by Michael S. Webster
Celene Border near the Kron Hills
Snowflowers 29, 5038 OC (Coldeven 29, 576
CY)
Ridorr examined everything but touched nothing. Bookshelves lined the outer wall, crammed with tomes of every size and scattered decorations. The largest portrait was of a man and woman; husband and wife, holding each other and smiling warmly. The smiles didn’t reach their eyes, which appeared too real.
“Seems like a nice couple. I wonder wh…” Ridorr stopped in mid-thought as the face of the man in the portrait seemed to push out from the back of the painting. The eyes bulged and the mouth opened in a silent scream. Ridorr stumbled back in shock, unable to look away from the spectacle.
The face withdrew into the painting. Ridorr noticed his rapid breathing and heartbeat. He steadied himself with slow, deep breaths. He glanced around; his companions were still asleep, unaware of the spectral visitation.
Ridorr closely examined the portrait. It looked perfectly normal to him. The frame was made from ordinary wood, and the canvas and pigments weren’t anything out of the ordinary.
Ridorr lifted the portrait to look behind it, but a heavy thump made him jump. He turned, hand on his falchion—it was only the wood in the fireplace settling.
“I must be exhausted,” thought Ridorr. “I’m seeing things and I’m jumping at sounds.”
The chill deepened, but he blamed it on the dying fire and the age of the stone tower.
Turning around, his gaze passed over the curving stairs leading to the upper floors. His subconscious registered the sight first. A dark shadow peered down with blazing white eyes from atop the stairs. He turned back quickly for a better look, but it was gone.
Rubbing his sleep-deprived eyes, Ridorr tried to convince himself he was just exhausted when he turned around and looked directly into the eyes of a grey, translucent older man in wizard’s robes.
His heart stopped cold as the apparition’s jaw stretched horribly in a silent scream. The eyes bulged and became holes of pitch-black darkness. The figure reached out a hand, passing it through the half-elf’s head.
Ridorr slumped to the ground,
unconscious.
Ridorr’s awareness surfaced. The distant humming resolved into words. He opened
his eyes to the concerned looks of his companions.
“We found you collapsed on the floor,” stated Tyroc. “We’ve been trying to rouse you for the better part of an hour.”
The cleric helped him sit up and offered his waterskin. Ridorr drank as he struggled to make sense of what he saw. He drew a deep breath. “I think this place is haunted.”
Tyroc and Qucalion listened carefully to Ridorr as he explained what he experienced. The twins merely looked bored as they argued about how to hit a ghost with an arrow. Arty’ll mentioned needing a “ghost arrow” then he and his sister sat hypothesizing about how to make one.
A door could opened upstairs. Hinges creaking from disuse echoed down the stone steps. Qucalion looked up the steps that climbed the tower’s perimeter and saw nothing. As he began to turn away, the sound of heavy footfalls rushed down the stairs. He jumped back in alarm—but when he looked again, the steps were empty.
Turning away again, he almost missed spotting a head peeking around the upper floor. The eyes—dark, hollow pits—above a ghastly, unnatural toothy grin peered at him from the floor above. Qucalion's gaze snapped back but it was gone. A trick of the light?
"What is it?" asked one of his companions. "What are you looking at?"
The grey elf turned to his companions. “I… I don't know... I heard someone charging down..." He turned and the dark, hollow pits of eyes and the unnaturally wide smile on a face attached to a gangly, emaciated form in almost right proportion charged towards him.
Falling back and tripping over his own feet, an arm raised to block an attack, that never came. Once again, the stairs were empty.
The twins were giggling. Whether it was because of Qucalion's fright or their own joke, it was hard to tell.
Tyroc offered Qucalion a hand. “We should probably leave. This structure may be, at best, haunted. At worst…” The elven cleric shuddered. “At worst, we couldn’t stand against whatever is here.”
Qucalion stood up and tentatively looked back up the stairs. “I think you’re right. Maybe we could come back and…”
*KNOCK*
*KNOCK*
As one, the companions quickly turned toward the heavy door leading outside.
*KNOCK*
“Maybe it’s the owners?” asked L’ree.
"Knocking to come in their own home?” retorted Arty’ll.
Ridorr sighed, “I have a bad feeling
about this.”
