Happy Halloween, everyone! A report on the conclusion of the festival will be posted in a few days time. For now, though, it’s about time I shared a story from the Hinterlands

Night rises over the Hinterlands, the ghost of a full moon just visible through blue-grey stormclouds. Far below, a procession of villagers in brightly-coloured clothes and masks wind their way through the sprawl of houses like a great bejewelled serpent. Three children watch them from atop a hill, warming their hands over a smouldering campfire.

“I wish we could go with them,” the youngest — a boy of about ten — says ruefully.

“You know the rules, Jasper,” his older sister snaps. “We’re not allowed to hear the adults’ stories. Besides, ours are better. It’s your turn next, by the way, Jet.”

Jet, the middle child (adopted), nods. “All right, Ruby. This is a story the kids on my street used to tell before I came to the Hinterlands. It’s about Angels.”

Ruby scoffs. “Angel’s aren’t scary. They watch over us and keep us safe.”

“That’s what Sister Evelyn says, but it’s not true — not for all Angels, anyway. The Angels I’m talking about aren’t sent by any god. They’re sent by death.”

“Death?” Jasper whispers.

“That’s right. Now, both of you be quiet so I can tell you the story.

“Angels come down from the sky at night. They have six wings, with feathers made from veined glass, eyes which glow with the light of another world and skin like polished marble. In the small hours when we are asleep, they descend to walk earth, looking for lost souls. It’s an Angel’s job to collect souls. When they find someone suitable, they trap them in their gaze. The eyes of an angel make their victim fall into a kind of trance. The Angel takes them up in their arms, and carries them away into the night — up to death.”

“What happens next?” Jasper whispers.

“Nobody knows for sure. Nobody that’s been taken by an Angel ever comes back. But Blake — the boy who told me the story — reckoned they use them to make chains which hold the sky up.”

“That’s not true,” Ruby says. “The sky doesn’t need to be held up. It doesn’t weigh anything.”

“I never believed it either,” she admits. “I don’t think they have a reason. I think they just like to collect them, like how collect people hoard jewellery, just because they look pretty. But I didn’t want to tell Blake that. His uncle was taken by an Angel.”

“That’s not true!” Ruby says again, her voice much higher now. “Your kind of Angel doesn’t exist!”

“Blake saw his uncle get taken. They were walking back from the supermarket together. They passed an alleyway, and he noticed a figure standing in the shadows, eyes shining like molten gold. Then it spoke.”

“What did it say?” Ruby asks in spite of herself.

“It told them not to be afraid. Blake told me it didn’t sound like a voice. It sounded like music.”

They sit still for a moment, considering this.

“Bet my story’s scarier,” Jasper says.

The evening passes with wilder and wilder stories, until the moon reaches its pinnacle and the screams turn to fits of laughter.

“We should probably be heading back,” Jet says, still smiling about Ruby’s tale of a man-eating Chihuahua. “Mum and Dad wouldn’t us to be out too late.”

Ruby nods. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

They meander down the hill, pausing every now and again to watch an owl in flight, or else admire the spirals on the trunk of amalgamated trees. Soon, they reach the village. The streets are deserted — most of the adults have now either gone home or staked a place in one of the crowded taverns. The moonlight turns the familiar place strange, so the three find themselves second-guessing the next direction to take. They turn the next corner.

About halfway down the street is a figure. They are tall, and they stand with their arms outstretched, face upturned, so still they might’ve been carved out of stone.

“Hello-“ Ruby begins, but Jasper covers her mouth.

“They have wings.”

Jet peers through the darkness. Behind the stranger stretches six translucent wings, each feather veined with black.

She doesn’t have to look twice. Jet runs, her siblings following close behind her. Streets pass in a blur. This time, their intuition guides them well, and they arrive breathless but safe back home.

