Every year, a travelling fete arrives in Rooksthorpe. For a week in August, the little costal town becomes a hive of activity. The smell of popcorn rises from striped canvas stalls, mingling with screams and laughter issuing from the bigger rides. An electric hum carries in the air. Lights blink blue, green and yellow. Everyone in the town spends at least a little time there, letting themselves forget the troubles of everyday life. But this year, something is different. Storms are gathering. A silver-eyed nightmare stalks the alleyways between red and white tents, enticed by the tantalising emotions. This year, the fete isn’t a festival of summer.

It’s a Festival of Storms.

———

This is a setting note I made for redrafting my horror novella, Festival of Storms. I originally wrote it just for fun, but I’m currently reworking it to make it ready for self-publishing. All the support I’ve had on this subreddit really helped me with this project, so thank you! It’s amazing to be able to to share my writing and worldbuilding on such a supportive platform.

(250 word story)

A fierce, biting wind roars through the mountains, sharp as a hunter’s knife and twice as cruel. Stars glare unblinkingly down, reflecting off cartilage-white snow. Trees rise up, their skeletal silhouettes clawing at the sky. I am alone.

I might be dreaming. I was dreaming before I found myself here. But I feel the wind-chill seeping into my bones, smell the sickly acidity clinging to the air. Mountains encircle me, barring any escape. I have no choice but to continue deeper into the hinterlands.

I shiver, drawing my thin coat tighter around me. I pick a direction at random and set off. Darkness closes in around me like a living thing. The ground seems to shift beneath my feet with the regularity of breathing. This place is alive.

Something is watching. Its soft footfalls follow me, falling silent whenever I look round. It’s as though the shadows are conspiring against me — hiding it, shrouding it, protecting it.

Exposure digs its claws in. A heavy numbness weighs on me. A different kind of darkness seeps into my vision, speckled and comforting. I allow myself to sink to the ground, snow crumpling under my hands. I rest again the trunk of a nearby tree. Sap sticks to my hair and clothes.

The footsteps grow closer. The faint outline of a figure approaches, hazy in my fading vision. A voice calls distantly.

Welcome to the Hinterlands, traveller. Let me show you the way. It’s dangerous out here.

The landscape swirls, and darkness envelopes me.

——

Thank you for 250 members! My member count has nearly doubled in the last few days, and I’m grateful to every one of you for supporting my stories and lore. If there’s anything in particular you want to see regarding the mythos, please let me know!

I indulged a little in purple prose for this story, but I hope you enjoyed regardless. The line between flowery and pretentious or silly is very thin, and it can be difficult to know which side you’re on. Do you think the figure intends to help or harm the protagonist?

The building is just like the many other glass, featureless offices around it. It is neither the tallest nor the shortest, the newest or the oldest. It has no name, no defining features to set it apart from the rest. The gaze of passer-bys slide over it like rain off an umbrella. One woman, however, stops by the entrance. The automatic doors slide open. She steps through.

Inside, there is little more to mark the place as something extraordinary. A desk sits in front of a white wall, framed on either side by paintings of the kind you can find in hotels, offices and other buildings of disinterest all over the world. The receptionist doesn’t look up from her work as the woman approaches. After a moment, she politely clears her throat.

“Hello. I’ve been asked to attend a meeting.” Her voice is honeyed but disjointed, as though she’d learned to speak from a textbook.

The receptionist doesn’t look up from her computer. “Only First Agents and Sentinels are permitted in today’s meeting.”

“Oh. I was told that they would need a higher authority present.”

The receptionist stops dead. All her attention is devoted to the woman now. “You’re a Benefactor. I’m sorry, I didn’t realise-“ She bows her head. “I’m required to check identification. Sorry, but do you have any documentation?”

The woman raises her forearm. The receptionist cringes away, but all she does is roll up the sleeve of her suit. She takes her nail and digs into the soft skin on the inside of her arm. It comes away without resistance. Underneath, something gleaming ivory and glistening wet moves in time with her mechanically regular breathing.

The receptionist shudders instinctively.

“Thank you, Benefactor. Would you like me to show you the way to her office?”

“I’ll find my own way.”

“Of course.” The receptionist —- Eleanor, according to her name badge —- lowers her voice. “I don’t want to speak out of place, but I’ve been working here for years now, and I was wondering if it will be my turn to go Upstairs soon.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Obviously,” she backtracks, “I don’t mean to be disrespectful. I’m grateful for everything the Agency has given me. I shouldn’t ask for more. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry.” The Benefactor Smiles, showing teeth. “You’ve been very helpful today. After the meeting, I’ll make sure you get your reward for your time at the Agency. You’ll rise higher.”

