshift altar, made of stones and weavings of sticks was an old woman, chanting prayers to the devil himself. Other than being filthy, and dressed in pauper's rags, her worldly presence also reeked of the sinister bidding that she was about. She was the most loathsome creature that Joseph had ever seen. The sight of her turned his stomach to the point of retching. Pure evil was before his eyes, and the recognition of it made him sick.

 

Turning away in disgust, he soon felt her eyes upon him, and he angrily looked toward her. As he did, she laughed, and called his name. "Joseph, come to me. Come to me my love. Don't you recognize your loving wife?"

 

Her image immediately changed, and kneeling before the altar, built unto evil, was his beloved wife, Sarah.

 

"Joseph, my dear," she said. "I created this beauty for which your eyes crave. It's all for you, my love. The first time I looked upon you, and saw you toiling at the cabin, your body fit and muscular, I knew I had to have you, and I did."  Then she laughed a damnable horrible laugh.

 

Then without pause, she added. "I pledged all I had to become your wife, and have you all for myself. Even though I had already pledged my soul to the darkest of lords, I had something else to pledge, and without hesitation, I also pledged your soul." Then she began laughing again, and it was the most hideous laugh he had ever heard.

 

Lunging forward into the clearing, he unsheathed the knife on his side, and with the brutality of a madman, he plunged the knife into her chest, and he continued slashing and stabbing her until her screaming and throes of agony subsided.

 

The evil lay before him in a pool of blood, and his mind began to scream.

Retrieving the lantern, he began running, and running, until he came to the stream. Then he forgot why he was running.

 

Calmly he knelt beside the stream, and washed away the blood that had splattered him.

 

Looking about, he noticed the sun was rising; so he began the journey along the path, making his way to recruit the help needed to find his beautiful wife, because his all night search by himself had been fruitless.

 

Joseph bolted upright from the rocker. "Oh my God", he shouted. The memories came flooding into his mind. "Oh my God, I killed her" he said aloud again. He remembered everything now. His wife Sarah was the old woman, and he plunged his knife into her, over and over again.

 

His heart was racing, and the voices outside the door began to chant again, and this time he knew they were calling his name.    

 

Then a knock came upon the door, and a voice called out, "Joseph, it's me, Sarah. Let me in".

 

"No"! He yelled. "Leave me alone. You're dead! "

 

No sooner had the words left his lips when the door swung open, and there stood Sarah, and she began to laugh as she started walking toward him.

 

Then he saw the flash of a knife as she raised it, thrusting it into his chest, time after time, until he fell to the floor dying.

 

Looking toward the door, he saw them--evil things. Closer they came, and he screamed as they put their icy hands upon him. He then realized, they were pulling his soul from his body, and he screamed again.

 

 As he screamed, the words of Sara coursed through his mind. Not only had she pledged her soul to the darkest of evils, but she pledged his also.

 

The demons were there to collect the due, and they dragged his screaming soul out the door, and down the pathway, to the clearing in the woods.

 

C.E.Vance

 

The End

Impressum

Texte: C.E.Vance
Bildmaterialien: C.E.Vance
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 12.05.2014

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