Upon the polished tiles of alabaster marble glided a figure gaunt and garbed quaintly. The bleak hallway of opaque white lingered into a coiling miasma of black –- infinitely cold and eddying in its pitchy depths. The odd décor of arabesque patterns upon the papered walls gleamed whitewashed beneath the moonlight, which spilled forth from casements draped in blood red. Through these windows, dusty parapets rose ominously against the pink sky, their blackened faces looming over vacant battlements in silent vigil. Hills blanketed in dense wood rolled beyond a stone bulwark, and at their edge sat a small town glowing dimly in the growing light.

Augustine’s passage through the ghastly corridor produced upon the cold marble floor an unnerving serpentine slithering. The starkness of his black robe hypnotically coalesced into the shadows. He passed tall portals of dark wood lacquered unsparingly with mephitic oils, and stone daises whose glassy surfaces reflected the sputtering sconces, dim flames tossing luridly in the musty darkness. Upon each dais sat an odd figurine or statuette; artifacts carved intricately of ivory or pristine obsidian, resembling those things which the mind can conceive only in the darkest of nightmares. Oily portraits of noblemen grinned at his passing; their fragile vampiric countenances suggesting a time long ago. In the lofty heights of the rustic ceiling were folding stone faces and wooden girders veiled in cobwebs and the dust of time.

Augustine approached a dark portal lacquered heavily with pungent oil and ornamented by a charm of silver, encrusted with a profound ruby of sharpest red. He placed his hand upon its curved handle, pausing briefly to breathe deeply the peculiar odor. The bitterness of a half century fooled his senses as a knave of time’s breadth. He heard faintly a discordant ringing of gothic bells from another chamber and then a queer chant accompanied by an evil plucking of lute strings. His thin lips melted into a tight line and he entered the room.

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It destroys a family, this kind of winter. Towns have a long memory — the Falls especially, though the memories of people are mercifully (or unfortunately) short. In a little less than seven months he and his mother and sister will move away, at the onset of what will be called the Ethylor summer. That season will be remembered.

But no one will remember this winter. Not even him. He is still a child, only in second grade, and while he will dream about this for years to come, he will not remember. The thoughts will tumble out of his mind shortly after they move across the river into Ohio.

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1

Darkness descended on Avery like waves. She watched it dance and shift on the walls of her bedroom, growing darker and darker the longer she watched it. The shapes undulated and swam never keeping a form for longer than a second. Sometimes she could recognize the shape. A person. A bat. Other.

People recognize patterns. That is what the eyes do. That is what makes art something than just a series of lines and colors. A TV show more than a splatter of dots. We find patterns everywhere. A fluffy bunny floating down a lazy path in the sky. A face in wooden paneling. Nothing new. Nothing strange. Just something the brain does to make sense of the world and to comfort itself.

But what was ever comforting and sense-making about the shapes on the wall?

Avery rolled over and pressed against her boyfriend’s naked back. She hated the feel of it. She had heard before that we choose our mates by scent. His smell nauseated her. She wondered if she should wake him up before her mom got home. She wondered if she even cared anymore.

She closed her eyes, and the shapes kept dancing on the backs of her eyelids.

2

Her mother didn’t care about Mike staying over. Or didn’t notice. Or just never came home. It wouldn’t be the first time.

They walked hand in hand through Lower Alethia not making eye contact, because that seemed like the thing to do. The eyes are the window of the soul. Also the first thing to decay. It had occurred to Avery that Alethia would have been the town’s eyes.

They climbed a tree in front of the parking garage and skipped pebbles over the hoods of oncoming cars. No school today to fill the void. So today’s agenda was petty vandalism and pot.

Mike launched a stone. It crunched into the passenger side window of a passing Lincoln. A corner of the glass spider webbed into tiny squares. The car halt to a halt with a piercing screech.

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There are no wolves in the Stillwood.

The gray wolves of Virginia were made extinct over a hundred years ago. According to the regular surveys by the National Forestry service, no sign of any such animal has been found since 1900. The occasional reports of large predators, just after dusk or late at night, usually by the occasional hiker or party of campers in the Stillwood (residents of Lower Alethia, nearest the woods like myself, know better than to try), receive the same tired reply from Animal Control.

“There are no wolves in the Stillwood.”

When a pet gets lost in the dark of the Stillwood and never returns… or worse is found, mauled, the blame falls on the usual suspects: foxes, wild dogs or teenagers with too much time and too little compassion. A few years back, when the Bradleys, a little family brand new to the Falls, had their boy David go missing from their own backyard, never finding more than scraps of his jacket and a little blood at the edge of the forest, the official response was adamant: this was a kidnapping, not an animal attack. Old-timers like me just shook our heads and muttered to ourselves:

“There are no wolves in the Stillwood.”

