31 Stories for the Month of the Long Shadows

The Month of the Long Shadows. The time when darkness begins to come to the Salynas Archipelago, and the people begin to prepare for the long winter that will come, when the northern seas will freeze, and the darkness will bring forth monsters out of the very depths.

But, as always, people make it through these dark times. They know that, as long as they huddle together and keep their courage in the night, the sun will come once again. But as people became less afraid, the elders shook their heads in dismay. They knew that if people were not scared, then they would range too far from home, and face dangers that they should have known to fear.

And so, they began to tell them stories. Stories of darkness and dismay, of horrors and frights that would confine children to their beds during the nights long after they outgrew their child clothes. And as these stories passed through generations, it became impossible to know which of these were true, and which were only a fabrication. I have no doubt that many were exaggerated in their retellings, and yet I can only recount the versions that I found in my travels.

Here are thirty-one of the most popular Long Shadow stories that I could find. Many have been reworked to function best in a written format, as many are told orally, but I have done my best to maintain as much of the tales as I could. Also, while some have divergent details that are told in different parts of the world, I have tried to use the most popular tellings, and will be including footnotes of where there is deviation.

Extract from "Tales of the Salynas Archipelago (1532)" by Cerys Anteni, Library Master of the The Church of the Old Gods.

1. The Portrait of the Blue Tiefling (Portrait)
On the island of Applecord in the Second Circle, there is a mansion belonging to an old man. For as long as anyone has been able to remember, he has lived alone, never having guests and scarcely ever leaving his house. The people of the village know him as Atam Arlin, and they only see him once a day, when he takes his walk around the outside of the town, muttering about how much he wishes that he could be doing anything else. Many wonder why he takes these walks when he seems to hate them so much, but no-one knows the reason for he has never spoken a word to anyone.
A boy named Trist wanted to know what secret the old man's home might hold. But he was no criminal, and so he always stopped himself from doing anything more than standing by the gate of the house and watching the windows, as though they might begin to speak to him.
Several times, he had been yelled at by the old man for being there, and so he always timed his looks through the gate to when Atam was on his walks, for they always were at the same time of day and always lasted for the same amount of time.
On one of these days, he was once again staring at the house and longing to see its insides, longing to know what might be in there that the old man kept so shut away and hidden. He knew he must leave, but as he turned to go he felt something like a spider running up his spine and heard something that sounded like the slightest whisper of his name. He turned back to the house, but it looked at the same as it always did. He thought he must have imagined the voice, but as he turned to go he heard it again. It was as though the very house was calling to him.
But he had lingered too long, and soon the old man returned. He saw Trist standing outside his gate, staring at the house. The boy noticed he was there and stared fearfully at him, expecting a rebuking and a slap to the side of the head. But for once the old man offered no such thing, and simply beckoned him inside as he opened the gate. Trist hesitated for only a second before following him inside. He felt more than ever that he must know the secrets of this house.
The inside of the house held very little, and he felt disappointed. There were no piles of gold, no sleeping monsters, not even a suspiciously open coffin in one of the rooms. It was just normal, well-kept furniture.
And above the fire was a striking picture of a Tiefling, with skin that was the colour of the sea on the edge of the horizon, and hair that was like the clouds that danced above it. Trist found himself drawn to her, the same way he had been drawn to the house.
The old man offered him tea, and went to make it. Trist went closer to the portrait. The Tiefling was shockingly beautiful. The way the painter had caught the light on her hair was like the glittering of stars, and her face seemed like it must have been created by the gods themselves. This could be no trick of the paint, for one could not imagine a woman that was this beautiful. She simply must have existed, and been captured forever in paint.
And once again, he heard the whisper of his name, and this time saw the mouth of the portrait move. She raised her hand and beckoned him towards her. Trist felt that he could not have turned around even if he chose to. The Tiefling woman's presence was intoxicating, and she was a goddess in paint. His steps towards her seemed to take an opportunity, and he was sure that she would be disappointed that he wasn't reaching her quick enough. She smiled at him, and reached out her hand. It broke through the canvas of the paint, and this wonderful ocean blue hand was in the room with him. He reached out and grabbed it like he was reaching for his own salvation.
When the old man returned to the room, Trist was gone, as though there had never been a trace of him. He put down the tray with its single cup, and breathed in deeply. There. He could feel the rush of a consumed soul pass through his body, giving him that much more life left to live. He looked at the portrait of the Tiefling woman, who sat motionless once again with nary a sign that she had moved. She and him would consume more souls yet.
And nothing more was ever heard of the boy named Trist, for how could there be? He was not there, and his name no longer lingered in the minds of those who had known him.

Editor's note: I cannot attest to the accuracy of this tale. Though it is certainly possible, given the vast array of magics in this world, I have found little to suggest its accuracy. In fact, having been to Applecord myself, I saw no house that matched the description. This does not of course mean that the story is not real, for perhaps the location had changed over the course of retellings. Whatever the accuracy levels, the objective of this story is clear: to teach children not to enter the house of strangers. As an uncle myself, I am certainly happy with my niece and nephew learning this lesson, for if something were to happen to them I would have no-one to help me eat my wife's never-ending supply of home-baked cookies.



2. The Last One (Vanish)
In the beginning, there were a hundred of them there, stranded on that small rock with no name, with water as far as the eye could see.
No-one, be it man, woman, or child, had any notion as to how they had come to be here, or even what their name had been before they came. And so the first order of business had been to give everyone a new name. Ze had been the fifty-second to receive a name, and life had never been so exciting.
There was everything that they needed here: food, fresh water, trees with which to make shelters. Some found that they had a talent for crafts that must have come from a former life, and so they used these. Others found they had skills in preparing food, or fishing, or defending others from beasts. Some found they had skills in governance, and so they became the leaders of this small community. And Ze? They had no skill to speak of, and so they spent their days doing whatever odd jobs the others required. Perhaps that was their skill?
Though this life was full of questions that would never be answered, it was in the end a simple and easy one. The people never wished to leave their island, for they had no notion that there might be anything waiting for them, and those that felt the urge to explore were quickly shouted down.
And for a while, all was good.
Then one day, a woman could not be found. The people searched for her, calling her name for what seemed to be hours, and covering every part of the island. She had not been caught by beast, nor fallen by the cliffs, nor even swept out to sea, for there would have been signs. It was as though she had never been there at all.
This created a panic amongst the people, which grew even greater the next day when one of the children had also vanished. Again, a search yielded no questions, and seemed to banish the possibility that the woman was simply hiding, for two people in two days was too much.
Over the next ninety-seven days, a member of the community disappeared every day. There seemed to be no rhyme or pattern, and still there was no sign of what caused the vanishing of all of these people. The community, worried for when this might stop if at all, began to share their skills, so that if the fishermen disappeared then there could still be fish, and when the builders disappeared the homes could still be repaired.
Eventually, when all of the others were gone, Ze was left alone. They waited for the day when they would be taken as well, but it did not come the next day, nor the day after. Whatever it was that had taken everyone they knew and loved without discrimination seemed certain that it did not want them.
And so they continued to be alone, for many years. They lived as they had been taught by the others, keeping themself alive in the hope that one day someone would reappear. They would make sure that they stayed on the island, forsaking all thought of leaving - for if only one person ever returned, and had to know as they did the terror of eternal isolation, then that would be a betrayal of the trust the community had placed upon one another.
And so they wait to this day.

Editor's note: This story is almost certainly a fantasy: now that the archipelago has been fully explored and no island with a lone person and a small community's worth of homes has been discovered, it is fair to say that this is merely a story. I confess I have trouble deciphering the message that this story is supposed to teach, and perhaps there is one that only makes sense to the mind of a child. But I like to see this story as a reminder that as mortals we are only so much in the grand scheme of the world. Maybe we are just meant to remember the power of the gods when we read such stories. Though of course, none of the old gods would be capable of such cruelty as described here. That would surely be the work of one of those immoral new gods.


3. That Place in the Woods (Abandoned)
There was a place in the woods of Formet where no-one lived. It was a small house, made of wood and stone, and because the adults of the village told their children not to go there it was their favourite place. Where else would be better to hide from parents, to meet a crush, to drink beer away from the watchful eyes of the adults, and to do everything else that the adults tried to stop them from doing.
Corrigan was one such child who loved to come here, though it was simply because he found it a good place to have some peace and quiet. Here he would read, or draw, or simply listen to the sound of the birds, and when other children appeared to use the house he would hide away in the loft and watch them through cracks in the ceiling. Corrigan quickly learned who came here when, and for what, and began to write these secrets down in a notebook that he carried with him.
He considered this notebook his greatest treasure, for the secrets within its pages were powerful and numerous. One page talked of how Brin, the son of the butcher, would come here to practice his knife techniques as he was too proud to ask his father for help. Alia, who was the daughter of the village's mayor, would come here several times a week with one of three boys, and Corrigan was sure that they were unaware of each other. The miller's son, whose name was Lyron, would bring expensive drinks that Corrigan thought he must have stolen, and he would spend hours tasting them slowly enough that his father would not smell the wine on his breath when he returned.
All of these things Corrigan wrote and remembered, though he never used the secrets. At the end of the day, he would stow his book in the chest in the loft, in order to return the next day. And the house learned these secrets too. When Brin was practicing, a pig wondered into the house and died in front of him, giving him better practice than the birds or the air. Alia brought one of her boyfriends one day only to discover that one of the others had been there as well that day, and soon all three of them, as well as her father, knew about her ways. Then soon afterwards, a table in the house broke as Lyron put his drinks upon it, covering him with the strong-smelling wines and ensuring that his father would know of his crimes when he returned.
Over the years, Corrigan grew into a man himself, and stopped coming to the house. His book lay abandoned in the chest where he had left it; and though no hands touched it, its pages continued to fill with the secrets of the children that visited. And the house would learn these secrets, and it would enact its justice on those who came with things to hide, forevermore.

Editor's note: This story is a personal favourite of mine, perhaps because it is one of the few where the focal character has a happy ending. Corrigan becomes a man, and never faces the judgement of the house in the story. Now, whether the house itself is the culprit or if it's just a ghost with a strong sense of karma, this is also one of the more plausible stories. Although I'm glad I never had to deal with it: the things I got up to as a child; well, I shouldn't say more.



4. With This Ring (Enchantment)
The children ran towards the church as the wedding bells sounded through the streets. They did not want to miss this wedding, for the day had finally come when Jace and Rae, two of the most well-liked people in the town, would finally be wed.
The whole town had shown up for the occasion, to see the happy couple. Jace waited in his best clothes for the ceremony to begin, fidgeting nervously with the ring that he meant to give to his bride. The woman who had sold it to him had promised that it held an enchantment that would make their love so great that it would be told of forever.
Rae soon arrived, and she looked beautiful. The best seamstresses in the town had worked on it days and night for a week, and the result more than showed the effort. Any noble lady would have been proud to wear such a gown - even a queen would have been embarrassed by her own attire when taking in its magnificence. All who looked upon Rae thought in that moment that in wearing that dress she had become the most beautiful woman in the world.
All except for Jace, for he did not even see the dress. He only saw the face of his soon to be wife, which held a smile as bright as a thousand suns as she met his gaze. He did not think that the dress made her so beautiful, because to him there was nothing that even approached her beauty.
All fell silent as she walked down the aisle towards her soon to be husband. For both Jace and Rae, the seconds stretched into hours, for they lost all sense of time when they looked at each other. The she reached him, and they clasped hands, and at last the ceremony would begin.
The priest spoke the ancient marriage laws, and Jace and Rae answered with their parts when they needed to, and before all of the Old Gods they professed their eternal love to one another, and Jace placed the ring upon the finger of his new wife, and they embraced for the first time as husband and wife.
And this is when the enchantment began to act. For the one who had made the ring knew, as many storytellers know, that the only way that a love lasts forever is if it ends in a tragedy. There are no songs for couples that live happily ever after. And so the ring poisoned Rae. She found herself first becoming weaker, having to steady herself against things as she stood. Then she began to find that fatigue would come to her so quickly that she could only stay in bed for much of the day.
Doctors and priests alike were baffled by her condition. There seemed to be no reason why she was fading in this way, and they could do nothing to stop it, but the effects were impossible for anyone to miss. They never thought to examine her ring, for how could the symbol of the love her husband held for her possibly be the thing that stole her from him.
Eventually the enchantment that killed her became too strong for love to overcome, and she died under the eyes of her husband. The entire town came to her funeral, where Jace openly wept upon her grave and cursed the gods for allowing her to die. And the gods allowed this, for they also wept for the loss of the wonderful soul that had been Rae. And so, with the power of Theninda, the goddess of death, they gave her a second life as one of their angels, a privilege so rarely granted to mortals. She became the guardian of all loving marriages.
Sometimes, when a couple that holds the greatest love between them becomes married, they will see in the distance the form of a beautiful woman in the most gorgeous dress, and know that their union is protected.

