I cherish no illusions that this
account will find me alive when the sun finally does come up, but I must write
down what I have seen. This wild place has already taken so much from me, I
cannot allow this, too, to die in the muck and filth of this lonely frontier
town.
It began only this evening. One of
the men at Molly Parker’s boarding house had just come back from a week’s sojourn around a northern
bend in the creek. There were nuggets out that way, he’d said, bigger than any
yet discovered so close to the town. Men warned him of the curses and traps
laid that far north by the hostiles still refusing to share their land, but he
went anyways. Honestly, none thought too deeply on the matter. Men get
desperate and wander off every day out here. One fewer men means two fewer
hands sifting the silt and bog for what might be your ticket home.
While he was gone, Ma took sick. I
found her on the floor beside the fire, clammy to the touch, eyes blank and
staring at the ceiling. She was mumbling something about how we should all
atone for the sins we have brought to this land, or The Punishment would come.
She kept saying that–The Punishment–as if it carried meaning of a particular
nature not just to herself but to anyone within earshot. My mother was a
righteous woman, but her righteousness came from a love for our Lord and
saviour, never from the fear of punishment that awaits those who do not heed
the Word. The doctor said it was a fever and to keep her bed away from the rest
of us.
Not two days later, Ma passed in her
sleep, and the man from Parker’s House came back with empty pockets and a fever
of his own. They took him to the boarding house, but one look at his sallow
skin and sunken eyes and Miss Parker ordered he be taken away. ‘I’ve enough of
a struggle as it is without his cursed soul comin’ down upon me,’ she could be
heard hollerin’ from the other end of town.
They took him to the Church of the
Charitable Brothers and gave him a space behind the lectern to sleep and
recover his strength. His feet were rotten near to the bone, and a doctor was
ordered to amputate them. Foot rot is a common plague for the men of these
parts, but to hear the doctor describe it, it was as if the flesh had been
eaten clean off his toes, leaving naught but splintered, white fragments of
bone for him to walk home on.
I was at home with the chaplain,
arranging Ma’s service when I heard the first of the screams. It being
Saturday, we took it at first to be naught but the usual weekend revelry to
which our countrymen were so inclined. A moment later, though, the sound of
gunshots drew our discussion out into the yard to see what the commotion could
be.
Women were screaming and men loading
shot with clumsy, half-frozen hands. The church was half-burnt already,
belching smoke and flames into the night sky. I looked about for the bucket
chain that always attended such fires, but there was none.
“Why aren’t they putting it out?” I
shouted to the priest, as if his knowledge could exceed my own, having been
similarly occupied until a moment ago. But he offered no explanation. He just
stared with his jaw agape and his eyes as wide and full of terror as if he were
looking into the bowels of Hell itself.
“The church,” was all he said.
“Yes, I know, but–” I let it go and
ran towards the inferno. Whatever help the man might have offered on Sundays
apparently did not extend to emergencies such as this.
As if in apology for the fire, a
vicious rain kicked up from above, pounding the buildings and all assembled in
the streets with frigid, furious fingers. A cheer went up among those
assembled, but a few men nearest the building were shouting and waving their
arms as if to push everyone back.
“Get away from here!” I heard one of
them shout. “It’s not just the fire, there’s a man in there! A demon!”
“‘Tis true!” Another man shouted. “I
saw him with me own eyes! He weren’t right, he–”
A beam fell behind them, taking with
it the holy cross stationed above the door. A shower of sparks exploded behind
the men and raced to disappear into the air as the cross caught fire and began
to burn.
And that’s when I saw him, stumbling
from the smouldering ruin of our house of worship. His hair had been burned
from his scalp, as had most of the clothes on his body. His skin was melting in
impossible, waxy rivulets from his jaw and the tips of his hands, landing with
a hiss in the flames. His legs, cut clean away only that day, were half-height,
bearing him forward as if he were on his knees. Yet still he came towards us,
as if the cuts and the flames hurt not the least, and the only impediment to
his egress was the fallen beams barricading his path.
As he reached the road, several men
fired their guns. The explosion was deafening, erupting so close to my ears. I
saw that several shots hit him square in the chest and head, by the way he
twisted backwards, as if slapped. But they did not stop him. He kept coming at
us, bellowing this terrible moan. As long as I live, I shall not forget the
sound that came from that man. As if all the demons of Hell were arranged in a chorus
and told to raise their voices to an unholy A minor.
The crowd backed slowly away, but
the streets were only so wide, and there was only so much space to fill. One of
the women standing downhill turned suddenly and began to run. The man jerked to
the side, watching her go, and then, with an unholy pace of which I would not
have thought him capable, he raced after her, throwing sparks from his clothes
as he ran. Some of the sparks landed in the grass outside the other buildings,
and began to light.