So, if you want to sleep at night this close to the forest, keep your doors locked tight and your shutters closed fast, if just to buy some peace of mind, to stop you from catching a glimpse of the Stillwood late at night. And should you somehow find yourself walking near, or God forbid through, the woods some evening, head home as quick as you can. Try to ignore the sounds of the night wind, howling as it does… it will only make your imagination run wild, after all. And should you see what cannot be polychrome eyes, shining through the mists from the underbrush or somehow in the branches above, or even through your gauze of your windows should you be blessed enough to make it safely home, take what comfort you can in this thought.

There are no wolves in the Stillwood.

Excerpt from “Displaced Gods: Mythology Connections Amongst Forgotten Peoples,” Dr. James W. Heyer; Bristol Press, St. John’s Fields, 1917

Of an interesting parallel between certain vanished African, Inuit, and Asian native groups, is a creation story gathered from the oral tradition of the Moneton tribe in West Virginia; where this creation story breaks from the others, however, is that it seems not a world- and mankind-creation story, but a very geographic- and tribe- specific location. Another way it differs from the others in the “Shining One” arc, is that it makes little mention of Shining One’s people or home (which in other stories, is always mentioned as being ‘above the clouds,’ or ‘beyond the moon’ [Kleiner, 1903]).

Little is known of the Moneton, save for isolated instances of trading “pelts of strange and curious nature” [Alvord, 1911], and having what local legend described as a “curious and hesitant nature — uneasy was their approach, and always did they seem to listen for sounds unheard” [Bidgood and Heyer, 1909].

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Carl woke up, his eyes opening in darkness. He blinked once and then looked out the window. In the dim light of early morning, he could see snow falling in clumps and dizzy swirls. He turned his head to the side and looked at his clock. 6:00 AM. Far too early to be up. A faint flicker in his subconscious as he remembered… something. Something had woken him up.

He lay there, his mind working in sluggish turns, trying to remember a half-forgotten dream. He shivered a bit. In spite of the heater, it was chilly and goosebumps had risen on his arms. He blew out an experimental breath and saw a pale cloud. Christ, there had to be a window open somewhere or maybe he’d left open the front door when he came back.

cold

He sat up now, the sleepmud that clogged his mind falling away rapidly. The voice, the slight whisper, that’s what had woken him up.

cold

But it wasn’t a dream, he could still hear it. So quiet, so still that it was almost imagined, but it was there. A whispered voice as substantial as breath.

so cold

He looked around the room, his eyes trying to make sense of the dark forms around him, trying to see if there was someone there. But there wasn’t. There couldn’t be. He looked at the pillow that lay next to his own, as though expecting her to be there, but she wasn’t. He even lay his hand on that empty side, to see if there was some trace of warmth. But there was just a chill.

He released a shuddering breath and saw it caught upon the air, watched as it hung suspended and then faded.

so cold

A hand stroked his cheek and he pulled away from it. His skin tingled from the touch, but it had not been warm. Phantom fingers that were steel and stone and ice and drew the warmth from him.

It sounded like her. So much like her. He couldn’t move, just waited to see if he could hear her again, knowing that it was her.

i’m so cold

And again invisible hands touched his face, plaintive and lingering. He recoiled from them, his skin numb from that lingering caress.

He realized he was holding his breath and he let it out in a shiver. It stayed in front of him and hovered there and Carl swore he could see a face, briefly, quickly and then it was gone. Grey eyes, grey skin, grey lips formed in vapor. Such a brief glimmer but he knew the face, had seen it beside him every night for the last ten years. Every night except for the last. And now she was gone.

carl, i’m so cold

His heart beat out a staccato rhythm and he shuddered. His hands shook and his teeth chattered. The water in glass on the end table next to his bed had frozen over. Even the beads of condensation had frozen, small glass tears clung to the glass.

The hands again, holding the sides of his face. At first, that same light touch. But as he tried to pull away, they began to grip, hard and steely. He tried to free himself, to break away, to get away from the cold. His face went numb and his breath came out in rapid pants.

The face appeared again in the whorls. Her eyes staring at him and her lips parted.

carl, i’m so cold

He could see more details. That one hair that always hung in her face, even when it was in a ponytail. The small scar on her chin. The small, round hole right above her left eye.

She leaned forward, still holding his head and he let out a long low moan.

carl, i’m so cold

She kissed him. His lips cracked and froze. His eyes glazed over with frost. And deep within his chest, his heart labored to beat solid blood and then his heart turned to crystal.

He was so cold.