Editor's note: We all love a good wedding story. This story is why there are so many weddings during the Month of Long Shadows, for this month is said to be when the wedding of Jace and Rae was to take place. Therefore it is a commonly told story, though it of course is told for very different reasons than the stories that are meant to scare. The story also appears in many religious texts, either in its full form or in a reference to the presence of Rae at a wedding. As much as I would like to say that I saw Rae at my own wedding... well.



5. A Very Bad Day (Misfortune)
When he woke up, Julius knew that today would not be a good day. He knew this because, in the magic of his town, there was a spell that meant that every day, a different person would have nothing but bad luck for the entire day. Today, it was his turn, something that was immediately confirmed when he slid his foot out of bed and found that one of his slippers had been completely devoured by rats, leavi9ng only a few bits of cloth behind. Walking around the house without slippers in the middle of winter would be unbearable, so he decided to dress himself immediately.
After a few minutes of locating clothes that had seemingly fallen into logically impossible places, and getting stabbed by pins that had been left in clothes he had been wearing for years, he finally pulled on his boots, removed the colony of biting ants that had nested in them, and headed down to get some breakfast.
The town hadn't always been like this. But, when the wizards that founded the city had been casting the protective enchantments that would guard the city from things like demons and trolls, one of them had apparently fallen in love with an enchanter from a distant city. He had been meant to marry him, but he had jilted him at the last minute, and that had left him mad. He had added a spell into the enchantments that would give this bad luck to the people who lived here for all eternity. Originally it had affected the entire populace, but the wizards had managed to lessen its effects to only target one person a day. The enchanter had been smart, and linked the enchantment to several other important ones, meaning that it could never be completely removed.
That all served to explain why, when Julius sat down at the breakfast table, his chair immediately collapsed beneath him, his apple had three worms in the middle of it, and the milk he had meant to use for his porridge was spoiled despite being bought yesterday and the fact that his mother had used it seconds ago with no issue.
"Can't I just stay at home today?" he asked. His mother was sympathetic, but not sympathetic enough. "You can't miss school today," she said. "Even if you're unlucky, if you're careful you can get through it without too much trouble."
And so he was packed off to school holding onto his books because the strap of his bag broke as soon as he picked it up. And then the bottom of the bag had split open, causing everything to spill out. The walk to school involved him being hit in the face with no less than three planks of wood, being victimised by the droppings of several pigeons, being knocked into drying mortar and almost becoming stuck, having a market stall collapse on top of him, and finally being having his boots fall apart just as he entered the school yard.
School itself wasn't much better. Ink spilled, quills, snapped in two, paper, tore, and the less said about the things that happened at break time the better. The worst part was when the stitching on his best clothes had come undone, leaving him naked in the middle of school. The laughter wasn't even so bad, as all of the other children knew what was going on, and many of them had been through a similar thing already. However, even they had to laugh when the only spare clothing that was available to wear was the costume for Fincess Gill in the school's recent production of Finwood Fish.
When he left school to head home, Julius thought that things had already gotten as bad as they possibly could have. But, as it happened, he bore a striking resemblance while wearing this particular outfit to the daughter of the city's mayor, who just that day had gotten into a certain amount of trouble with some people he had borrowed money from to support his gambling addiction, as he had yet to repay his debt. That meant that when several of the loan shark's enforcers saw him making his way home, a case of mistaken identity occurred, for as it happened, they had both forgotten their glasses at some that day, and therefore could not see that Julius was in fact a boy who just happened to be dressed in the feminine manner that the mayor's daughter was known for.
All this to say, Julius found himself being taken from the street and thrown into a covered cart (which of course had been urinated on by several dogs) and taken to meet the loan collector so that he might be used for blackmail. To make a very long story short, Julius had a very uncomfortable afternoon before the clock struck midnight and the people involved were finally able to realise that they had in fact kidnapped the wrong person, and the protests they had been hearing for the last eight hours were not just lies by a spoiled girl trying to free herself.
So, they killed Julius because he had seen their faces and because they didn't want this embarrassing episode to become widely known about. And the day of misfortune claimed another victim.

Editor's note: Personally when I tell this story I leave out the rather abrupt and tone shifting ending. I think the story works quite well as a dark comedy up until that point, though I do admit it's not especially scary. Unless one is quite scared of public humiliation, which many are. But I am presenting the most common versions of this story, so I had to include the ending. Anyway, the central setup for the story is ridiculous. Such a city does not exist, and if it did I doubt many people would choose to live there. And the moral of this one is don't jilt people right before the wedding, I suppose. Especially if they're apparently powerful enchanters, but that goes without saying. I do appreciate the representation though.


6. The Lord's Fall (Chasm)
Lord Beevham wished to prove his worth as a man before he properly took over the seat of his father, and so he travelled to the Chasm of Darkness. It was said that any man who was able to cross it would prove themself as one who was incorruptible and of the highest spirit. All one need do was cross the bridge across the abyss, and they would succeed.
To Beevham's knowledge, only five men before him had ever crossed the chasm. Those who had failed, whose broken corpses no doubt lined the bottom, were those who had not had enough spirit. Although none knew what had caused them to fail due to their own lack of discussion on the matter, Beevham was confident that he could overcome whatever flaws had been their downfall.
Gathering his courage, he took his first step onto the bridge. It swayed beneath him, but not so much that it would cause him to fall. He steadied himself and took his second step, and was immediately assaulted by a million screaming voices. They told him that he would fail, that he should give up now and jump, that there was no point in crossing to the other side. If he succeeded, all he would do was ruin his father's legacy.
Beevham pushed on. He would not be cowed by these voices. They changed to a different track then, taking the form of those who were in danger, who had fallen down the chasm and yet still lived. He could save them, if only he were to follow them. It was difficult to resist: though he knew that these voices were not real, it took every fibre of his will not to believe them and follow them. A lord should look after others, they told him. And though he knew that he mustn't, he thought that they were right.
And still he kept walking. The wind picked up, tossing the bridge from side to side and threatening to throw Beevham to his death. And still he clung on and kept walking.
Monsters appeared on the bridge in front of him and behind him. They were great scaly things like long, shrivelled legs that had giant claws on them, and wings that were twice the size of them. They blotted out the sky, forming a canopy over Beevham, and they screeched a horrible sound that beseeched his ears with pain. They charged at him, and he drew hi sword. He slashed one across the chest, and it recoiled from him with a wail. He then turned and cut a wing from the other making it tumble into the chasm, flailing as it fell.
Beevham once again began to walk. He was so close now, the other side of the chasm appeared so close that he could just reach out and touch it. And with one final step to go, the chasm played its last trick. It showed him what was on the other side, a thing so horrifying that Beevham no longer had the strength to walk. It was the culmination of all of the greatest fears of mortals, a thing without comprehension.
Beevham jumped rather than face this horror.

Editor's note: The chasm in this story refers to the chasm of Totamine, where it is said that whatever one is searching for they may find it on the other side. This story is a largely fictionalized account drawn from the testimony of the few people that have been able to successfully pass over the bridge. They all say that they saw different things during the crossing, and so it can be inferred that one sees the things most likely to affect them. I suppose that means that if I were to cross then I would be told that the bottom of the chasm had a bookshelf where all of the shelving had been done incorrectly.


7. The Thorned Boy (Thorn)
There was once a boy and a girl who came from the stars. They were brother and sister, they said, and they loved each other very much.
They were not like other boys and girls. They moved strangely, they talked strangely, and the things around them acted strangely too. Where the girl walked, the flowers and plants would bloom beneath her, so that wherever she went she stood between hundreds of colours. Where the boy walked, nature would take over. Moss and thorns would cover the ground, and all the brightness would disappear.
People loved the girl, and hated the boy, for they saw her as a bringer of goodness and him as a bringer of evil. They tried to banish the boy, but the boy would not leave, and the girl would not let him go. She said she loved him too much, and that they could not be apart from one another, for if he went then she would begin to wilt and die.
The people did not listen to her, for while they loved her very much, they hated her brother so much more. And so they took their torches and their forks, and they pushed him from the town.
The girl began to die without her brother, and as she began to die it was like all of the people in the town were dying too. They all loved her so much and could not bear to see her suffer like this. They agreed to let her brother come back, and when he did the girl smiled again and all of the people smiled that she was happy again.
But they still hated the boy. And so they decided that they could make him stay, while still showing him that he would not be loved as his sister was. They took him in the night, and they wrapped him in thorns that cut his skin and made him cry out, and then they tied him with them to a post in the town, where those who walked past might see and know that they hated this boy and his thorns and his moss.
When the sister found out, she cried, and she ran to her brother and pulled him down. She had only wanted to people to love her brother as they had her, but now both of them knew the sting of hate. And so they left down, and the sister's tears sunk into the ground. And the ground never bore crops again, save the blights that come from the earth. And the people called for the girl to return, to fix their fields and save them. But she would not come.
And the thorned boy, who bore scars eternal for what the people done, stayed with his sister for ever. And he never forgot. And he never forgave.

Editor's note: For the life of me I cannot attest to why this story might be so popular. It seems completely contrary to many of the popular stories told during the month of long shadows, for its moral seems so unlike the others. Many stories serve as warnings to fear the unknown, and to stay away from those things that come from outside the of the home, but here we see a very different moral - the people of the village apparently must have embraced the thorned boy, and then things would not have turned out as they did. Perhaps then, we are supposed to conclude that the moral is to treat everyone equally. Or perhaps we are meant to think that the sister was a problem too, and the village should have shunned both. Whatever the answer may be that eludes me, I am sure that someday, long after my death, some student of literature will do what I have been unable to, and perhaps they will find a clamp to pull their head out of - well I shouldn't say.