Qucalion took a step toward the door, but Tyroc grabbed his arm. “I don’t think
we should open the door.”
“We’ll have to open it sometime, if we wish to leave, Tyroc,” said Qucalion.
*KNOCK*
The companions jumped at the first knock and stared at the door.
*KNOCK*
*KNOCK*
“Please, let me in.” The voice sounded
very young—too young. “It’s so very cold. I’m scared. Please… let me in.”
Qucalion noted the voice was pleading for help, but the timbre of the voice
suggested otherwise. It was too calm and even.
Qucalion stepped up to the door and turned slightly back towards Tyroc. The cleric lifted up the holy symbol of Corellon Larethian; the mithril crescent moon shining in the firelight. Tyroc nodded his readiness to Qucalion, who turned and put his hand on the bolt.
The wind and snow immediately pushed into the slowly opening doorway. Qucalion stepped out, eyes squinting against the cold wind.
“Hello?” he called out as he shielded his eyes against the snow and wind. Looking about, he could see no one. Looking down, he could see clear footprints in the snow. Small, child-sized footprints—but very odd ones.
For one thing, they were barefoot. Who—or what—left those footprints wasn’t wearing any shoes. There was something else about them.
He looked again.
The prints were wrong.
Left and right reversed—backwards.
“Hey, twins! Can you track this?” Qucalion called back to the rangers who skipped up to the door.
“We can track anything!” they said nearly in unison.
“Track where these prints came from and went.” He pointed at the footprints on the ground beginning to fill with blown snow.
Arty’ll and L’ree looked down at the prints. “Huh. You don’t see prints like these often,” informed L’ree.
“They look humanoid except the differences,” suggested Arty’ll.
“You mean how the feet are switched?” asked Qucalion.
“Well, that too,” replied Arty’ll. “What I mean is that if you look at them, they are perfectly straight into the snow. No indication of stepping there or stepping away.”
“Almost like they just appeared or landed there.” L’ree finished the thought. Turning to his brother, she suggested, “You go widdershins and I’ll go deasil.”
“How about I go deasil and you go widdershins?”
L’ree let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You always get your way.”
“No, I don’t! You…” the rest of Arty’ll’s comments were lost to the wind as the two rangers began the labor of tracking the owner of those footprints.
Qucalion shut the door, but left it unlatched. Turning to Tyroc and Ridorr, he shook his head. “The storm seems to have gotten worse. I don’t know if trying to leave is any safer than staying.”
Ridorr took a step toward the door but halted mid-stride, his attention snagged by the bookcase. His trembling fingers—whether from chill, fear, or both—glided along the edge and the dust-coated shelves.
“What is it, Ridorr?” asked Tyroc as he stepped up next to the half-elf.
“I’m not sure, but I think there’s a…” He forced his trembling fingers to obey and found a latch hidden in the shelf. Triggering it with a click, the bookcase slowly swung open. “…secret door.”
A flight of stairs led down into darkness heavy with cold and damp.
“Do we go down?” asked Tyroc.
“I’ll stay up here and wait for those maniacs to return.”
Tyroc and Ridorr chuckled as they prepared to go down. “Do we have torches?” asked Ridorr.
“We do, but…” began Tyroc. The cleric gestured in the air as he chanted. His holy symbol gradually began to glow, giving off a light that reached into the darkness. “Shall we?”
Ridorr nodded, hand on the hilt of his falchion, and started down the stairs, Tyroc close behind.
To Be Continued…
Dramatis Personae:
Arty'll Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven
Ranger/Assassin (lvl 2/2)
Arty'll Bhrygaid created
by Michael S. Webster
L’ree Bhrygaid
Sylvan Elven
Ranger/Assassin (lvl 2/2)
L’ree Bhrygaid created by
Mark F. Anderson
Qucalion of Celene
Grey Elven
Fighter/Magic-User (lvl 1/1)
Qucalion of Celene
created by Michael S. Webster
Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel
Half-Elven Duelist –
Fencer (lvl 3)
Ridorr Fenbalar of Gomel
created by Fredrick J. Rourk
Tyroc of Tilac
Grey Elven Cleric of
Corellon Larethian (lvl 1)
Tyroc of Tilac created by
Michael S. Webster
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