Caught: An Original Story by Jennifer Weigel
He set the trap and waited. He knew it would come. It was just a matter of time. The moon smiled smugly overhead, spying on him through the thick undulating clouds. Why was it taking so long? He was certain this was the spot. He fingered the soft metal band clutched in his grasp as he waited, fixated on its smooth surface.
It was only just a month prior that he and his partner were hiking in these woods, when they were attacked. He was bowled over by the beast, knocked unconscious at the edge of the path, his partner’s eyes staring back at him like saucers wide with surprise. He’d blacked out in slow motion staring into those eyes.
The moment that he came to and looked down the trail to the ravine was forever etched in his mind, the scent of blood hanging heavy in the air. His partner’s body was rendered and strewn about the chasm where the path dips down, blood flowing into the stream that trickles through the valley dividing these woods and partitioning the living from the dead…
The crime scene investigations yielded nothing.
He’d walked these trails before and heard the howling wind in the distance. It was a haunting sound that circled around from afar, impossible to pinpoint. The moon had always hung heavy here, wide, like the yawning maw of a lazy abyss that can’t be bothered to create a proper void or entrance. And yet, it had always beckoned, drawing him into its embrace like a warm and welcoming hug…
Bits of tattered yellow tape encircled several trees. Samples of dirt and fabric scraps and other detritus of the weekend hiking trip were still strewn about, still yielding nothing. Why couldn’t he remember? Spinning the ring from thumb to fingertip and back bore no further answers.
The moon skirted the clouds and stared down at him. He heard the distant wind howling around and through him. His body rippled from an unseen terror; his consciousness faded as the transformation took hold. He leapt forward, out of the way of the ravaging beast, aware again of its presence, its hot breath making the hairs at the nape of his neck stand on end. A sharp snap wracked his wrist and his hand let loose its treasure. The pain engulfed his remaining consciousness and the world around him went silent and fell into darkness.
The next morning…
The woods were abuzz with activity as the park rangers and game wardens descended upon the scene. They’d expected it to return as was typical. They always came back to the scene of the crime in the following month. But they’d never seen such a large one before, its heavy paw the size of a human hand shattered within the snap of the thick metal jaws. These “dogs” were usually smarter than this and knew to avoid these sorts of traps, which is why the rangers didn’t bother to set them anymore. The victim’s partner had been lucky it seemed… The hulking beast must have been attracted to the faint shimmer of a small circular gold band half hidden in the moss, perhaps an engagement or wedding ring. Its face was wrought with distracted helplessness as if reflecting the pain and anguish of love found, lost, and found again.
Like I said before, I’m really getting into the spirit of the season this year. So reconsidering The Mourners yet again, and haunting the faith a bit, I decided to share a poem that I wrote thinking about All Hallows Eve as a preview of more things to come this month of October.
On Becoming Hallowed
Holy. Holy. Holy. Light the candle. Chant the hymn.
For now the veil between the living and the dead grows thin.
Fingers held to lips in silence; lies beneath their skin.
Family found, ancestral ghosts return to haunt their kin.
Skeletons in closets, grotesque yearnings trapped within.
A bleached and bony face flashes a slightly knowing grin.
It’s not the shadows but the darkness that we fear therein.
Bless this Church whose saintly bodies live and dwell herein.
Unto Death, they claim to sanctify our souls from sin.
Those familiar faces shame; this fight we cannot win.
Come what may, they betray. Pray/prey and heads will spin.
Forevermore and evermore to nevermore… Amen.
I thought this poem really captured All Hallows Eve, in some of the same sentiments as the movie High Spirits, which I loved almost as much as Beetlejuice back in the day.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
So I’ve decided to revisit some of my bereaved Gothic celebrity drawings and resurrect The Mourners, since we’re in the thick of spooky season… And I’m not talking pumpkin spice, though it is nice. Maybe it’s the weather, or maybe it’s the despairing existential angst, but lately I’ve been feeling a bit haunted so I thought I’d take a trip down memory lane with you by posting a bunch of art here. So without further ado…
I wanted to focus on more of the details of the sculptures this time. The craftsmanship of these works still astounds me. When royalty commissioned such works, the artists may have devoted much of their lives to realizing these pieces to fruition. They were very time involved processes.
Here are some more details of hands and clothing that I found interesting. Remember that these sculptures are less than 12 inches tall for the whole of the human form. So they are very intricate for their size.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
The gorse bush seemed taken aback. It bristled and exclaimed, “A bush!”
“I am so very sorry, my Lord, I can explain,” the goblin cleric bowed in reverence, eyes glued to the ground. Everything about his body language was submissive and nervous.
“Of all the useless… How is it that I got reincarnated as a bush?!” The shrubbery prickled, growing more and more agitated. “I should have come back as a great King, or an Angel, or a Demon, or a dragon, or something even grander… Hell, I’d have settled for returning as the undead Lich King Tyrant Boss-Man you all came to know and love and revere. But no, that wasn’t in the dice. And now here I am, A Bush!” The spiky leaves trembled and rustled as they spoke, both emphasizing and decrying their verdant stature.
“Well, we were in a rush to revive you, after that run in with the goody-two-shoes 20th level adventurers and the awkward retreat,” the goblin knelt before the bramble-vine. “All of our best clerics, necromancers, and acolytes were tapped for spells or had perished in the great battle. Those of us who got out of the caves were lucky to escape with our lives and make it to this little clearing on the mountainside. And we desperately needed your guidance. We still do…”
“That doesn’t explain why I’m a bush now,” the gorse stretched to its full height, about two-and-a-half feet of thorny rage. “And a Gorse Bush at that! Before too long I’ll have a stand of satyrs piping along with a centaur drum circle, all strumming up some fertility ritual at my feet… er, roots…”
“Well, I’m multi-disciplinary you know.” The goblin spell-caster muttered and meekly shifted to his other foot, bracing for the inevitable, “Sometimes I get the cleric and druid magics confused a little.”
“Confused a little?” the bush growled, “Confused A Little?!” The bush’s rage turned to magic as it burst into flames. “I’m A BUSH!!! That’s not just some modest little cleric-druid spell translation issue!”
The goblin shrunk from the blaze, “But my Lord, you are a mighty bush. The greatest bush, really terrific… The gorsiest, bushiest bush in all of shrub-dom… Other bushes? Losers! We all agree, your Lordship.” The trembling goblin horde in the scrubland shadows at the edge of the small clearing nodded emphatically in response, fearing their bushy leader’s wrath. And rightfully so…
A tongue of flame erupted like a lightning bolt from the gorse and zapped the goblin cleric-druid where he stood, leaving nothing but a smattering of ashes drifting towards the ground. The flame erupted through the goblin horde in a huge explosion that engulfed everything in its wake, leaving a circle of scorched earth covered in a fine layer of sooty ash, smelling a bit like cordite.
The bush sighed and took note of its surroundings, sulking. It waited for some would-be adventurer to wander up the mountainside to find it there, where they could revel in its awkward awesomeness. Seasons came and went, and time seemed to stand still for nigh eternity as the gorse bush seethed beneath its crown of thorny brambles. Perhaps it should have convinced the goblin cleric to transplant it to a more trafficked location first.
If you enjoyed that bit of snarky fantasy, check out Ppppffffttt my previous Poised Potion Poison Potential story.
And feel free to check out more of Jennifer Weigel’s work here on Haunted MTL or on her writing, fine art, and conceptual projects websites.