8. Moonlight Song (Wolf)
The howls of the wolf, as they echo through the woods under a full moon, have been called the Moonlight Song many times. It almost is music, a choir of many voices coming together to create a sound that could not have existed on its own. If this is not music, then what is?
And yet, thought Arbra, as she strung her bow, it was hard to think of the howling as a song. The wolves didn't try to sing, and could it really be music if it wasn't sung by one who meant for it to be so? These were the questions that she had to ask herself, because when she tried to talk about them with the rest of the tribe they would tell her that she was just overthinking it.
She placed the arrow against the string, and gently pulled it back until it tickled her ear. A wolf howled somewhere, and the deer in front of her raised its head in alarm. The arrow flew, and the deer fell with Arbra's arrow in its neck.
The howling was answered by another wolf - Arbra stilled herself to make sure that it was not coming for her, then went to her deer. It was large, and it would easily feed her family for the next couple of days. This was a good hunt.
She began the journey home, the deer bound and over her orcish shoulders. Besides the distant howling, the night was quiet. She almost let herself enjoy the walk, but she knew that the wolves made the forest unsafe. Especially when she carried prey like she did.
Something rustled in the brush close to her. She dropped to her knees and reached for her bow, expecting for a wolf to step out of the tress. If there was one, and it decided she should be hunted, then she would have problem, for it would call for its friends. She might need to kill it quickly.
But it was not a wolf that stepped out in front of her, at least not a normal one. It was more than three times the size as any wolf that she had seen before, and its fur was half missing, replaced with moss in some places and bleeding bare skin in others. It stopped in front of her, pulling back its teeth to reveal that it had many layers of teeth, each tooth jagged and chipped like it had been tearing away at something large.
"Give me the deer," it said.
Arbra lowered her bow, not just out of surprise at the creature talking, but out of a sudden desire not to antagonise it. "This is my deer," she said. "You can probably catch your own."
The wolf thing glared at her. "I do not ask again, orc. I am the lord of this forest, and you shall give me the respect that I deserve."
"Why?" Arbra asked. "I have seen no truth of your lordship."
The creature howled at her. It created a noise that seemed to tear through her mind, driving her to her knees. She saw the moment when the forest was first born from a single tree, and watched it grow into the large tree that had eventually been felled by her tribe to make homes and weapons. She saw the countless sunrises and sunsets, the summers and winters and the springs and autumns, and she saw the life and death of every creature in the forest, many having died at the hands of her people. And she saw days yet to come, when the forest would burn in a fire unlike any seen before on earth, and things would come from the flames to hunt all the people and animals alike who tried to escape.
Arbra opened her mouth, and she howled, creating her very own Moonlight Song, one that had never been made by an orc like her before. And the rest of her tribe heard it, and they understood the song that she sang and learned her fears of what might come, the thousands of horrors in the future that had been shown to them by the lord of the forest.
And then, because no mortal mind could possibly comprehend all that she had seen, she died, still kneeling on the ground. And the lord of the forest took her deer and restored it to life, and it galloped away. And her body fell to time, and a tree grew in the place where she had once knelt, and was called the Arbra tree by her tribe, and they would come to it to ask questions of what they should do in times of trouble. Sometimes, they received an answer.
And they never forgot the voice of the lord of the forest, and the Moonlight Howl of the people and wolves who lived beneath them.

Editor's note: I try not to be bias in my notes, but I think that this story only serves to highlight that new gods are far crueller than the true Old Gods. Why, we know from the scriptures that Manaya not only allows people to hunt her creatures, but actively encourages it. This lord of the forest, then, is not only being selfish, but he is actively going against the will of Manaya in killing a huntress. Regardless of this, I have heard of a tree that certain tribes visit for wisdom, though why they do not just go to their local temple I will never understand. Perhaps we don't advertise to the younger generations properly. What do children like? Printing presses?


9. In the Corner of Her Eye (Mirror)
Wenda hated the mirror. Part of it was for the same reason that everyone hates the mirror, truthfully. It showed her all of the things about herself that she didn't like: the belly that was just a little bit too big, the pimples on her chin, the way her hair never fell right. These were the things that the other children, and her mother, told her about herself, and the mirror was a reminder.
But she had her own reason to hate the mirror, and that was because of the thing that lived in it. She had never looked at it directly, of course, for it was never there when she looked. But when she tried to fix her hair, or correct the way her clothes fell, she would sometimes see a glimpse of something in the corner of her eye.
Wenda had never seen the full form of the creature, but she had seen enough glimpses of its parts to put together a sort of picture in her head. It was red, that was something she had discovered first. Wenda had compared its colour to one of the dresses that her mother bade her wear when they had important guests, the colour of a wine that had aged for just the right amount of time.
There were a pair of wings too. These were not feathered wings, like the birds that settled on her windowsill, but great scaly things that were like the bats that would sometimes hang from the edge of the roof like statues. These wings would move sometimes, quivering like they were ready to spring.
The arms and legs of the creature were long and furred, ending in hands and feet that bore long black talons almost as long again as the arms of the creature. Sometimes they would click together, and though she would hear no sound she would imagine it, and the sound would fill on her dreams on the next night.
But the face was the worst part: it was shaped like a dog's except that most of the skin had been flayed away, leaving a mass of raw flesh and bone beneath. Its eyes, which were a deep black colour, were too far apart from one another and yet both were able to stare at her at once, while the mouth hung open and revealed great fangs. The top of the head was home to a pair of horns: one was smooth and curved like that of a ram, while the other was the many-pronged antlers of one of the deer that her father would bring home from his hunting trips.
This thing lived in Wenda's mirror, even if she broke it and had it replaced with another. It would not be there every day, but once it appeared she would be forced to stay standing at the mirror, staring at herself until it left. She knew, though she did not know how, that if she allowed her sight to slip then it would be able to reach her. And so she waited at the mirror, however long she needed. Sometimes it remained only a few minutes, and sometimes it would stay for hours, waiting for her to break.
None but Wenda had ever seen the creature, and so she had developed a reputation of a vain young lady, one who would happily stare at herself for hours. But she knew the truth.
But she knew also that one day she would look away. Her gaze would falter, or perhaps she would be pulled away from the mirror. She might stare for so long that she would fall asleep where she stood. What would happen then? What would the thing in the mirror do when it finally had lease to reach her? She prayed to all the gods that she would never find out.

Editor's note: A classic source of fear, the tricks that our own brain plays upon us. I think we've all thought we saw something in the mirror, or heard what feels like a footstep just as we are climbing into our hot bath with several infused oils that make our skin softer than ever. And as a sidenote, I would like to briefly talk about the Great Scenter, the best place in the High Cluster for all your self care needs. If you bring this book in with you within the first year of its release, they'll give you twenty gold pieces off your overall purchase on your first visit. But regardless, this is just a classic. Always tell this one.



10. Broken and Forgotten (Broken)
A little girl named Astra had a doll that she loved very much. It was made of porcelain and had a beautiful face of white, with red lips and black hair, and she wore a beautiful red dress. Astra would carry her doll, who she named Lucile, with her wherever she went. They would play together all the time.
A strange thing happens when a child loves a doll as much as Astra loved Lucile. Like a reflection from a mirror, her soul creates another within the doll, one that is like her own and yet just different enough. This is what happened to Lucile. One day she woke up, and knew instantly that Astra was her best friend and that she was loved.
But children grow up after a time. Astra grew, but she still held onto the love that she held for Lucile as long as she could. Until she dropped her, and her beautiful porcelain face was cracked. It was like a moment of revelation for Astra - if her doll was broken, then perhaps it meant that she didn't need it anymore. She placed Lucile in a cupboard to be forgotten, and over time she did indeed forget.
But Lucile did not forget. She felt a betrayal greater than anything she had felt before over being left behind. And when she saw her reflection and saw how she was broken, her anger rose, for how could Astra have done this to her. When she had been damaged in the years before Astra had repaired her. This was not how this was supposed to go.
Lucile wished to have revenge on Astra, and so for the first time she stood up by herself. She walked to the entrance of the cupboard, and for the first time she entered the world by herself. She used the power that she had to make herself appear like a human approximation of her old doll self. Though she could not make the scar on her face go away.
Because Astra was a noble, she made herself appear noble as well, and entered the world of balls and politics. It was on the first night when she presented herself as Lady Lucile that Lady Astra saw her and knew her instantly as the doll that she had abandoned, for the traces of the love she had once held had not completely gone away.
They circled each other during the whole ball. They both knew that Lady Lucile could not exist in caught for long without someone asking questions, and both knew that if anything were to happen between them then it would be tonight.
When Astra climbed into her carriage to make her way home, she thought that she would be safe. Whatever magics had granted her the power to move must surely not last long. But abruptly the carriage stopped, and the door was torn away by something strong. Lucile pulled Astra out of the carriage. Astra stabbed her with a blade that she kept hidden, and Lucile's fingers closed around her throat.
By the time the guards arrived, Lady Astra was kneeling on the ground, blood on her face. A doll lay next to her, one that looked remarkably like herself. She stood, gathering the doll to herself and placing it against her chest where it would be safe, before turning to face the guards and ensure them that she was safe. And she assured them that the large wound on her face would be fine - it would only scar, after all.

Editor's note: This is why I did not buy my niece the doll she asked for on her last birthday. Apparently trying to explain to her my reasoning to her by telling this story just before she went to bed was the opposite of helpful, and now I'm not invited to the family dinner on the weekend. But as for the context of this story, its origins come from old beliefs from the Banoan people about giving life to an object that one has a connection with. Of course over time as this legend has been retold, it has come into a more horror context, that I suppose does tell children to treat their possessions with respect. Or one could use it to teach the lesson of loving one's toys too much, but that it a hard lesson to give to a child. Mother.


11. A Final Chance (Escape)
Her heart was in her ears. The twigs on the ground cut her bare feet and roots snatched at her ankles, but she didn't stop running. She could hear his footsteps behind her - the monster that had kept her in his dark cave, taking small pieces of her soul to devour one at a time while she watched and screamed.
She didn't know how much of her was left, or if there was any of her left at all. What did it mean, really, to have one's souls removed like this? She knew that it hurt, and that it slowed down her desperate sprint for escape.
In the beginning, there had been seven of them. Seven women like her, all of them desperate for money and willing to go a long way to get it. The monster had appeared human and had seemed genuine enough in his requests. It would have been suspicious that he called so many, if they had known about one another. But by the time she had seen the face of another of these women, the cave was already sealed.
The monster had overpowered them all and chained them to the wall and he had taken what he wanted to from each of them. She had been the last one left alive, the last one who had any of their soul left. She had watched the others die as their soul, which must have given them life, was fully taken away. The room had smelled of death after that.
Finally, she had gotten a chance. When her captor, that monster, had not been there, the chain that she had spent weeks pulling on had finally given way. She must have worn it down with all of the pulling. She had been left with a choice, then. Run, and risk punishment if she were caught, or stay, and die. It had been an easy choice.
Unfortunately, it had not taken long for the monster to return home, and now he chased her. Her only advantage was that she seemed to know these woods better than he did, which meant that he wasn't a local. In a couple of miles she would reach a town, where she could get help. She would tell them what happened, her name, her -
She stopped running. She didn't remember her name. It must have been something that was taken as part of her soul. How was that even possible? It shouldn't be possible!
She searched through the recesses of her brain. No name, and other things missing as well. The place she was born, her family, the names of her friends. Not even the faces of those she had known remained. It was as though her life had begun in that cave, and everything before it was just something she was being told should exist without any evidence to support it.
Was this what her soul was? Was it what had been taken from her, or was it all a lie. Perhaps the monster had made her to be his meal. It would make sense, given the power that she had seen him display.
She heard footsteps, and fear surged in her heart. No, no she would not go back! She began to run again, ignoring the pain in her feet. She would not believe that this was her purpose. Even if she had lost things, they might still be saved. There were magics held by wizards and clerics that must be able to bring back the rest of her soul. There must!
She rounded a tree and slammed into her captor. Somehow, he had gotten ahead of her, and before she could get away he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her off her feet. He breathed in deeply, as though smelling her. She struggled, but his grip was stronger than iron, and she had grown so weak.
He spoke to her in his low, growling voice. "I'm afraid that you have outlived your existence." He placed his hand upon her lips. She squirmed, but he would not move. He pulled his hand away, and she felt it come up and through her mouth. Her soul was a yellowish wisp of a thing, and it coiled in the air around his finger for a second, before he stuck the finger in his mouth and sucked it away like a child might do with a sweet.
She felt everything go. All remaining memories, sparse though they may be, drained from her mind like water from a bath, an she was blank. At this point she was hardly even a living creature, for a creature is defined by the parts of its soul that contain its life experiences, and she had none left.
With nothing left to take, her captor dropped her in the forest and walked away.

Editor's note: What I find interesting here is the ambiguity of what the captor is. The story does not give a description to the captor, and one could argue that monster is just a way of describing a monstrous person. One cannot fundamentally alter this aspect of the story, because to do so takes away the important ability of its listeners to make that choice for themselves. Children will hear the tale and think if a hideous beast, while adults may think of the evils of people. Neither, I think, is wrong. And neither is fully right, for we cannot fully know. There have been numerous essays written arguing either point, but once again I feel this misses the message of the story. We do not need an answer, but we need to remember to guard our own souls, for they are the most precious things that we hold.