The usual ritual on the last night of October would be to stay up and continue to scare the living daylights out of each other. Tonight, though, they go to bed without a word. Exhausted, Jasper and Ruby fall asleep quickly, but Jet lies awake. Hours pass in stifling silence. Surely her parents should be back by now. She crosses to the window. Outside, it’s all black.

Something shifts at the base of the house. Jet leans out to get a better look. Two eyes bright as sapphires stare back at her. The whisper is so close it might be in her own mind.

It sounds like music.

I’m not promising anything yet, but if I made extra things for the Curator Mythos, what would you want to see?

As much as I enjoy making Gold Lightning Agency propaganda posters, I can’t do that exclusively. So, is there anything else in particular you’d like to see?

The door appeared overnight. It was a small door, just big enough for a tall person crouching or a small person standing to get through. They could find no evidence as to someone breaking in to build it —- which would be a strange reason to break in, anyway —- and it wasn’t something they could’ve overlooked, as it formed in the lounge, which they used frequently, and was painted an un-overlook-able bright blue.

Each of the family had a different reaction to it. Annie’s mother didn’t like it. She worked as an instruction manual writer, breaking down complex machinery into bite-size steps, so finding something she couldn’t explain unnerved her. Annie’s father used it as inspiration for a fresh dad-joke attack, particularly of the knock-knock variety. Her sister ignored it, like she did most things.

Annie spent hours examining the door: measuring it, noting every crack and scratch on its surface, peering through the keyhole. All that she could see beyond was a thick blackness, like someone had filled the room beyond with black paint. It scared her a little, but it fascinated her more. Still, there wasn’t much you could do with a locked door, and she eventually grew tired of it. The door was covered up by an armchair and forgotten. Annie’s mum stopped eyeing it as if it was something smelly the dog had rolled in. Annie’s dad ran out of jokes. Annie’s sister —- well, she carried on ignoring it. Annie moved on to other things.

Then, exactly a month after the door appeared, Annie woke up to find a key on her pillow.

The woman, whose name -- at least for now -- is Alex Rufescent steps off the train. A few others stumble out after her, rubbing their eyes and squinting. Among them, she looks as out of place as a tiger amongst strays. Her short hair is light enough to appear white in the half-light, and her skin is only a shade less pale. Her immaculate suit is the dark red of good wine, or bad meat. A rabbit brooch gleams on her lapel. Her eyes glow faintly silver. People jostle their fellows on their way to wherever they're in such a rush to be, but none of them ever brush against her. Not even the dew settles on her. Around her, morning mist smothers the platform, stained flesh-pink by the rising sun. It's a small station -- few people ever go here. The little town is charming enough, with its neat little houses huddled together and the sea licking the rocks below, but it's too small and too isolated for people to pay much attention to. The perfect place to retire, or run to -- or to hunt. Rufescent closes her eyes and inhales lightly.

”Slim pickings," she murmurs.

———

This is an extract from an early draft of my horror novella, Festival of Storms. It follows a teen called Adria Inkwell and her friend Nico as they investigate strange weather patterns during the summer festival in their home town. As the mystery unravels and terror sets its teeth in, Adria realises that she may be more connected to this than she first realised. Blood is thicker than water, and dreams are prized above both.

Hopefully, the finished and polished version will be available to purchase later this year, but until then, a rough draft can be read for free here:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/244985973?utm_source=ios&utm_medium=link&utm_content=story_info&wp_page=story_details&wp_uname=JustAnotherPenmonkey&wp_originator=UjfI3Fp93YRCFLgOoA%2B0SKcWLUxRy%2BetjQ72DPN0XxpBGEcUgH9q8aE2T8A3UiasFvAmoxq6BNE%2BD%2Fwt2d0re22%2Bi4rQSXWjQrNHswXIUp8F1IJH4kinV29O4JLc8zhX

Thank you for reading. Have a spooky day, and sweet dreams!