I stare into the fire and I refuse to look away. There is something trance inducing about the way fire moves. It flickers, darts, licking and catching. I keep looking into the fire ignoring the shadows gathering around me. I have to ignore them. I’ve got to finish this.

I couldn’t tell you when all of this started. Some days it feels like centuries could have passed, that empires might have risen and fallen. So much time has passed…

I had just started working at the high school. I was just one more English teacher thrown into the mix to replace one who had retired the year before. An interchangeable part to teach the basic mechanics of grammar and that godawful Ethan Frome. The sadist who stuck that one into the curriculum deserves to be hanged.

But I don’t want to talk about the job. That’s not what’s important now. Hell, it wasn’t even important then.

It was just work, something to pay the bills while I tried to get my writing off the ground. Inside every English teacher lurks a writer, either failed or just starting out. I worked during the day trying to get sullen teens to appreciate books that I could barely stand and then came home to face crippling writer’s block.

I wasn’t very happy.

After the first week of school, I was drained. The last thing I wanted to do was write. But that Friday I sat at my desk at home and stared at that white screen, willing the words to appear. And nothing happened. Nothing happened. Nothing happened.

“Fuck it.”

(continue reading…)

Found within the folds of a brittle, yellowing newspaper:

Ichor Falls Sentinel, January 26,  1948
Ichor Falls, West Virginia
Stillwood: A brief survey of the case; dated the twenty-first of November, 1946.

Stillwood, a dark reach of nature’s grasping hand, storied by local legend, sapped the public interest in what came to be a singularly grim November month, during the waning days of the year nineteen forty-six. The primordial trees and curious thickets shone vaguely through an almost tangible mist -– crooked silhouettes of hunched copses waited patiently, conspiring against those who should enter their centred domain. The collection of gnarled trees, standing gaunt in their lofty heights, and the dwarfed coppices crowded about their grasping roots, illustrated the wretched wood; and the lurid presence of Stillwood was altogether unbearable.

At the turn of the month, the townsfolk, determined about their labours, and given to neglecting “unnecessary interest,” heeded little this daemonic manifestation; until later, approaching the advent of the following month, attention was brought about the first isolated cases of a controversial illness; caused by chemical exposure to a secondary compound, Ethylor, found in the sealants and varnishes commonly used to treat the inordinately brittle wood harvested from the outer thickets.

(continue reading…)

Ichor Falls isn’t exactly what I like to call my dream town.

As if the name of this place wasn’t bad enough already the college kids who come in from Maple Grove University call it The Ick. Almost everyday the town is submerged in mist, and the clear days (technically they’re only clearer) always happen to be when I’m at work. The constant fog is so bad I can’t go out on a drive and enjoy myself without the fear of hitting a deer, or worse, a person. Even the simple act of having a barbeque in this town seems depressing. I usually spent my weekends trapped inside the house, only venturing out to go shopping downtown.

On one of these Saturdays I was sitting at home and reading a book. I’m usually more of a TV man, but I had the audacity to challenge the fog and buy a satellite dish. The reception was pretty poor and I still hadn’t made the change over to cable. After only a few minutes of reading, a knock came at my door.

I haven’t had any guests since I moved in, not even neighbors. I made my way through the house and peered out the window. To my surprise, an old man wearing clerical vestments was standing on the doorstep. He had a bible in one hand, and a crucifix was dangling from around his neck — a Catholic priest by the look of him. I wished he would go away, but I decided to answer the door. Better to rip it off like a band-aid and get it over with, rather than have him interrupt me again later.

“Hello,” I said as I opened the door. “What can I do for you?”

“My name is Father Thomas Caldwell. May I come in, sir?”

I didn’t want him to. “Sure.” I led him into the living room and offered him a seat. He took it with a smile. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thank you. May I ask what religion you belong to?” Looks like he was getting straight to the point at least.

“Well, I’m a non-practicing Catholic. I haven’t gone to church since high school.” The father’s genial mood didn’t waver at this.

“On behalf of the congregation of St. George’s Parish, I extend an invitation for you to join us at mass tomorrow morning.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m not what you’d call a firm believer.”

“I implore you to reconsider. Some of the other… religions in town can be a bit more… persistent about obtaining new members. They wouldn’t bother you if you belonged to a church such as ours.”

“What, do you have a particularly bad case of Jehovah’s Witnesses around here?”

“You could say that.”

I just wanted him to be out of my house so I could get back to my book. “I’ll think about it, Father. I don’t think I should make a decision like that without serious thought.” I hoped he bought it.

“Indeed. I pray we see you there tomorrow.” He was sold! We shook hands and I showed him out. With the door safely sealed, I ran back to my reading chair.

As soon as I sat down there was another knock at the door.

Who could this be… ?

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(continue reading…)