12. Consumed (Slime)
It began one day in a small town on the island of Tumua. A well began to secrete a greenish ooze that poured from it like the foam from a glass of beer stored too quickly. The first person who it encountered was a young child who played nearby with her toys. Seeing the bright colours as something fun, she excitedly pressed her hand against it only to scream in pain as it devoured first her hand, then her arm, then the rest of her body before the scream could even finish leaving her throat.
It was then in a moment of hysteria at seeing this that her mother, who had been watching from close by, attempted to dive into the ooze to rescue her child. Though the strength of a desperate parent has saved many a child in the past, this strength was today not enough, and she too was quickly devoured without ever uttering another word.
The ooze continued to grow and spread, filling the square that held the well. There were, of course, attempts to stop it, but whether by spell or by sword, the people of the island had nothing that might hold back the slime as it continued to grow. Everything in its path, be it plant or animal or house, was quickly devoured, and the people could see no end to its advance.
A call went to the temple that was several islands away. There was known to be an old priest there with a strong connection to his god, and thus capable of channelling incredible power. When he heard of the crisis on Tumua he came to the island, and faced down the tide of all devouring slime.
By now, it had killed dozens, and so the first thing he did was offer a prayer to Theninda, the god of death, so that their souls might be protected as they travelled into the next world. Then he raised his staff above his head and called for Ket, the god of the sun. A great white flame came from his staff and struck the ooze, but its advance was not halted. The people fled, but the priest remained in his spot and faced down the ooze. He called for more power, and Ket warned him that he would not be able to handle the power.
The priest knew this, and yet he still did as he felt was right. The ooze reached him, but he was protected by a holy shield, and as it tried to devour him it was burned away. Holy light spread within, burning away the evil and malevolence until there was nothing left but open space where it had eaten.
And the priest? His body became stone from the effort of casting his spell, and he stood there in his final act of defiance against evil for all eternity. And for then until this day, the people of the island celebrate his sacrifice and give thanks to Ket for saving them all.

Editor's note: The statue of the priest stands on Tumua to this day. Though there is no rule that says we should in the laws of our church, many men of the cloth such as myself make a pilgrimage at least once in our lives to see the statue. He was a good man, and represented the best of the priests of the Old Gods. He gave his life to save others, simply because it was the right thing to do, and the number of lives that were saved cannot be counted. We should only hope that one day we may achieve his level of faith and devotion to his gods and to his people. May Theninda protect you brother.


13. Why? (Haunt)
In hindsight, buying a house that all the locals called the most haunted house in the world may have been a poor idea. Federick had a strange relationship with the supernatural even before he moved here. It wasn't that he didn't believe in ghosts, because they were as obviously real as clouds or stone. But he always held the perhaps foolish idea that if one simply engaged a ghost in polite conversation and treated it like a friendly roommate then any haunting it might do would simply be put off for the next person who lived here.
It was the viewpoint of an overly optimistic fool, but Frederick had never seen any evidence that it wouldn't work, having never actually met a ghost. He was still perfectly happy to move into this house, mostly because it was cheap, and it had a wonderful view of the lake. The realtor had told him that this lake had been where the previous owner had drowned his wife because he suspected her of having an affair, to which Frederick had responded "I love history."
He moved his few possessions in on the first night and looked around. Yes, this place had fallen into disrepair a bit, and the warnings written in blood on the walls would need to be painted over, but he could make something good of this place. Tomorrow he would go to the general store to try and find the supplies that he needed.
That night, he laid out his sheets on the rickety old bed that still smelled slightly of blood, and blew out the candle for the night. Almost immediately, the room was illuminated by the silver light that the ghost who hung above his bed gave off. She was tall, with long straggly hair that floated around her in thick, ropey strands. Her eyes were the deepest black, but a furious light burned in their centre like a white pupil. She wore a white dress that was old and torn, but in a manner that was almost deliberate, like it had been torn not by the passage of time but by the attacks of another person.
"Leave!" she screamed. Frederick felt a cold rush over him, and the hairs on his neck stand up. He sat up in bed.
"Why?" he asked.
The spirit looked confused. Certainly, it hadn't expected this question, especially not in such a carefree manner. "What?" she asked.
"Why?" Frederick repeated. "Why do I have to leave? I see no reason why we can't sort out a living situation that works out equally well for us both."
There was usually ore screaming and running by this point. The ghost thought that maybe this person hadn't quite realised that she was a ghost, so she made the walls bleed for effect. That was usually an effective tactic.
He still looked unperturbed. "Well now I have to paint over that. Thank you."
The ghost snarled. "Why are you not scared of me, living one!?"
"Well, first of all, " Frederick sat up in bed, ""as I said, I think we can accomplish more with conversation than hauntings. And besides that, I was told that you were drowned here. If you were murdered, you probably weren't an especially bad person, right?"
She frowned. "I... suppose? This isn't usually how this goes. I'm just a bit off guard at the moment. Are you sure you aren't just going to run out screaming?"
"No."
"And you're not one of those ghost hunters? You won't throw holy water on me as soon as my back is turned."
"Honestly, no. Though I think I could have made a decent living doing that. How hard can it really be?"
The ghost laughed. "Well, harder than you'd think. Not all ghosts are as nice as me, I can tell you that. There's this sort of weekly haunting seminar that we can visit while still being here. It's a bit of a bore honestly, but you learn some good things. Anyway, a lot of the ghosts there were murderers when they were alive, so." She waved her hands about like that would indicate something.
Frederick nodded. "I understand. What kind of stuff do they teach you at those seminars?"
"Oh," she looked surprised. "Sorry, people don't usually ask to see that. Wel, there's that walls bleeding trick I used before. And then I can do things with doors and windows." She motioned to the bedroom window, which rattled suddenly in its pane. "Other things like that. There's a line between haunting and murdering that a lot of us don't like to cross, so it's good to know all of the tricks."
"Even the ghosts that used to be murderers?"
"Well, sort of. They like to scare their prey with the haunting before they kill them. It's disappointing when it doesn't work, they say, but then they just make the murders bloodier, so the next person comes in with a baseline level of fear."
"Interesting," Frederick said. He felt suddenly a lot colder than he had before, because there was a question that he realised he had forgotten to ask.
"Ah, I see you just got there," the ghost said. "Her mouth split open in a horrible grin, through which a long, forked tongue snaked and tasted the air. "You've gotten to the question. If I was drowned in the lake, then why does the bed smell of blood."
Frederick finally began to run, but he had nowhere to go. The ghost suddenly was twice his size, and she easily held him in place. "You should never trust a ghost, she told him. She pressed her hand against his chest, and her cool fingers passed through the skin. She grabbed the warm thing she sought, his soul, and pulled it from his body. Frederick watched in terror as she placed it in her mouth, wrapping her long tongue around it, and then swallowed.
"Now," she said. "I will show you why you should have been afraid."
If only Frederick could have heard her. But without his soul, he could not listen. There was only the burning question that stayed in his eyes until they were eaten by the ghost. Why?

Editor's note: Another ghost story, this one telling us that however much we think he do not have to be afraid of ghosts, we very much do. The ghosts may seem nice, but the process of becoming a ghost is not so easy as simply dying. One only becomes a ghost when they are given some reason to linger, and that usually is a great hatred. A hatred that will lead to the end of many more lives. I' sure when my wife dies, she'll come back as a ghost to berate me over how much of the quilt I used, heh heh. Ahem. I love my wife very much.


14. What Once Stood Here (Ruin)
"But why, father?" Harram asked. He didn't reply or even look back, as he led his son up the hill. The path was steep, and slippery with mud from the rain that had fallen earlier that day, and so Harram struggled to keep up with his father's long strides. He didn't understand the purpose of this trip - this morning his father had declared that today they would climb the hill, and he would show him what was on the top.
By the time they reached the summit, the rain had started again. A light drizzle soaked into Harram's tunic, and he shivered in discomfort. If his father noticed, he made no sign of it, for he only gestured for him to sit on a nearby seat of rock. Harram did as he was instructed and looked around. There was nothing to see here, nothing besides the flat hilltop of shrubs and rocks.
"Why are we here, father?" he asked.
His father refused to look at him. "I am going to tell you a story about the history of this hill," he said. "And perhaps, when I am finished, you will understand why we came here."
Harram leaned forwards to listen, for his father rarely told stories.
"It begins three hundred years ago," his father began. "In the age before we joined the Congregation, when Suspia was no more than a place for people to hide from the crimes they committed on Banoa, there was a keep here. They said it was built thousands of years ago, but that's not important to the story. What is important is that three hundred years ago, the keep was used by a notorious bandit known as Black Rike. Black Rike was known for hunting down sailors who he felt had wronged him, and punishing them for their crimes by tying them to the back of his ship and dragging them through the sea until they drowned or were taken by sharks. Well, Black Rike had attracted the ire of the navy, and so he came to the keep on Suspia to hide. He though that they wouldn't follow him here, but they were wrong."
Harram's breath caught in his throat. "And what happened?" he asked.
His father shrugged. "There was a battle. The soldiers of the Congregation's Navy against the crew of Black Rike. They were outnumbered, but defending a keep on a hill is far easier than attacking it, and so for a while they were able to hold back the navy. There were casualties on both sides. But, eventually, the navy got in, and they burned the keep to the ground with Black Rike still inside. He and the rest of his men perished in that flame."
He fell silent afterwards, indicating that the story was finished. Harram dared to speak. "But I still don't understand, father. Why did you bring me here to tell me this story?"
"Because," a voice said. "For some, death is not the end."
Harram had never heard a voice like it. It was like a sword being scraped against a stone, so inhuman and yet so recognisably a voice. He spun, as though yanked around on a rope, and looked into the face of the ghost behind him: a tall human with hair of the deepest black that hung in wispy dreads around his head and shoulders. Part of the face was eaten away by flames, but Harram still recognised the humanity in the grin that the ghost regarded him with. Harram screamed, and Black Rike laughed at him.
"This is the end of the story!" he cackled. "Black Rike still lives! He lingers here, bound to this form by his anger and hatred and lust for revenge! And you boy!" He jabbed a finger at Harram's chest. He gasped as it passed through him, feeling all of a sudden like he had been frozen on the inside. "You boy, you shall help me achieve that revenge!"
"And if I don't want to?" Harram asked.
Black Rike's smile vanished. He held up a hand, and Harram felt like all of his strength was pulled away in an instance. "Then you shall die," the pirate whispered.
Harram saw his father's face. Terrified, both for the possibility that his son might die, but also for the life that he would now lead. "I will," Harram promised.

Editor's note: Black Rike is a story for children. A bogeyman to keep them in line. He appears as a ghost in many stories, with a different backstory every time, always to exact something terrible of whatever protagonist is in that story. Black Rike's Revenge is one of the oldest stories in the archipelago, and will likely be told of fo generations to come. But this is no bad thing, for sometimes it is good to have a villain, and Black Rike is always effective as one when he appears. I wonder what stories may be told with him in the future.



15. The Grey Creatures (Mist)
How shall I describe the greatest horror of this world, which is known as the Grey Creatures? Perhaps I should start by describing when one might know that they come, for though they come from the mist, not every mist carries the Grey Creatures. But sometimes the mist will settle upon a town or house, and its tendrils will snake their way under doors and through crannies, searching for the warmth that hides inside.
Then, when the mists have come and all seems obscured by their shadows, this is when the Grey Creatures come.
At first glance, and at some distance, they may appear as a man. They have the shape, with the arms and the legs and head in the right place, and they move in a way that is sufficiently human that one might at first be fooled. But when one looks again, or gets closer, they see the truth of what these creatures are: a blank thing. They have a grey colouring draped over them that obscures any hint of feature below - though the shape of the mouth and eyes may be glimpsed, they have nothing about them that may mark them as an individual. The same is true for the rest of the body.
These creatures also are not bound by the same rules as other creatures of this plane. Doors and walls alike mean no hindrance to them, for their form can simply pass through like the ghosts of fireside tales. They walk in a way that is like human, and yet very different - their movements do not follow on from each other, and they simply appear in the next part of their stance. This is why one cannot hide from the Grey Creatures - they will be where you try to hide before you know that they are coming.
But, what threat do the Grey Creatures pose? For their only action is a touch upon skin, and then they retreat back into the mist. Well, the great horror of the Grey Creatures is the way that they reproduce.
Once a victim feels the touch of a Grey Creature, the change begins. They begin to lose key memories: where they grew up, the names of their parents, their joys in life. If one should see a loved one act in this way, then they must kill them before the rest of the changes can continue, for they are irreversible, and this is a kindness to the victim. For the rest of the experiences and knowledge will drain from the victim over time, until they are nought but an empty husk - they are now no longer a person, for a person cannot exist when all that makes them themself has been stripped away.
And now comes the final stage: the mists come again, seeking the victim. By this time, the victim has been taken by the same grey veil that covers the other Grey Creatures, and they become impossible to distinguish from any other of its new kind. The mists come, and they take their new servant, and they are never known of again. This is the terror of the Grey Creatures, for those that are taken by them become consigned to an eternity as an unkillable, unstoppable entity with no end to its torturous and blank existence.
Always run from the Grey Creatures. It is the only chance.