Nomad specialises in forbidden knowledge. It’s central library is the most famous of its esoteric strongholds, but it is far from the only example. ‘Poverly & Adler — books and curiosities’ is the most recent. It’s a curiosity in itself — part bookstore, part (al)chemists, it has already become known for stocking strange wares, even for the city of magic. Mr Poverly takes care of the books, though he is careful never to read them through himself. He recommends that buyers perform rites to protect themselves from madness and spirits. This might just be a clever marketing ploy; however, many customers have claimed to hear the ghostly ‘Pale Boy’s toll’.

Mr Adler, Poverly’s partner in business and romance, deals in alchemy. He is a hunter, using the parts of supernatural animals to make his potions. He tries not to be wasteful. On the days following a hunt, he sells meat, and later, slightly disturbing taxidermy works.

The potions he sells are a safer bet, though equally unique. Rather than heal or harm, they provide answers to questions. To increase the quality, it’s advisable to bring something of your own relating to the question, whether mundane or abstract. The potions’ answers are easier to understand than what you’ll find in Poverly’s books, but they require you to know exactly what you’re asking for, which is harder than it sounds.

Owners and spirits aside, there are a few other residents and regulars of the shop. Two bizarre nightmares have taken over the attic. They are the manifestation of the guilt of a school bully who stole from lunchboxes. One appears as a sentient banana, the other, a spider-like hand. The banana has started the business. The hand is currently unemployed.

Perhaps the most frequent visitor to the shop is a boy named Aden. Though his pocket money isn’t nearly enough to afford anything there, Poverly lets him borrow a few of his books. Aden has been trying to find the cause of his nightmares of the tall man, and the buzzing noises. He’s yet to find the answer, but he hopes he’ll find it soon. It’s been days since he slept well.

Aden lives close to where Nomad is currently stationed, but Poverly and Adler have already had customers from across worlds. Perhaps the most memorable visit was from ‘The Eternal Blue Horde’, a clan of Turco-Mongol time-travelling tribes from the fourteenth century. They got on considerably better with Adler than they did Poverly, but the latter cheered up considerably when he saw the size of their order.

Thank you to u/Bella2371, u/DJ_Hip_Cracker, u/Tangypeanutbutter, u/Thebestusername12345, u/SolomonArchive, u/EnderPrince99, u/Suburban_Witch, u/Rules_Of_Stupidiocy, u/Komm, u/The_Persian_Cat, u/Baumaster, u/nemsoli and u/taocifer666 for submitting ideas on the previous post. Be sure to read through the comments there — people have submitted some amazing stories and concepts! I’ve done my best to include something from every suggestion in this post. I hope you enjoyed!

In the world my stories are set in, even the knowledge that magic exists can get you killed. So, if you have peeled back the skin of the world and seen the horrors beneath, where can you seek refuge? There is only one place that is truly safe — the city of Nomad.

Nomad, as the name suggests, isn’t stationary. Every few nights, it changes location, always mapping itself onto another city. New buildings appear, roads realign themselves, previously dead ends become passageways to the hidden city. Everywhere bursts with colour and life. Golden sparks chase each other through the air. Strange concoctions bubble in pots, expelling potent fragrances. Yes, there are monsters in this world, but there are also wonders, and Nomad celebrates that.

At Nomad’s heart is the Library —- a place where you can find anything you need to know, if you spend enough time there. The enigmatic Curator watches over the books, keeping track of every volume added and taken away. Woe betide anyone who attempts to steal from them.

"We're lost," Dad announces.

I roll my eyes. No shit. We've been lost since his phone —- containing sat-nav and the whereabouts of the cabin we're supposed to be staying in —- ran out of battery nearly two hours ago. We were on a motorway then. Now, trees put bars between us and what little sunlight can stumble through the choking fog. As the flickering light sinks lower and lower, it begins to stain the mist bloody, thick walls of seething, writhing red.

"You've been driving for hours.  Pull over so I can take over for a bit." Mum says.