But it was not those early signs of
our town’s destruction that drew our attention. Standing quite helpless and
frozen where we were, we watched as the man from the church threw himself upon
the woman like any hungry predator upon its prey.
The woman shrieked and fell to the
earth in a fiery swirl of skirts and pantaloons. The man upon her back had
ceased moaning and instead taken up the desperate, insane chomping and biting
sounds of a frenzied pack of wolves dismantling a fallen quarry.
The woman’s shrieks subsided within
seconds, but it was an eternity to those listening. Flesh was torn from bone
and tossed aside in the mindless feeding frenzy the man now brought against her
body.
In a breath it was over, and the man
rose to a standing position beside the woman. Another shot was fired at the
beast, but it was as ineffective as its predecessors.
The man stared at us through
unseeing eyes. His face dripped blood and flesh as the unearthly white of his
skull, now fully exposed, shone in the moonlight.
He fell, then, flat on the ground as
if leveled by some divine hand.
No one spoke. No one moved a muscle.
The woman beside him lay quite
still, dribbling warm, steaming blood onto the muddy street around her.
A man broke from the crowd and took
a few cautious steps towards her. I could make out in the flickering light that
it was our Baker, Mr. Thomson. No one seemed to notice or care that two more
buildings had begun to smoke and burn. The rain pounded our bodies, as if angry
with us. Our hair and clothes hung about us in damp sheets, pouring off of our
bodies as the burnings man’s flesh had done only moments before.
Naught five steps had the baker
taken towards the woman and man lying dead in the street, when the woman began
to stir. Not as a sleeping, broken body would stir, though, but abruptly and
with great purpose. Leaping to her feet, the woman turned towards us with blank
and crazy eyes. Her jaw was broken, and it hung slack, a few inches too low.
She was rigid, jerking here and there to take in the burning buildings, the
rain, and us, as if seeing all for the first time.
She bellowed, then, with a sound at
least as unholy as anything that had sprung from the burning man. Then she ran
towards the baker. The man hardly had taken a step when she landed upon him and
tore out his throat. His screams were silenced as quickly as they came, though
his arms and legs thrashed desperately as he tried to throw her off.
Most of us still stood where we’d
been, completely transfixed by the scene unfolding before us. Though I could
hear some in the back beginning to pull away, running desperately towards
whatever shelter might exist that could keep these demons out.
A moment later, the woman leaped
from the man and dove towards another woman near the edge of the crowd. I
didn’t wait to see what happened to her, but I could guess by the screams, and
the sickening snap of bones being broken.
As I reached the edge of town, I
turned back in time to see the woman’s first victim rise to his feet as she had
done only a moment before.
My mind was all white with panic as
I reached our house. Pa wasn’t there, but I didn’t expect him to be. He would
have been at the river all day, and in the pub for the remainder, eager to
spend the spoils of whatever flakes he’d found.
I grabbed a lantern and a quilt and
stuffed them into Pa’s satchel. The screams were so loud outside my door, I held
my breath waiting for the door to burst inwards and all the demons to spill
into my kitchen. But none came.
I peeked outside at the desperate
mob down the street. Men and women fell upon each other in shrieking, writhing
piles of flesh and fear as the rain turned the streets to mud, but seemed to
ignore the burning buildings. Six buildings, I could see, were now ablaze, and
the whole of the town was illuminated with ungodly clarity.
I turned and ran north along the
road, away from the fray. The town had never been home to me, but it had been
my residence these last eighteen months, and to see it descend into such fiery
confusion and calamity was, I’ll admit, almost too heartbreaking to behold. Not
the least of which being that it was the only establishment for fifty miles in
any direction, and were I to survive the night, I would need to start walking.
The bush was thick, but I didn’t
want to be seen on the road. Surely the residents of the ruined town would take
to the roads when the easy prey was exhausted, and I didn’t want to give my
body too easily to their ravenous need.
I picked my way as quickly as I
could over the rocks and fallen limbs, but after a while I could go no further,
and I made my way down to the creek to walk in the water. I recoiled at the
hideous cold of the water, but it was by far the most level of places to walk,
and I was getting tired.
The current crept steadily upwards
as I made my way along. The rocks were slippery and I lost my balance more than
once, but I pressed on; with the horrors behind me still so fresh in my mind,
what choice did I have?