Editor's note: Though the truth of many of these stories is questionable, I am confident in saying that the Grey Creatures do not exist, for if such a widely spread horror did exist then it would surely be a noted phenomenon in other literature. Furthermore, I wish to clarify that this story was included due to its popularity, though I disagree strongly with the point about how one should treat one touched by the Grey Creatures. In the centuries since this story was first told, it has become easy to compare the supposed effects on the brain to several illnesses of the mind which have become widely observed. The editor of this book and all other collaborators are of the opinion that those suffering from such afflictions ought to be treated with compassion, and not with murder as the story suggests. In fact, I suspect that this story may have first been told to demonise those with such afflictions, but I cannot say this for certain. So to clarify, please do not murder your loved ones for any reason.


16. Words of the Devils (Whisper)
"Kill him," the voice whispered.
Gerald ignored the voice. It had been with him for as long as he could remember, telling him all that time to complete the dark deeds that it asked of him. Kill that person, set that person's barn on fire, destroy the other person's crops... it was a never-ending list of commands.
In his younger days, he had given into some of the commands. He had never killed anyone, but some of the commands had been more minor crimes than anything else. So he had set a few bushes on fire, stolen a few bags, hit a few other children. Every time he did the voice would praise him, and though that shouldn't feel good it very much did.
He knew exactly what this voice was. It was a devil that had taken on a hold on him as a child. When Gerald was ten, a priest had sat him down and explained the situation. When Gerald had been born, he had been born with no breath or life in his body. His parents had prayed to the gods with no success, and when this had failed, they had made a deal with a devil that they would give their lives for his. But, the priest had explained, that had left Gerald's soul in the care of that same devil, which now had the ability to speak into his mind.
In some ways, Gerald resented his parents. Everyone knew what they had done, and so he had grown up without a friend in the world. Everyone had been afraid of him. The staff at the orphanage would barely acknowledge him beyond giving him food. Muttering would follow him in the streets, people would gossip while he wasn't even out of earshot, and they did everything but throw him out of the town.
It was the reason that he felt okay listening to the voice, sometimes. Why would he control himself when these people never treated him like one of them?
"Kill him," the voice repeated. It was talking today about the butcher, Keenan. Keenan was no better than all the others with how he treated Gerald, but at least he didn't refuse to serve him like some of the other shopkeepers did. To him, gold was gold. Right now he was wrapping a leg of lamb for Gerald to take back to the shack he was allowed to live in.
"Take the knife," the devil whispered, indicating the one that Keenan had just used to cut the lamb. "Cut out his throat. You know that you want to."
The worst part was that Gerald did want to. Just this morning he had heard Keenan as he walked the streets. he had called Gerald a wretch that should not have been saved. It would have been better for everyone, he had said, if Gerald's parents had just buried their child.
It made Gerald want to scream every time he heard such things. He had never asked for any of this, he wanted to tell them. He wished the same thig that they did. But he was here now, and he couldn't undo the past. But he knew that they wouldn't listen. They would yell at him, call him ungrateful for the scraps they had given him, for allowing him to have a labourer's job that was back breaking work, and all for half of the pay of any other man.
They would call him selfish for not honouring the sacrifice of his parents, even though they had just been mocking that same sacrifice. And then they would beat him, likely in a mob, and he would limp home cradling his wounds.
The images played in his head with perfect clarity, for he knew all of them well. This had happened before. They had beaten the defiance from him.
"Here you go," Keenan said, wrapping the lamb and giving it to Gerald. "Enjoy that." And, like it was a reflex for him, added at the end "Hell Child."
"Do it!" the devil screamed. And Gerald did. He took the knife and slashed Keenan's throat. He had just enough time to register that Gerald was as surprised aby what he had done as Keenan was, before his eyes closed and he died.
"What have I done?" Gerald asked aloud. People had seen, they were looking at him.
"He deserved it," the devil said. "You deserved that kill. They all deserve it. Kill them all! Kill them all!"
And Gerald wanted to kill them all, because he had never received anything from them but their hatred. He took the knife, which became wreathed in fire as he awoke to the power that the devil had been prepared to give him all of this time. There was no going back, and he would raze them.

Editor's note: Possession by fiends is a horrifying thing. Those who call themselves warlocks that wield the power of these beings should know better than to rely on such powers, for they will only be made to do terrible things. In this story, it was easier for the devil to convince Gerald because the people of the town rejected him, and so the lesson here is not to reject people for things they cannot control. But it is a flawed lesson, for even if Gerald had been loved the devil would have gotten him to this point eventually. The fiends of the hells will strip away all goodness, eventually.




17. Behind You (Shadow)
"Look behind you," they said. Saphira turned, but she saw nothing out of the ordinary. The same dirt road stretched behind her as it always had, with only her footprints and shadow there as any sign that she herself had walked along it. She turned back to the others, to chastise them for playing tricks on her, but they had already fled. Most likely they were giggling behind some low wall at her gullibility.
Well, she would not let herself be delayed by the stupidity of the other children. She picked up her skirts and continued on her way to the market. She would need to be home by sundown with the eggs that her mother had asked for. At the market she went quickly to the farmer's stall and made her purchase of the eggs. As she handed the farmer the money, he suddenly looked afraid, and he pointed behind her. "Look behind you," he said.
She turned, and saw nothing. Only the pleasant and boring market, where a young woman was buying a dress from the local seamstress. As she stepped away with her purchase, she made a little jump so as to avoid Saphira's shadow, which lay long across the ground. Saphira turned back to the farmer, incensed by his trick, but he was gone. He must have hidden behind his stall to scare her, she decided, and she would not give him the satisfaction of looking for him. She took her eggs and began the journey home.
As she walked home down the country lane, the evening sun sank closer down the horizon, and all of the shadows began to lengthen. She hummed a little song as she walked, only half remembering the words that went with the tune. Something about a little blue bird. When she reached home, her mother met her at the door, taking the eggs and smiling at her. Then she screamed. "Look behind you!" she cried.
So it must be all of the town that was in on this silly joke, Saphira decided. Well, this time she would not turn so that her mother could hide from her in the service of some prank. She met her mother's gaze and shook her head.
Saphira saw for only an instant the movement of the shadow. it passed across the floor between her mother and herself, and then an instant later her mother was gone, like she had never stood in front of her at all. Saphira stumbled back in shock, looking around for the one responsible. No-one hid close by, or ran from her. So she looked at the one place she had yet to look. She looked behind her, and saw her shadow.
But now there was a face in the shadow. And it smiled with giant teeth.

Editor's note: A simple story, of the things that hide behind us when we cannot see them. We only ever see half of the world at a time, and this tory reflects that perfectly. The kills happen behind Saphira, and so they may as well not exist. In that single moment she turns around the beast makes its strike. It is paranoia at its best, and a reason why it shall remain a Long Shadows tale for many generations to come.



18. I Will Wait by the Fountain (Spirit)
A long time ago, a man and a woman fell in love. They loved each other very much, and they swore that they would always be with one another. They were married very quickly, and they danced with each other for what felt like days of pure ecstasy.
But one day, the man had to go away to war. The woman swore that she would wait for him to come home, and told him that she would wait by the fountain. She swore to Icktha, the goddess of law, that she would keep her promise, and so he was able to leave for the war with the promise that she would be waiting when he returned.
But unfortunately, the man was killed while he was away at war. On the day when he was supposed to return, the woman went to the fountain and began to wait for him, watching the horizon as she waited for him to come. But, as he was gone from the world, he never came.
Icktha is a fair god, and she does not take a promise to her lightly. And so, as the woman had promised that she would wait for her husband until he returned, Icktha made sure that she did. She took away her need for food or sleep, and let her stand there all day, every day, waiting for the man that she loved to return.
And, by the long passing of time, the woman began to fade away. She did not die, because Icktha ensured that she would not, but she continued as something lesser. She could not always be seen, except for in the brightest sunlight or moonlight, but she always stood there watching the road, waiting for her husband to fulfil his promise. She still waits there to this day.

Editor's note: You may have heard longer versions of this story. I have found in my research for this tome that most of the details that lengthen the story are added by the storyteller, and therefore are not part of the greater canon. In that spirit, I only told the most succinct version of this tale so as not to favour one version over another. As to its contents, this is less of a story of horrors and more of a sad story. Who among us can say that we have never loved someone with our whole heart like this, to the extent that we would make a promise to Icktha for them. I say this as a servant of the Old Gods: though Icktha is benevolent, she is just first, and so invoking on her may not be taken lightly. I am still bearing the consequences of my mother telling me to swear to Icktha that I would never eat chocolate after having my dinner, after all. At least I keep my figure.


19. That Belongs to Me (Relic)
Professor Geranium stood up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Two days on the hottest island in the entire archipelago searching for some ruins that were only referenced in an ancient text, and so far nothing to show for it. Another day and he would have his team pack it up and go home.
He looked at them. A series of students desperate to prove themselves to their professor, and not a lick of real experience between them. What he wouldn't have given for a real team.
"Professor!" Geranium looked over to one the female students, a Tiefling. Cordelia, he thought her name was. She was waving at him. "I found something!"
It would probably be a trowel that she had dropped somewhere earlier that day, he thought, but he had to at least try and look interested in whatever it was. He carefully made his way across the site, stepping carefully to avoid displacing anything. When he reached her, she was beaming and holding up a dagger.
"Look!" she said happily.
Geranium did look. It was certainly a rather fine piece, with a long, curved blade and an ostentatious hilt. But was it what they were looking for?
"Give it here," he said. She passed over the blade, and he turned it slowly in his hands, examining it from every angle. It matched all the descriptions, which meant that this could very well be the dagger of the lord in the story, and this might indeed be the ruins of his palace.
He laughed giddily. "Yes!" he said. "Well done, Cordelia! Excellent work!" He turned and held up the dagger. "Everyone! We are indeed in the right place! Keep digging!"
"Sir," Cordelia said. "My name is actually Jinae. That's Cordelia over there."
By that evening, they had found a few pieces of masonry that indicated that the castle had sunk into the ground. Now the team sat in their mess tent eating a hearty dinner. Geranium had broken out the wine in celebration of he found, and they all had a good drink.
"Can I hold it?" one of the men asked. Alexander, Geranium was sure.
He considered the question. What could be the harm, really? "For a moment," he said. "But be careful with it."
Alexander whooped and ran over to the table where the dagger was in a place of pride. He picked it up and, against the professor's instructions, twirled it a few times in his hand, and tossed t back and forth several times. He laughed. "No-one ever fought with this," he said. "This weight it was ceremonial at best."
Just as Geranium was about to ask his student why he knew so much about knives, Alexander made a gurgling noise. Geranium looked up and saw in horror that the man's throat had been slit open. The knife in his hand was dripping red. He stared at them all for a moment, his face showing fear, then collapsed to the ground. The dagger hung in the air where he had held it.
Someone screamed. The dagger tore through the air and struck one of the women in the air, killing her instantly. It pulled itself out and went to another, stabbing them three times in the chest before they could rise from their chair.
Geranium struggled to his feet, and began to back away. The others were doing the same, scattering into the desert, but the dagger was chasing them, far faster than they were, cutting them down. Geranium saw Jinae fall next to him, and the dagger fly towards her. In desperation he jumped in the way and felt it sink into his shoulder. He yelled and acted on instinct, closing his finger's around the grip of the dagger. If he could hold it in place...
The dagger tried to pull itself away, but he held tight. It came free of his shoulder, but he griped it hard on the handle and blade. His hands were cut by the blade, but he had to let the students get away. He had brought them here, after all.
"Professor, look!" Jinae yelled. She was pointing at the space in front of him, where he could just about see the outline of a person. They were old and regal, with a large crown on their head, and a furious expression.
"That dagger is mine!" it snapped. "Give it back!"
Geranium swallowed. "You were the lord that lived here."
"You disturbed my resting place!" the ghost screamed. "And you stole my things!" Then it stabbed him in the heart. As Geranium died, he hoped that the students would escape.
"No!" Jinae screamed. Perhaps if she could get the professor to somewhere safe, he could be healed. But there was no breath. She sobbed. This wasn't supposed to happen.
The ghost looked at her without sympathy, then cut her throat without another word. Then it turned to chase the others, as behind it a spectral image of the long buried castle rose from the desert.

