Young Writers Society

Headless specters drifted into the clearing in the woods, zigzagging sluggishly from beyond the tree trunks and large boulders. A muted blue glow emanated from most, but others were bright oranges and light greens. It was an oddly calm array, watching these spirits float about, but Alban knew that falling for the calm would only put him in graver danger. He was here for something besides the phantasms; they were but an obstacle.

Standing at the edge of the clearing with the tattered, cracked spine of a book in hand, Alban waited for the right moment. The spirits drifted in such a pattern that, momentarily, a path opened up between them. The surrounding area was much too heavily-wooded and thick undergrowth would disallow him to progress that way. Through was the only option. Through, one gap at a time. It would be slow progress, but progress nonetheless.

Opposite his position, beyond the short sea of aimless souls, sat the entrance to a tomb, and within that he would find his prize.

He grit his teeth as the row of spirits nearest him lined up with the next, presenting the opening he awaited. With a quick leap, he flew through the gap, and landed neatly, now between two ghostly layers. There would be about a dozen more leaps like this to make.

A moment passed before the next opening revealed itself, but he glided through that just as easily. The subsequent gaps were traversed with ease, and before long he was only two short gaps away from the tomb. He felt anticipation bubbling up inside himself, exhilaration as his hunt for the tomb's treasure was finally drawing to an end. And in his excitement, he grew foolhardy. He made to dash through the next gap in ghosts too early, and charged directly through a glowing cloud of cyan.

Shrieking consumed the clearing as every headless specter around suddenly became aware of his presence. Their cries were ear-piercing, crippling, and Alban found himself curled on the ground with both arms wrapped around his head. He grimaced and bared his teeth at the pain as the ghosts moved in. There was the sound of sniffing from some, as though they expected to catch his scent from their realm of the dead, to determine what he was. They wouldn't be able to smell anything but their own rotting corpses, yet they persisted.

Alban opened his eyes, a brief flicker of the lids, and shot the tomb door one final glance before the spirits would surely drag him away and make him one of them. Then, a low whistle broke through their screams, and everything stilled. The ghosts, Alban, the dreadful noises in the air-- even the cloud about the moon seemed to halt.

A gruff voice somewhere across the clearing, where Alban had come from, barked in a foreign tongue to the spirits. Alban dared another peek and found his attackers facing where the voice came from. He couldn't make out much more than a tall male figure through the thick haze of blue and orange and green glows.

The voice broke out again and the spirits began to disperse, trailing back into the forest much more quickly than they had arrived. Alban watched them go before rising cautiously and squinting at the newcomer's silhouette. Although the spirits' colors had vanished with them, Alban still couldn't make out the man's features. He tossed a quick glance back to the tomb, and when the man made no move to approach or address him, Alban darted for the large stone door.

“And who might you be?” the voice said behind him.

Alban froze in his tracks as the voice took on a language he could understand. He was mere feet from the tomb, now, but dared not reach for it. This voice was vile and ancient. He hadn't caught it in whatever foreign tongue had been used against the spirits, but he could feel it now. This was no man standing behind him.

“And why is that important?” Alban retorted in fake confidence as he spun on his heels.

The wrong response, if this creature were what he suspected, but it was the response his tongue had fired, and there was no going back. He forced back the wince that threatened to give away his faux courage.

“Well, seeing as I just saved your life, I thought I might as well know. I do like to remember the names of those I've helped,” the creature responded, and though Alban couldn't make out his face, he sensed that there would be a smug grin plastered there.

“Is that so?” he said, placing a discreet hand on the revolver holstered to his right hip.

The only response was a shrug. Then the creature pat the side of his leg and a four-legged silhouette crawled from the bushes behind him, low to the ground and feral-looking, even when completely shadowed. Alban's ears tingled at the deep growl of a canine, but unlike any canine he'd ever encountered.

“I'll ask you again, stranger,” the creature said. “Who are you? What's your name?”

Alban was quiet a moment. Then, swift as lightning, he drew his revolver from its holster and fired a shot off at the man across the clearing.

The gunshot almost drowned out the ensuing cry of pain, and smoke obscured his vision for a moment, but he knew he had hit his mark.

The voice shouted in that foreign tongue again, and as the cloud of smoke cleared, Alban could see the man's dog barreling towards him at full speed, fangs barred and drool flying.

He tried to fire off another shot, this time at the dog, but his revolver misfired. Stumbling back and spinning to face the tomb again, Alban pried at the door, seeking escape. Just as he managed to crack it open enough to squeeze through, the dog leaped on his back and began ripping into his flesh.

Alban screamed in pain as hot blood spilled from his shoulders and chunks of flesh were removed from his torso. He collapsed, unable to hold up the dog's weight or to throw it off. He tried to struggle with it, but his chest was to the dirt and the beast had him pinned as it tore off piece after piece of his body. Then, the dog clamped its mighty jaws around his neck, and everything went dark.