Naught ten minutes later, though, a
particular fall brought my head beneath the surface, and I lost my footing. I
tumbled backwards perhaps a hundred yards before smashing against a log jam. As
I kicked to gain purchase, my right foot became lodged between two boulders,
and I felt a sickening crunch as the current pushed me sideways and snapped my
ankle like a twig.
I howled in pain, but thankfully my
head was still beneath the surface of the water. I’d no idea as to the auditory
acuity of the devils back in town, but surely they wouldn’t have heard the
submerged shouts of a drowning girl.
I loosed my ankle and struggled
towards the nearest riverbank. My satchel, as if by some miracle, had not come
undone, and I had a lantern to see by once it had dried out a bit.
A rocky overhang no longer than my
own body jutted from the mountainside, and it was beneath that overhang that I
dragged my broken body to wait out the night.
The seconds ticked incessantly
onwards, pecking at my damp flesh like hungry mosquitoes. I listened with all
my strength, partly to draw my attention away from the pain in my leg, and
partly to listen for the ravenous horrors that were once my countrymen.
Every second that passed had me
believing I could hear them coming, but none appeared.
I dug in my father’s satchel for
food or tools or anything useful, but found only a damp piece of parchment, a
pen, and a pot of ink. Whatever the next day was to bring, I could hardly
imagine it would be pleasant for me.
I blew softly on the paper, praying
for it to dry. The breeze had begun to pick up, as it usually did just before
sunrise, but even through the rattling leaves, I could hear limbs cracking and
voices moaning. They were distant, but undeniable.
I don’t know what value this written
account will hold for anyone who finds it. I can’t imagine anyone making it
this far north without first being accosted by the demonic men and women who
once waved good morning to me and sold me bread and eggs. I hope the lust for
gold dies down and people cease to come this way, but I can’t imagine it will.
The need for wealth is a deep one, and I can easily imagine wave after wave of
fodder making its way up here to meet its messy end and add bodies to the
hoarde.
Perhaps the natives of this area
will find this account first, but I doubt it will hold much value for them. We
speak different languages, them and us, and I can’t see this paper serving any
purpose beyond tinder.
Oh Lord, I can see them now–three
men and a woman staring at me from across the water. They seem unsure how to
cross the river. They keep falling in the current, but they’re still coming. I
can’t think of a way to stop them. I’ve
searched the surrounding area for anything to defend myself and have
found only a sharp stone. If it were a rabbit descending upon me, I might have
had a chance. But these demons are a far cry from rabbits. Perhaps just as
mindless, but capable. My God, are they capable.
I beseech You, oh Lord, to save my soul. I offer my love and apologize for all my sins. I apologize for the sins of my countrymen, and I beg that you might forgive our kind. If this to be the final reckoning, I suppose my words hold little value. What else can I do, though, but plead? I can’t reverse the whole course of our hunger. But you made us, after all. You made us hungry.
This author has not provided a photo.
Brianna Ferguson is a poet, short story writer and music journalist from British Columbia. Her writing has appeared in various publications across North America and the U.K. including Minola Review, Jokes Review, and Outlook Springs
Tripped out… in case you just couldn’t get enough of Everything Everywhere All at Once and the return of the infinite bagel with EVERYTHING on it…
Tripped Out motivational poster
Artwork description: kaleidoscopic image of pink hairy horror (This is actually a fink fuzzy frond plant not unlike a Cockscomb but with longer thinner flowering feelers rather than the fuller protuberances you see on a full-bodied Cockscomb plant. I have no idea what it was, but it was very odd so I had to snap a photo.)
Image text reads:Mixing Magic Mushrooms & Peyote Just remember: once you open that Pandora’s box, you’re never going to get the pink hairy tarantulas back in it…
Tripped Out seeing eye god sunflower
Artwork description: kaleidoscopic sunflower backlit by the sun with text and rainbow eye overlay
Image text reads: Eye See You Eye See All (in circle text so you can start and end reading wherever). In an ideal context this would be printed in the bottom of your tea mug or on a record that can slowly spin.
An Elven portal in the woods, emerging from stone and forest floor.
I had heard tale that The Elves dwell in these woods. Many underestimate The Elves; they have a fondness of heart for Tolkienesque Middle Earth fantasy stories and tales where Elves are the most highly civilized, virtuous and intelligent. They forget that those are just myths, save for The Elves being cunning. Remember that the Pied Piper was an Elf, and the children he took were not destined for such a glorious fate.
My sister lost her firstborn to The Elves. She hadn’t noticed the Changeling until it was too late. Her baby had already long since been stolen away. She was so distraught she refused to eat or speak. She locked herself in her room. Or my family locked her into it as she succumbed to the madness. Such are the ways of the family, for all of our protection. We never question but follow as expected, as a means of self-preservation. It has kept us all alive.