Editor's note: The classic story of a vengeful spirit whose rest was disturbed. I cannot say much to the details of this story, because the narration gives precious little information. The hottest island in the s=archipelago could be considered to be Solsta, for it has the highest recorded temperatures, but this is not a consistent state. And there is nothing to suggest some kind of ruin there. Personally though, despite the murderous ghost, I think the scariest thing in this story is the experience of getting someone's name wrong and having them correct you. I have nightmares about such a thing.


20. From Where Bellows Thunder (Unquiet)
Bridget screamed into the storm, and the storm screamed back with a clap of thunder. She laughed as rain stung her forehead with drops the size of marbles and wind threatened to throw her off the cliffs and into the ocean below. This was what she lived for - to challenge the gods, to dare them to kill her. It made her feel more alive than anything.
Tonight was a night that she had been waiting for the last three days. One of the greatest storms that Amonki had ever seen, which she had watched approach on the horizon during her chores and school. She had planned to be here, out on the cliffs, for this sweet rush of adrenaline.
As she looked up, lightning flashed above her. She counted in her head, waiting for Rom to bellow his divine message. When he did, she roared back again. Though her voice was lost in the din, she felt that she was one with the storm.
She knew where her path would lead. She would join the church of Rom, and become one of his loyal servants. She would be given his power, and then she would use it to travel around the archipelago helping people and writing wrongs. Rom would be the god that would let her become a hero, and she would prove herself worthy of being his champion now.
"Rom!" she screamed. "I give myself to you!" The storm answered with another clap of thunder that was louder than any of those that had come before. Then, unusually for the storm, lightning flashed immediately afterwards and lit up the shape of a man.
Bridget only had a moment to take in his form, but she recognised him. His face was the one shown in her books of Rom - he was one of the Stormslaves, a group of twisted men with no eyes who had pledged themselves to hunt all of the followers of Rom in order to purge his influence from the world, in the service to their New God named Thenin.
Joy at being recognised as a true follower of Rom quickly gave way to fear. The Stormslave had a knife, and he was advancing on her. She turned and ran, all thoughts of glory forgotten against this fear for her life. The Stormslave followed, knowing where she was even without eyes. He was faster than her, and he was far larger and stronger than her. If he caught up, then that would be it.
In the distance, she could see the lights of the town. Just a little further and she would make it, and then... she would have some more defense at least.
Fiery pain spread up her leg, and she realised that she had been cut. She fell into the mud and struggled to rise. The Stormslave was upon her then, and he drove the knife into her chest.
"Help me, Rom!" she scried. "Please!"
The storm lit up with lightning, and the Stormslave convulsed as a bolt of electricity struck him in the chest just as he began to go for a second strike. He was blasted away from her, and he lay prone.
Bridget got to her feet, her head light. She tried to walk a few steps, but her legs gave way. She was too injured to make it. She cried, and her tear mixed with the rain that the god she loved had given her. "Please," said, and fell forwards. The instant before she hit the ground, her body became rainwater, and her soul ascended to the halls of Rom.

Editor's note: It always warms my heart to read this tale of true devotion to one of the Old Gods, and angers me to see the cruelty that the New Gods. bring. In this case, it ended as well as it could have, but other children might not be so lucky. The moral of this story is not to put oneself in danger with their faith, even though their dreams might be big. And whether the story of Bridget be true or not, as I like to believe it is, we can be sure that with the strength of Rom she would have been a formidable hero.


21. The Window Over the Clouds (Shatter)
The tallest tower in Drucilar was so tall that it stood far above the clouds. It stood on top of the western mountain, and then extended almost a mile above the peak, a large statement to the rest of the country.
The tower was populated by the very wealthiest people in Drucilar: businessmen with their rooms of gold, wizards with their libraries of tomes, regional overseers and their homes away from home. But at the very top was a place where no-one was allowed to live, because this was the Window of Godly Sight. The entire top of the tower was one large glass structure that anyone was allowed to visit, for this was the place that gave the greatest view of the world.
From here, you could see the entirety of Drucilar. It spread out beneath the window like a map, with every river and town as clear as if they had been drawn on a table.
Yoron was there now, pressing his face against the glass and trying to spot his house, which was hundreds of miles away. Thanks to the magic in the glass this should be doable, but it was hard for his young mind to pick it out. Finding the right place to look was tricky.
"Have you found it?" His older brother Alon knelt down next to him. Yoron shook his head. "You see the Basar River over there," he said, pointing. "Just follow it north past the Midlands Forest, and to the base of Mount Terrera. You see?"
"I see," Yoron said, following his brother's instructions.
"Now, just look a little bit closer," Alon said. Yoron did as he said, and there it was. Their small house, with their shirts hung on the line outside of it. He laughed, the joy of being so far away and still able to see his home filling him with an incredible joy.
"It's amazing, right?" Alon said. "This is what Drucilar is all about, brother. Though there are vast distances, we can see everything. It's about the power we, as a society, hold."
"It's so cool," Yoron agreed. "Can I learn the type of magic that does this?"
Alon ruffled his hair. "Of cause you can, Tiny. We both will."
The floor shook beneath their feet. At the base of the tower it would hardly cause a ripple in a glass of water, but here at the top they were both thrown violently against one wall. The other people in the window screamed as they too were thrown around.
"Yoron!" Alon shouted. "Are you okay?" Yoron put his hand to his head where it was hurting, and it came away with red on it. It was strange. "Yoron!" Alon shouted again.
"I'm here," he said. It had gotten dark all of a sudden, which shouldn't have been possible because it was the middle of the day a few seconds ago. The magnification from the glass was gone as well, leaving Yoron blind. He could no longer see his house.
"Yoron!" Alon reached him and wrapped his arms around him. Before either of them could move, the tower shook again, and then tilted to one side. Yoron could see the lights of the mountain far below him, which meant that they were no longer on top of the tower.
"The tower is dark," Alon said breathlessly. He was right; the tower that usually stood as a beacon to the greatness of Drucilar no longer held the thousands of lights that kept it lit up most of the time. "Something is happening," he continued. "Brother, stay close to me whatever happens." He gripped Yoron a little tighter.
Yoron didn't know what was happening, but he knew that he was scared. He wanted to go home, but that wasn't an option. He held onto Alon as tightly as he could, like it would protect him. The tower shook again, more violently than the other two times, and the tower began to tip.
Yoron felt weightless for a few seconds, as the window was suddenly falling. He screamed and thrashed around, but there was nothing he could do. Below him, the lights of the mountain vanished as the tower extended far beyond its base, towards where he knew that there were fields.
Yoron's last thought was a scream.

Editor's note: Okay, so I have a lot to say on this one. For the benefit of those who don't know, Drucilar is a story about a society that existed long before anyone's living memory, supposedly before the archipelago even existed. This theory has been touted by many academics despite the only references to the Drucilar is in a short history written after the time when it would have disappeared, and may very well have been a work of fiction. There is simply nothing that we have discovered that supports the Drucilan people having existed, especially considering that they were supposedly extremely technologically advanced. The tower referred to in this story refers to the ruined base of a tower in the eastern islands that has no known history. This story, which seems to be depicting a point when the Drucilans began to disappear has no basis in fact and is just a somewhat depressing bedtime story that will no doubt be believed as fact in the future because children these days never bother to learn cultural context.


22. A Room All to Yourself (Lock)
Yora scratched another mark into the wooden wall, then stepped back to look at them. This was the seventy-third mark, which she hoped meant that she had been here for seventy-three days. Of course, with no way to see the world outside of this room, and there being no other way to keep the time, she could only go by her own internal body clock. If she had been here as many days as she thought she had, then it meant that she still had a solid grip on the world.
She had certainly slept that many times, but with no way of knowing how long she slept each night, she didn't know if that would make her time here longer or shorter.
At first she had thought that she might keep time by when the small slot in the bottom of the door opened to permit a small tray of rotting food to be shoved through. But she had quickly learned that this was pointless. There was no schedule by which she was fed, and seemed to be whenever her captor remembered that she existed. Sometimes that would be mere hours after the last time, and sometimes she would go what felt like days without a meal, crying as she clutched her pained stomach and tried to pretend that she wasn't here.
And it had all happened so fast. Yora had been on her way home from her runes class, he hooves clicking carefully across the stone, when she had seen something in the alley next to her. It was a man, one who held such brightly coloured sweets in his hands that he promised to her for no price. It was like a dream for her, and so she had taken one, and soon felt all of her strength fading. She had come to in this room, woken by the sound of the heavy lock slamming into place. That lock horrified her. She had heard it five times since she had been here, always when her captor wished to enter the room.
While inside, she would pray for things to be over. She couldn't repeat the things that were done to her in those times, save to say that she was scared of them forever. It hurt.
But the worst part of this room was that, even though her captor always told her that it was a room that she would have all to herself, she was not the only one here. There was a skeleton that lay in one corner, hardly larger than her own. It seemed to look at her all the time, except for when her captor was here. Then she imagined that it could not bare to look.
She hated it. Not because it scared her, but because she envied it. The person that this skeleton had been was unlike her, because it hadn't been too afraid to allow itself to die. Yora liked to believe that it was hope that she might be rescued someday. But she knew that, after all of this time, it was only a fool's hope.

Editor's note: I have never liked this story. I think it is not difficult for me to explain why. All of the other stories that I tell have elements of the supernatural, and we can tell ourselves that they might not truly have happened. But, even if Yora herself never existed, this has happened to many children. This is a story of the evils of mortals. Yes, it is necessary that children learn not to trust strangers, and so they must have stories like this. But every time I hear it, I can only imagine my niece or nephew in the position of Yora, and that terrifies me more than it could terrify any child.