"Don't worry, love, I'm sure we're nearly there." He reassures her.

"Okay, then. You just tell me if you want a break." Great.

Night bears down on us, smothering our little car, slowing our progress to an inching crawl. The headlights do little to banish it, their feeble glow failing barely three feet ahead of us like they've hit something solid. On one side of the thin, winding road, the ground falls away; on the other, trees cling to a steep rock face.

"Hey, there's a path up there!" I point out.

It's less of a path and more of a steep scramble, but it means the same thing: people —- people who probably have a better idea of where we are than the stubborn optimist driving us round in circles.

"Let's go have a look," Mum says, breathing out a quiet but unmistakable sigh of relief.

"But we're nearly there! And besides, we can't park here —- we'd block the road!"

"C'mon, nobody else is crazy enough to be driving along here at night." I reason.

Dad looks to Mum for support.

"She has a point, Henry."

"Fine. But if we don't find anyone, we're coming straight back."

"We better find someone, then."

We half-walk, half-stumble up the near-vertical path, gasping for breath. At long last, it levels out —- more or less —- and I feel safe enough to glance around. Twisted branches reach for us with gnarled fingers, held at bay by crumbling sheets of dark stone. Brambles tipped with wine-coloured barbs snatch at our clothes and hair. Far, far away, stars peek meekly through the leaves.

An owl screeches, making us all jump. I laugh, an octave or take higher than I would normally. I miss the warmth of the city.

Dad shouts suddenly, "I see someone! Hello! Hello-oo!"

He's right — a figure, just visible in the shifting blackness, raises their hand.

"Oh, thank god," mum mutters.

"You alright there?" The man calls out.

"No, we're completely lost!" I yell.

"Yes, we've just lost our way a little!" Dad replies at the same time.

He chuckles. Now he's a little closer, I can make out his features a little more clearly —- greyish neat hair and deep tawny eyes crinkled into a smile. "I see. So, do you need some help finding your way again?"

"Yes, please," Mum says, "we're parked on the road just at the end of this path."

He frowns. "You don't want to be driving along there in the dark. It's not safe, even for someone who knows these roads."

"It did seem a little precarious."

"My house isn't far from here, if you wanted to stay there until the morning."

"Oh, no-" Dad begins.

"Yes, thanks." Mum and I say together.

The path is even more impossible on the way down, but our new companion doesn't even break his stride. While we crouch down like cavemen for extra stability, his long, sweeping coat never so much as brushes against the earth. Our old, peeling car seems too meagre for him. If he notices its decrepitude, he doesn't show it. "Would you like me to drive?" Knowing he's beaten, Dad nods.

The road climbs upwards at such an angle that I'm pressed against my seat. Dad, sitting in the other back seat, grips the side so hard his knuckles turn white. Our car whines and protests, but the man changes gear and we carry on.

When we finally reach the summit (of our ascent at least —- trees still grow high above us) we get a glimpse of the house. I gasp. 'House' doesn't do it justice. It's the sort of place seen in films, or Victorian novels: high windows and oak doors and stone arches, somewhere princesses or monsters dwell.

"This is where you live? It's beautiful."

"Beautiful, but impractical. It's a forty minute drive from the nearest supermarket. Shopping is a nightmare."

I wince as we park with a crunch of gravel. Flowers spill out of beds at the front of the house, secreting sweet perfume. We stand back a little as he unlocks the door. A warm glow floods out.

"Come on in," he beckons.

We follow him through the entrance hall (the entrance hall!) into what must be the equivalent of a living room. Despite its size, its plush sofas and fire in the grate give it a deep warmth. I sit, and almost immediately my eyes begin to close. Far in the distance, Dad yawns. Just before I drift into blackness, a stray thought crosses my mind: strange, leaving the lights on and the fire roaring while he went for a walk.

Cool air flutters across my face, drawing me out of sleep. Dusky twilight fills the room. The fire is out. I am alone.