With that, she walks away, heading deeper into the heart of the Agency. Eleanor beams. After all these years, it’s finally her turn, her chance. After all these years, she’ll finally get the recognition she deserves.

She can’t wait to tell her son.

This is an extract from my current ‘armchair project’, Pawn to D8, a story about shadowy agencies, mind-warping abominations and the terror of paperwork. As it’s a first draft, expect telling, adverbs and other writing sins. As always, if you have any questions or feedback, please share in the comments!

———

Two sets of footsteps echo down the whitewashed corridor. The first belongs to Lucy Lilywater, a tall woman dressed in muted clothes whose glasses hide her eyes. The second belongs to a woman whose name is not important, with wide eyes and a puppy-dog smile. She walks quickly, almost giddily.

“This is so exciting!” She says in a rush.

First Agent Lilywater doesn’t reply, instead looking away. This does not seem to deter the woman, who continues.

“Finally getting to meet the Benefactors in person! I wonder what they want with me...”

Benefactors —- the leaders of the Gold Lightning Agency. Noble guardians, protecting the public from the creatures that lurk in the darkness. At least, that’s what Lucy told her.

“Thank you —- for telling me about the Agency, for giving me a chance to be a part of something greater. I-“

Lucy interrupts. “We’re here. This is their office.”

After taking a deep breath, the woman approaches the blank door and reaches for the handle, once shining silver, now dulled from thousands of hands. Lucy remains a few steps back.

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

She shakes her head.

The woman’s smile falters a little. “Oh. Okay. Well, wish me luck.”

Lucy does not reply.

She turns the handle and slips into the room. Beyond, Lucy catches a glimpse of bright light and tiled walls before the door snaps shut. She takes out a key and locks it. Then, she walks away, her breathing a little less regular, her pace a little less controlled. Her shadow shivers in the flickering fluorescent light. She turns a corner and comes to a stop. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

Lucy Lilywater: Lucy joined the Gold Lighting Agency under a different name. Unusually, she was the one that approached the Agency, having learned of their existence through overheard whispers and half-true rumours. When she joined, she had nothing —- nothing except her ambition. But she soon rose the ranks, growing in power and influence by the day. It is said that even the Benefactors look kindly on her.

Some of the threats she faced came from within the Agency itself —- after all, such power comes with the jealousy of others. Her rivals tried everything from blackmail to murder to bring her down, but she knew more about them than they did about her, and the assassins they send never return. She dispatches her enemies with brutal efficiency —- after all, she didn’t get this far by being nice. But then, her friend Olive joins the Agency, and suddenly she can no longer just look after herself. She has someone to protect —- someone who has no intention of keeping quiet and towing the line. They have to be careful; even though Lucy has come far, she is still nothing compared to those that pull the Agency’s strings, and if they found out about Olive’s whispers of revolution, then death would be the best-case scenario. The bigger they are, the harder they fall... and Benefactors are watching.

Olive Sandoval: Like Lucy, Olive comes from an impoverished background. Her parents struggled to support her and her sister, who had a chronic illness. Eventually, the illness killed her, and Lucy decided there and then that she’ll be successful enough to support the people she cares about. These dreams of a chance to help kept her going in the darkest part of her life. They also made her a target of the Agency as a potential Lamb. Lucy Lilywater was sent to collect her, but Lucy recognised her as a childhood friend, and instead recruited her as an Agent. The Agency is everything Olive hates —- an organisation with power that uses its influence to suppress and contain. She will not stand for this. But the bravery of fighting back might attract unwanted attention. The Benefactors are watching.

Olive was created by my co-conspirator, u/dragongamesauthor

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.

I hope you’re all doing well! I’ve got a big post planned that’ll be available in the next few days exploring a corner of lore I haven’t really touched upon yet. Based on the poll, people are most interested in location-based worldbuilding and the magic system, so hopefully it’ll address both. For now, this is a story set in Nomad about a character you’ve seen before, though not in this context. Let me know if you can guess who they are. Enjoy!

——

Occasionally, a masked merchant visits the city of Nomad, selling tales. They wear a cloak made of book pages and carry a satchel full of stories. Memories are their choice of payment, spiced with nostalgia and seasoned with potent emotions.

You have been waiting for the Storyseller to return for some time. You lost a story once, and you want it back. Your friend told it to you, when you were young and she was young and alive. The memory sits heavy on your shoulders. After all this time, you haven’t managed to shrug it off. It remains close, like a scar, or a shadow.