23. Where Are You Hiding? (Door)
Temila slammed the door of her bedroom shut, breathing heavily. Outside she heard the footsteps of the thing, the monster, slow down and pause before moving on. This was all her fault. Why had she brought the thing home? It had looked so harmless when she saw it by the side of the road: that small quivering furry ball that looked up at her with those crying eyes. It had been injured, or at least it had pretended to be. When she had scooped it up and placed it in her basket, it had made such a pathetic whimper that it was impossible for her not to feel such sympathy towards it.
So, she had brought it home and cleaned it up, and with her mother's permission had fed it from the table. This had seemed to be all the permission that it required, for it had jumped onto the table and eaten everything before they could stop it. Then, already having reached double its original size, it had raided the cupboards and the larder, eating everything that it could reach. Her father had swatted it with a broom handle, and when it had ignored this he had taken the axe from the wood pile and sunk it into the creature's back.
Now, it had taken notice. It turned towards her father and opened its jaws to reveal rows and rows of teeth. Temila and her mother had screamed, and her father had yelled a battle cry and tried to attack the creature again. It caught the axe, and the arm holding it, within its jaws and pulled them away with a crunch and a fountain of blood. Temila's father fell forwards, but before he could reach the ground the monster caught him in its mouth and devoured him. It grew even further, now as tall as Temila and twice again as long.
It came for them then. Her mother had told her to run, and the creature had caught her as well, and Temila had run. And now she sat within this room, a single door being the only thing that protected her from the jaws of this terrible thing.
"Where are you hiding?" it asked in a sing-song voice, a voice that sounded like it belonged to both her mother and her father. "Where are you hiding, poppet? I'll find you."
Temila buried her face in her skirts and tried not to sob so that it wouldn't hear her. There was a chair on the other side of the room. If she could put it under the door handle, perhaps she could -
The floor creaked as she made her first step. The monster's strange singing voice came through the door again: "Are you in there, poppet? I'll come and get you..."
There was no time to waste. She ran and grabbed the chair, pressing it into the door just in time so that when the monster slammed itself into the door, it just barely held firm. She screamed and covered her head, but the door held. The door actually held.
"So sad," the monster sung. "I can't get in. Will you come out to me?"
"No!" she told it. "Go away!"
It laughed in its song. "I won't," it said.
Temila jumped backwards in fear as something started to come under the door. It was an oily substance that moved around like water that had a mind of its own. It poured into her room, around the sides, and over the top, until it filled the room. Then it went back into the shape of the monster, which grinned down at her with a mouth that had hundreds of teeth.
"Found you," it sang, and it ate her.
As Temila's screams faded, the monster looked out of the window at the rest of the town. It was still hungry... and there were so many meals to taste.

Editor's note: As far as I can tell, this story was inspired by the 522TC events of Prixes, where most of the town was found half devoured by a creature that was never found. The mystery has long baffled historians, and accounts like this certainly do not help. Especially as this one largely engages in victim blaming of a child who, while likely not representing any specific child, makes the children of the town look bad. I would tell those who dictate this story to consider that this girl must have been terrified, and is that really worth perverting to stop a child bringing home the injured bird he found in the woods?



24. All Those Years Ago (Curse)
One should never anger a god, be they new or old, for their wrath is great and just. Throughout our history there are a thousand stories of gods who found a mortal breaking their law, and for it placed a curse on them so terrible that it would destroy their lives.
This is not one of those stories. This is a story of a curse that is not justice, but maliciousness, and placed by one of the most evil things to exist in this world - a witch.
Witches are those women who have foresworn the regular life of a mortal and gone to live alone, in order to carry out their dark plots. They craft spells and make potions, and place curses on anyone who they feel might deserve it. And yet they claim that they are just trying to escape the bounds placed on them by society, that their magic is fair and not given to them by a demon.
In this story, the woodsman Birstan finds himself lost in the great forest that he had meant to venture into. He wanders alone for what feels like days, starved of food and water, existing on the brink of death. In that state, he sees a house in the woods, the only thing that there is for miles. Exhausted, he stumbles forwards and knocks on the door of the house.
The witch inside sees him come. She does not usually allow men into her abode, but as she sees him coming her heart gives a flutter, for she has fallen in love with the woodsman. This is bad for him, for when a witch wants something she will stop at nothing to make it hers. And so she lets the grateful woodsman into her house, and gives him the food and water that he begs from her. The woodsman does not recoil from her as he should, for the witch has enchanted herself to hide her disgusting form and make herself seem attractive to him. Thus of course, when she asks if he will stay the night he heartily agrees.
As he sleeps, the witch casts a spell over him such that he would never leave her. This is the most she is able to do, for even the witch's foulest magic cannot sway a heart and make one fall in love.
In the morning, the woodsman wishes to leave, but finds that he cannot. Her spell hangs upon him and makes him stay at her house, helping her with her chores and protecting her from those who would come to threaten her.
For years, he is not allowed to leave. After a while, by the madness that comes to those kept in captivity, the woodsman finds that he falls in love with her as well, and for a while they live happily after.
But the witch becomes jealous of herself, of the falseness that she presents. And so she reveals her true, hideous witch form to the woodsman. He sees instantly how he has been used, and that the magic has kept him here, and he is disgusted by this foul creature. He tells her that she is disgusting, and tries to strike at her.
The witch breaks. She casts her new curse, one far more powerful than the first, one that strips the mind from the woodsman and leaves her as nothing but her slave. She realises her mistake and knows that she has erased the one she loves, but it is too late. And so she bids that he wear a mask to hide his face, and sets him to guard her home and her woods. And so he walks them to this day, doing her bidding as she watches him in despair, all due to the curse that she cast all those years ago.

Editor's note: Putting aside for a moment the somewhat misogynistic way that witches are presented in this story, the moral seems to be not to trust someone on face value. Bringing it back, yes, there's no getting around the fact that stories like this continue to persecute the way that witches truly are. Witchcraft is just a different way to cast magic, and it is not limited solely to women. This sort of story clearly comes from the dark days of a few decades ago when women were still convicted of witchcraft for even slightly breaking from societal norms. I will be glad when this type of story comes out of circulation, if I do say so myself. And I do.


25. The Thing in the Creek (Possess)
"I dare you to go in." Arin looked at the older boy and sighed. Tosin was the kind of person who would dare someone to do something, and then if they refused he would spend the afternoon sitting on their head. Arin didn't especially like for his head to be sat on, and so he knew that he would have to do as Tosin said and climb down into the creek.
It wasn't that the creek was necessarily scary, but more that the sides were rather slippery and covered with mud, and his mother would never let him hear the end of it if he came home all covered in mud. Still, if he didn't follow through on the dare then he would end up covered in mud and his head being say on, so there was a clearly better option.
Taking a deep breath, and steadying himself on a root, he began to make his way downwards. The sides of the creek were as slippery as he had expected, but Arin was used to woods filled with slippery mud, and so he was able to stay on his feet until he reached the bottom.
He looked around. The creek was a bit boring, just a bit of water running through the land. He hadn't actually given any thought to what he would do when he was here.
"I'll come back up," he shouted. Tosin grunted, apparently agreeing. Arin looked around for a good foothold and saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was like a small box, with a green gem on the top of it that sparkled through the murky water. "What's taking so long?" Tosin called. Arin realised he had been staring at the box for a few minutes. That was strange. "There's something here," Arin said. He stepped into the water, water soaking into his boots, and picked it up. "Some kind of box." "Bring it then," Tosin said. "It might have something good in in." That would mean whatever was inside, he'd have to share it with Tosin. Maybe if he opened it down here, he could stow a few things in his tunic. The box didn't seem to be locked, after all. He lifted the lid to reveal... it was empty. Kind of disappointing. "There's nothing..." he began to say, before his mouth stopped working. It wasn't like it went slack or anything like he had seen illness do before; his mouth just stopped responding to the commands that his brain gave it. "Arin?" he heard Tosin call. "You still there?" Arin looked up. Except that he didn't tell his body to do that, it did it by itself. Like something else was moving it. "Hmm," said a voice in his mind. "This form is weak and imperfect, but it will do." "What are you?" Arin asked it. "I am the devil know as Raxes," said the voice. "You gave me access to your body, and now it belongs to me." "Seriously, say something," Tosin yelled, sounding slightly worried. Arin felt himself smile. "Hold that thought," Raxes told him. "There is an annoyance that I would like to take care of." He jumped ten feet into the air, easily clearing the edge of the creek and landing in front of Tosin, who looked at him in shock. "How did you do that?" he asked. Arin's hand closed around Tosin's throat, and he lifted him into the air. Arin was caught between amazement at his strength, and horror at what he was being forced to do. "Stop!" he screamed. "Please don't hurt him!" He felt his grip relax slightly. "You have no control, human," Raxes said. "I will do as I please. But, if you wish for him not to suffer..." He slammed Tosin into a rock on the ground. The other boy's head caved in on the impact, and his whimpers and choked begging faded away. Arin tried to scream, but even this Raxes stopped him from doing. "Why do this?" he asked. "And why use me for it?"
"Because," Raxes said, speaking out loud with Arin's voice. "I wish to create despair. When you carry the body of this boy back to town, it will create despair for his family. And I will make you cry and lie that it was an accident, that he fell and there was nothing you could do. And then, at night, I will make you burn down the house of your family, with you being the only one who is left alive. Those who know and love them will feel the despair of loss, and feel despair in their pity for you. You will be taken in by someone, and they will die too. This will continue until they decide you are unlucky and cast you out - and then you will kill all who remain. You will be unstoppable. this despair you create will give me strength, and I shall send it to my master."
"And," he continued. "The greatest and sweetest despair shall be yours. The helplessness that you feel as you kill all you love with your own hands and know that you are powerless to do anything shall be like the sweetest of fruits to me."
"Please," Arin begged. "No."
Raxes used Arin's body to bend down and grab what was left of Tosin by the scruff of the neck. He began to drag him back to the town. He didn't listen to Arin.

Editor's note: I feel that I should add some context to this story, for those who are not well versed in the history of the northern Salynas Archipelago. Raxes and Arin are two names that are tied inexorably to the warlord who razed many towns in the north several hundred years ago, with Raxes being the name that the warlord Arin claimed influenced his actions. Due to this, this story may serve almost as a prequel to that part of history, even though there is no evidence as to how Raxes and Arin may have found one another. Furthermore, if historical sources are accurate then there is evidence that Arin had some control and did not act solely as a puppet of Raxes - I wrote a paper on this theory at school, in fact. Regardless, tying such well known names to a story like this serves as a good warning to children not to do the dares that others warn them of - lest they end up as one of the most notorious killers in our history.


26. Within Dreams (Abyss)
There is a dream that naughty children sometimes have, after their parents send them to bed early for the bad things they have done during the day.
The dream begins in what seems like an endless abyss of black, with no sound except for the faint whistling of a wind that cannot be felt. Cries for help will not be heard, for there is no-one around who might hear them.
And then you see something. A light in to the distance, coming oh so slowly towards you. And you realise that there are two of them, and that they are not just lights but large, glowing yellow eyes that belong to a monster that is made out of the same darkness as they rest of the abyss is.
You turn and run, but it is so easy for it to follow, because the abyss has nowhere where you can possibly hide. It will soon catch you, and then you are swallowed by it, plunging into an even deeper darkness than the one that you have felt before. You think there is nothing around you, and so you try to stand up, but there is a ceiling above your head, and walls in every direction, stopping you from doing anything more than crouching.
You think you are safe, but then you feel the walls around you move, and your space gets smaller. They press against you, forcing you into a smaller and smaller position until your bones creek in pain and you scream as loudly as you can.
Then all of a sudden you're falling. You still can't see anything around you, but you know that you're falling because you can feel the air rushing past, and your body tumbles in flips and rolls that you can't control no matter how hard you try to steady yourself. You know, even though you can't see it, that you are close to the ground, and so you brace for the impact, but it doesn't come.
Now you are lying on the ground, and you can feel things moving over you. Thousands of tiny feet from invisible insects, the feeling of slithering, chewing, licking, the pinches of tiny claws, the scratching of small hands. You try and brush the things away but they are still there, even if you cannot see them. You feel them crawl into your mouth and nose and lay eggs in your eggs, feel your body filling up with the remains of these creatures. You feel dirty and unclean.
And then, finally, they all disappear as the world becomes nothing but noise and light. The abyss of darkness is gone, replaced by endless blinding light in every direction. There is sound everywhere, deafening noises that invade your ears and drown out even your own thoughts. Closing your eyes does not protect you. Covering your ears does not protect you. You are naked and exposed amongst this unbearable light and noise.
You wake up, and the dream is over. But it leaves its mark on you, for once the dream has been had the first time, it is easier for it to come again and bring the terrors all over again. So, children, I advise to you all. Be good.

Editor's note: This one is perhaps the most direct in its messaging, since it outright tells children to be good. It's not subtle either - just throwing as many common fears as possible into the story in the hopes that at least one of them will scare the listening children. Still, I can't fault the intention, since this is the whole point of the month. Now, I'm going to hope that I don't have this exact dream tonight.