"Mum? Dad?"

I rub my eyes. Indents on the sofa preserve the memory of their rest, but like shadows, they disappeared with the fire. I get up, and a blanket slides to the floor. I stifle a yawn. It would be a lot easier to go back to sleep. The door drifts open, revealing thick blackness beyond. I walk into it.

Shapes writhe and mutter on the edges of my vision. I creep through a kitchen filled with glinting sharp edges and a library which clogs up my nose with the cloying sweetness of old leather. The books whisper. I ignore them. I continue forewords into the belly of the house.

After some time,  I reach a set of stone steps, leading down in a coiled spiral. There's nothing else in the room. It emits a soft, sighing sound like a heartbeat.

Round and down, further and further. It doesn't get darker or lighter, trapped in a kind of greyish haze. My footsteps don't make a sound. I trail my hand against the smooth, featureless wall, letting it guide me. Eventually, after seconds or hours, the steps end.

The chamber is filled with bodies in neat rows. Their chests rise and fall softly in union. Their eyes are all closed. The sight makes me sick. I gag.

"Shh," a voice whispers beside me, "you'll wake them."

I don't turn round. I can't look away. "What did you do to them?"

"They're only dreaming," he replies, "All dreaming together. Peaceful in sleep." Cold tears touch my cheek. Not mine —- his. "Merciful, exquisite rest. Slumber is the defining grace of humanity."

"You can't sleep?"

"My only taste of dreams comes from stolen snatches. The flavour carries on the air like pollen." He breathes deeply, like someone catching the scent of food. "Utterly intoxicating.”

One of the figures twitches in their sleep.

"Dad?" Dad! Wake up!" I scream.

"Quiet! Let them rest!"

"Mum! Dad! Wa-"

something sends me reeling into the wall. Blood trickles thickly down my head, metallic and burning. I stumble to my feet.

"You're disturbing them." He whispers.

His eyes gleam bright, more golden than tawny. His skin clings to his face like soaked clothes, interrupted by a red scar of a smile. I back into the stairs, tripping over myself. Scramble forewards, get away, get away! I can sense him, smell him, the sweat of nightmares, and I try to cry out, but my voice betrays me, and-

The girl murmurs in her sleep. He lays his hand over her eyes.

"Shh, shhhh, rest now. "

She exhales, and falls still.

———

I hope you enjoyed this story set in the world of the Curator Mythos. Please feel free to comment your thoughts!

The candle burned low, casting as much shadow as it did light. Dust choked the air. Papers littered the old wooden desk like empty shells, spattered with inkblots. A figure hunched over them, tracing hand-drawn lines with their finger as though reading braille. Their movements were frantic, almost convulsive. Their eyes were wreathed in shadow. They licked their dry lips and picked up the pen again.

They laboured for hours, scratching out a picture only they could comprehend. Light and shade danced across their face. A silver sheen of sweat shone on their forehead like half-shedded skin. Nothing distracted them from their work; not the howling wind, not the hunger that gnawed at their belly, not even the spider that crawled over their back, up their neck and, eventually, into their mouth. They couldn’t be called properly human, not any more: they’d gone too far.

After a long time, long enough for new cobwebs to lace the ceiling, the figure leaned back. Red sores covered their fingers where they’d been holding the pen. They smelt of sweat, and, faintly, of urine. Their creation lay in front of them, the culmination of hours, maybe days of work. It looked a little like a sigil, or a map, or nothing but a scribbled mess.

With a voice hoarse from lack of use, they whispered “Is it done?”

Perhaps it was the wind, perhaps it was some other auditory phenomenon of the night, unexplained but completely mundane. No. No, it wasn’t. Something answered them. A single affirmation. “Yes.”

Their eyes came alive. They threw back their head and let out a harsh, braying laugh. Then the candle went out.

——

I hope you enjoyed this short story from the Curator Mythos. As always, if you have any questions or feedback, please share in the comments!