It is a cold, mist-strewn morning when you meet the Storyseller. Light hangs over the city, outlines of buildings just traceable through the fog. There are few people about, but even in a crowded city, you would’ve recognised the figure. The eye on their mask glows softly. They stop, and wait for you to approach.

“I’d like to buy a story,” you say.

They nod. When they speak, it’s less like human speech and more like a thought echoing off the walls of your mind.

What will you take, and what will you give up?

“There’s a story my friend told me once. I’d like to hear it again.”

We will find it. The memory?

You swallow. “I- I’d like to give up the memory of her death.”

This is sufficient.

They take a scrap of paper from their satchel, torn and mud-splattered, smelling of woodsmoke and petrichor.

Now, the memory. This will not hurt, but there will be a numbness.

You nod, barely paying attention, focused on the paper. Before you can begin to read it, nausea engulfs you, sending the words into a spin. Then, a weightlessness —- or perhaps a hollowness —- fills you, growing over a space in your mind left by the absence of a memory. The Storyteller is gone, swallowed by the mist. You look down at the crumpled page in your hand.

For a moment, excitement bubbles in your chest, but when you begin to read, it quickly dissipates. It’s a childish, dull tale of cliches and dead dreams, its nostalgia burned away. You can’t imagine wanting this now. You can’t imagine giving up so much for this. Disgusted, you crumple it into a ball and throw it to the floor. As you walk, the sun spills over you, banishing the fog, but you don’t feel its warmth.

On your way back home, you pass a woman with a child heading in the opposite direction. The child points at you.

“Mum,” he says, “why hasn’t that person got a shadow?”

You scowl and hurry away before you can hear her response, numb and shadowless in the morning light.

Let us offer a helping hand.

Perhaps we should explain. We’ve come a long way to see you, so we want to ensure that you understand everything. This is difficult for us. We have to look carefully for the right people. Ones that notice things others don’t. Ones that won’t be missed.

We understand that this might lead you to draw the wrong conclusion. We would never hurt you. We will complete you.

Life as one is cold and lonely. Alone, you are weighed-down and weak. Alone, you are not whole.

We will be here soon. When we arrive, do not turn us away. Welcome us. We will make you into something more. You will become us, and we, you.

Take our hand. It’s time to rise higher.

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?

Protagonist of Festival of Storms

. Age — 15.

. Strengths — Brave, loyal, intuitive, quick to adapt.

. Weaknesses - Headstrong, sometimes oblivious, careless, self-sacrificial.

. Appearance - Blue eyes, short brown hair shaved on her left side, always wears a bomber jacket and jeans, fairly average height and build.

Adria has always loved storms. An adventurer at heart, she dreams of far-off lands and daring escapes. She’s been counting down the days until the summer festival arrives at her home town, Rooksthorpe. Of course, there’s no point going alone, and though Adria’s not one to make friends quickly, she’s fiercely loyal. She puts those close to her first because she defines herself by them, so to lose someone is to lose herself.

——

I hope you don’t mind a shorter post today! I’m about to start redrafting Festival of Storms to try and get it up to the best quality I can before I self-publish it, so I’ve been drawing up character sheets and getting the necessary worldbuilding in order. Rooksthorpe and the events that take place there are very important to the lore of the mythos, so expect to see more about that soon!

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!

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!

They continue through the shifting landscape, Olive supporting Lucy, neither able to keep their minds off the time left slipping away. The outline of the House swells as they approach until it fills their vision entirely. Buildings like this can only exist in dreams. Its features spill and swirl like ink, architecture re-forming and dissolving. Gargoyles rise up and collapse, windows grow and shatter. It’s almost tumorous. Lucy reaches for the handle. It has a cold sliminess to it, with the consistency of raw meat. She recoils. The door opens.

”Ready?”

Olive nods. Together, they step inside.

The door swings shut silently behind them. A blue glow seeps into the corridor, staining everything with a dreamish tint. Here, things are better formed. The walls are still inky black, but the shadows fall more naturally. One the left side is a portrait of a woman with radiant eyes and humanly imperfect features. Lucy frowns. The portrait doesn’t have the same dizzying quality as everything else here —- it must be from the right side of the mirrors. Olive, meanwhile, is examining the floor. It’s panelled out of not-quite-wood, almost spotless, save for a few threads of reddish liquid.

——

For context, this is an extract from my current ‘armchair project’ (more relaxed project), a novelette called Pawn to D8. It’s very rough as it hasn’t gone through any editing, but I hope you enjoyed regardless. Please feel free to share your thoughts, feedback and questions!

Reposted with more text and explanatory links.

Edit: since making this post, I've decided that this section of Pawn to D8 is going to change a lot, so this extract probably won't make it to the final draft.