27. I Heard Her Too (Echo)
"Did you hear that?" Kace asked. It had been the faintest of sounds, more of a whisper on the wind than anything else, but - ah, here it was again. A like a trace of her own voice, barely the faintest of echoes.
"I heard nothing," Téa said. She pointed at the stack of hay in front of them. "Don't think you can get out of doing your job because you're hearing things."
"Fine," Kace grumbled. She would accept that it had only been her imagination. But there it was again, a sound that sounded like the word "fine". It was a hollow sound, like it had lost its substance as it travelled over the fields, but it was unmistakeable.
Kace tried to ignore the voice, but it seemed as though every time she heard something it was repeated back to her from the distance. She reasoned it must be a problem with her ears, and resolved that she would see the local doctor after work today. Until lunch, she ignored the voice.
But at lunch time, as she chatted to the other field workers, she felt as though the voice was getting louder. She stood up and walked to the edge of the eating area. "Hello?" she asked tentatively. The voice replied in the same way, in a voice that now sounded definitively feminine.
"What..." she muttered.
"I heard her too." She turned and saw that there was an old man standing next to her. He was dressed as a worker, although she didn't recognise his face. He must have been new.
"Really?" she asked.
The old man nodded. "You would be unwise to ignore it, I think."
As random old men were usually an excellent source of wisdom, Kace decided to listen to him. She stepped into the fields, whispering things to herself beneath her breath. The voice answered them, regardless of how quietly she spoke. What was it?
The edge of the field felt like a point of no return, so she turned around before going there. She didn't know what she expected to see, but hoped that it would be someone running after to see where she was going. From what she could see, it didn't look like anyone had even noticed that she was gone.
She pressed forwards into the trees. The voice got louder, the repetitions of her words seeming like questions now. There was no mistaking that they existed, nor that they sounded exactly like her. Kace knew that she should turn back, but her curiosity won out.
It didn't take long for the sounds to lead her to a pit in the ground, which was when Kace realised that she shouldn't have come here. The thing in the pit was a seething mass of grey, which was making a sound like a quiet scream. Its surface rippled and changed every few seconds, with faces appearing on its surface. They all spoke as they repeated her, with faces of the old and young, man woman and other looking at her. Then her own face appeared in the centre, and it said words that she hadn't spoken. "Come to me."
Grey tentacles burst from the mass and wrapped themselves around her limbs. She tried to scream, but she no longer had a voice - it had been stolen away from her. The tentacles pulled her against the mass, and it opened up to allow a space for her within its body. She struggled, but her strength was gone, and as the cold grey closed over her face she wished she had stayed at home today.

Editor's note: There are a few lessons here - don't listen to strange old men, don't wander off in search of strange voices, always tell someone where you're going. As for whether this one is true, I don't have any evidence to verify it, but similarly I have nothing that might contradict it. It makes a good story, in any case.


28. What Hides Within a Man (Darkness)
Heath had a secret, which was that there was nothing beneath his skin. he held the approximation of a human, but it could not have been more than a lie. He walked around wearing the skin of Heath, but he was actually a being made of pure darkness that happened to be in a humanoid shape.
The thing about being a creature of darkness was that it meant Heath had to act in a certain dark way. After all, if one wanted good there were creatures of light. A creature of darkness had to kill at least three people every month or else their creator, the New God of Darkness, would revoke their existence privileges.
It was a good thing then that Heath was very good at his job. Oh, he had started off just doing the easy kills, like children or the sick and infirm, but these quickly grew boring. So he began to hunt hardier prey - men fresh from the hunt, warriors who had proved themselves in many wars, lords in their high castles. All of them had a weakness, a way to get to them.
Take the hunters, for example. They tended to put a great deal of stock in omens while they were out in the wilds, and these were easy to fake. An ominous sound here, a deer carcass there, and he could lead them into his traps. Pits filled with sharpened sticks were his favourites, for the hunters liked to use those as well, and Heath felt that there was a certain irony in killing someone with their own tools that made the kill that much more enjoyable.
The warriors were even easier to fool. There was something about them that made them crave a fight, and so Heath would give them one. Rumours of a monster in an isolated location where no-one would hear the screams was enough to bring them running, and then Heath would just wait in the dark for the perfect moment to pounce. The other thing about warriors was that they never expected to be taken by surprise, and that was what would kill them.
As for the lords, well, they had the benefit of having people working for them who would protect them from beings like Heath. But the folly of a lord was arrogance. They would have their jousting or their shooting, or their tea and gossip, and these were the times when the eyes of their guards were furthest away. Heath had entered competitions against them. He had hobbled horses. He had disguised himself as servants. A lord never thought that someone close to them would kill them, and they were always surprised when it happened.
One day, Heath would discover how to kill someone on the level of the Grand Arbiter, but not yet. Until then, he and his many, many brethren would stay in hiding, killing a few here and there, with no-one any the wiser.

Editor's note: This story is best at providing paranoia. If any person can in fact be a monster of darkness under their skin, then is anything truly safe. Fortunately it is a load of rubbish, there are no known creatures that can achieve such a thing. Why, solid darkness within skin? It does not, as i am told by my engineer friend, make logical sense.


29. The Meat of the Gods (Hunt)
When the gods hunt, they hunt prey that no other being may possibly face. This is simply because there is nothing else that could possibly make their hunt a challenge, when with most creatures they can merely swat them from the highest heavens.
There are several well known creatures that the gods like to hunt themselves, when their fancy comes. Dragons are some of the most infamous, for they have the cunning required to fight the gods in a battle of wits. Another example is the kraken, a great beast with the power to level continents. They say that in ages past the gods hunted a being called the Tarrasque, and none knows how the outcome of that battle went, for it is said that the Tarrasque is the only thing that can kill a god.
And then there is another prey of theirs, one that is less spoken of amongst the people, for they say that to even speak its name is an ill omen. The creature is called a Death Guard, and it well lives up to its name. For the death guard does not simply kill its victims.
Xash encountered a death guard during his thirteenth year of life. He was walking to the nearby farm to purchase some eggs when he saw it by the road. It was a short, squat thing with long, silver fur that was matted and caked with a mixture of mud and blood, though it only looked like mud. It had a long, pointed face like a dog's, and a mouth that was bereft of any teeth. In the place of teeth were protrusions that were like the nails on Xash's hand.
It grunted at him, making a noise that was like the sound a seal gasping in pain. Though he did not know what it was, Xash turned to run, for he knew that it couldn't be good. The Death Guard's eyes flashed, and his legs froze, for the Death Guard has a paralyzing gaze upon its prey. It walked lazily towards him and scraped its horrible nails across his arm, drawing blood. Then it walked away, having done its job.
The Death Guard does not feed on death, but life. As long as its victims, live, it feeds. Its poison did a terrible thing to Xash, making him unable to die. Any ideas that this would be a blessing should be dispelled, for it was most certainly a curse. Though he was protected from death, he was not protected from all of life's ailments: injuries, disease, aging. As the years passed, he became a shell of a creature, trapped inside of a degrading body that was constantly in pain, wishing to be able to die. This is the curse of the Death Guards. They guard the gates to the next life, and prevent their victims from ever passing through.

Editor's note: Death Guards exist. They are rare, but there is an asylum in the north for those unfortunate ones who have been afflicted by this curse. I pity them, truly, for it seems like a horrific existence. At a certain point, there is only so much that can be done for them. They say that if the Death Guard is ever killed then its victims would be allowed to die, but as no-one has ever managed to kill one this is only conjecture.


30. Family Bond (Tear)
Talia hated her family. She wanted to do what all little girls did, and go and play with her friends every day. But instead, she had to help out on the farm and do chores all day long. Carrying things, milking the cows, collecting eggs, cleaning the horses. And then when she got home, she had to help her mother prepare dinner and look after her little brothers, who didn't have to do any work because they were still too little.
One day she decided that she didn't want to do chores anymore. So when her father called her to milk the cows, she wouldn't do it. He began to shout at her, and she began to shout at him, and in a fit of rage she grabbed a painting from the wall that showed her and all of her family. She pulled on the edges, and suddenly she was in two parts, with her on one side and her family on the other.
Something changed in her father. He told her, very calmly, that if she wouldn't work, then she should leave the house and never come back. Scared by the threat, Talia did as he said. That evening, she had to prepare the meal herself, with her mother sitting alone. Then they wouldn't let her eat with them, and gave her a smaller portion. At night, they didn't tuck her into bed, and she slept separately from the others.
The next day she did her chores as usual, but it was never good enough. Her father yelled at her for being too slow or for doing it wrong, and her mother wouldn't come near her. Even her brothers avoided her.
Then on the third day, she dropped a pail of milk. It spilled all over the ground, and her father was there instantly, telling her that she was useless and that she would no longer have a place in his house. She begged and pleaded, but his eyes held no love for her, and neither did those of her mother or brothers. They cast her from the house without a penny, and left her to fend for herself.
As for what happened to Talia afterwards... well, I cannot say. Some say she died. Some say she became a great adventurer. And some know that there are far worse fates for a little girl than death. But, one thing that I can say for certain, is that she knew from then on that she had always loved her family, and wished that they would one day love her back again.

Editor's note: Well despite the horrifying nature of this story, rest assured it is merely a fable designed to teach children to do as their parents say. Simply tearing a painting is not sufficient to cause such magics, unless the parents had made some kind of deal with a devil. And even if it happened in this case, children can be rest assured that the likelihood of their parents having made a deal with a devil that attaches their love to them to a household item is such a small chance that it might as well be impossible.



31. Don't Touch the Water (Drown)
Verti knew the rule of the lake: don't touch the water. If you touched the water, you were dead; the instant the water was disturbed, a great tentacle would emerge from the water and grasp the screaming sinner, before dragging them down to drown amidst the fish.
On some days, he wondered why his people had settled on this lake in the first place. Well, technically he knew that it was to be guardians of this lake that it was sacred to The Lake Lord, but he didn't understand why The Lake Lord couldn't have chosen a significantly less murderous pond as his sacred body of water.
The people lived on the lake, on houses built of stilts. They got around by rowing, which apparently the creature didn't mind, because it didn't try and eat the boats. Just any living thing that touched the water. Only this morning his friend Sierra had accidentally brushed the water with her hand and been instantly grabbed by a tentacle.
She had thrashed and screamed and reached out to Verti for help, but he had been unable to get to her in time before she had been pulled under. A few bubbles of air that must have been forced out of her lungs broke the surface a few moments later, and then the water had been still. It had really killed Verti's good mood.
He carried his basket of crops into one of the boats and set out towards the town hall. Ahead of him, he saw children standing on a small wooden platform. They laughed as they pushed each other around, and when one of them was tipped by his friends into the water they cheered as the creature devoured him, leaving no trace. An adult, who must have been the boy's mother, looked over and shrugged before going back to what she was doing.
Verti reached the town hall and climbed from the boat. Inside was a board made up of a tally of people who had been consumed by the creature that day. It had already made it into the tens. Verti shrugged and finished his errand, before stepping outside. It was beginning to rain, and the wooden floor had already become slippery. He lost his footing and tumbled over the edge, into the water. He felt the tentacle wrap around him and pull him down, and he sighed, the last of the air expelling itself from his lungs. This really ruined his day.

Editor's note: I do not think I need to explain the fact that this story exists as propaganda against the New Gods. While I do not object to this on principal, as I am after all a firm and devoted follower of the New Gods, I am almost disappointed with the heavy-handedness of this tale. Everything, from the way this lake god seems to have no trouble with his followers being in danger (and by the way, I have not heard of this particular New God, and believe they are a fabrication of the story) to the horrifying nonchalance of the people, to the fact that no town could possibly sustain so many daily deaths, exemplifies how unsubtle this story is. However, it is popular as a story, probably due to the dark humour. And I admit, I have enjoyed such humour in the past, although perhaps my giggling fit at my great aunt's funeral when the speaker mentioned her work as a coffin connoisseur was in slightly poor taste - but as I attempted to tell my annoyed relatives, it was only funny due to the low quality of her coffin.