But I couldn’t get the sinking feeling out of my stomach; the grief became too overwhelming. That is why I came here. I know I will not be able to rescue the child, nor my sister. But I seek to avenge their meaningless deaths. To ensure that it doesn’t happen again. My family will never act. I am tired of the Village Elders just shrugging these things off in hushed whispers and badly shrouded secrets. It happens time and again. We are all expendable. They never do anything.
So here I am, in the Elven wood. Alone. As soon as my family figures out that I’m here, they will disown me. They probably already have. Again, it is for our own protection. I’ll be just another casualty of The Elves. Everything is so structured, so regimented. Anyone who dares act in opposition to the rules vanishes. We are all so afraid.
I lay in wait. It’s just a matter of time before the portal appears. The Elves use the portals to travel across time and space. They appear where and when they wish. But this time, I will go through first. I know not what is on the other side, just that the portals allow only one to traverse in each direction. We will trade places, if only for a moment until another portal forms. Hopefully that will be enough time.
The trees shift and morph. Falling leaves drift slower and slower towards the ground. There is a stillness that I cannot fully express. My breath hangs heavy in the silent air. There is no sound, no smell, no taste. It is time. The hairs on the back of my neck and arms rise. I can sense the opening forming. There is an uncanny familiarity in this moment, as if I have been here before.
As soon as the portal opens, I dash through. But something isn’t right. No one came through from the other side. Or did they? I cannot tell. I am alone, in limbo between states of existence. The world spins around me. I can feel the drift. Is this what death feels like? Cold unbroken silence? I feel distant eyes upon me everywhere, all around me, in the trees, the clouds, pinpoints of light that shimmer through.
I can feel The Elves eyes upon me everywhere. In the leaves, in the trees themselves.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. Maybe this is all according to plan. But who was orchestrating the exchange? My idea was only half formed in those passing pensive moments I am able to think for myself, few and far between. My family, the Village Elders… no one allows time for freeform thought. I hadn’t considered what would happen after the portal exchange. I never really got past step one.
A voice greets me from the trees. It is hauntingly familiar but seems only a distant memory.
“I’ve been expecting you.”
The world slowly comes into focus. Clarity restored, the leaves circle me in an embrace. My sister emerges, her dark eyes smiling. She cradles the baby in her arms.
“You made it. You escaped,” she sings.
“I didn’t see anyone,” I retort, skeptical. I hadn’t recalled having seen any Elves, dark nightmarish fiends that they are, wild, unkempt, uncouth. Savage beasts like Pan or Krampus. Is this an illusion? My sister seems so lifelike, so much herself. She is the joyful young mother I had known her to be. Filled with love and laughter. Light dances about her, and she shimmers.
“Not in passing,” my sister clarifies. “You have been living among them your whole life. I had done so as well until the baby was stolen. My heart broke; I had to follow after. That was when I learned the Truth.”
“Why do you think we are so sheltered? Why are we forbidden to do anything? They do so to protect us from the Truth about who and what we are,” she continued. “We’ve spent our lives evading that which we truly know ourselves to be. We were the stolen ones, not the other way around…”
I notice that the portal I came through is still open, reinforcing my idea that no one had passed through the other way. It is as if the portal was opened specifically to call me through. My sister extends her hand, beckoning me to join her. There is a gleam in her eye I cannot pinpoint. She seems happy, but something still isn’t quite right. I’m still uncertain why I am here, in this time and place, as if destined to be present in this moment, in this decision.
The Village has fallen away to the woods. There are no breadcrumb trails to follow home. The idea of home itself seems distant like yet another illusion. Nothing makes sense anymore. I am unsure whether I am coming or going. Two paths lay open before me. Which shall I take?
I have been getting ready for a jewelry show in February and thought I’d share some of the fun eye candy necklaces I’ve been working on. Do they thwart or attract the Evil Eye? I think that depends largely on the wearer’s intentions… Each is hand-beaded and features a spooky printed eyeball pendant as its focus.
And the piece de resistance… A RAINBOW Evil Eye necklace with magnesite stone skulls! I love these happy little deadheads – they are just too spoopy… I have seen these beads ranging in size from very small to huge and I love all of them.
Eye Candy Necklace by Jennifer Weigel with rainbow Evil Eye and magnesite stone skulls
I love using eyes in art in weird and unusual contexts in my art. They have so much presence and symbolism. They also bring a sort of surreal atmosphere to any artwork, which bears just a hint of spookiness regardless of context.
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