moonlightlilygarden

[moonlightlilygarden]

Reflection

No one ever sees me. They only look past me, through me, and focus on themselves. How can I be looked at so many times, and yet not be seen? I’m chosen for my frame or just for the sheer practicality of having me. I stand in a prominent place, but the only time anyone pays attention to me, the real me, is when I’m smudged or dirty. And even then, the attention I’m given is just so they can see themselves better. No one sees me for who I truly am.

I do hold some value to them beyond my reflection. Children have whispered the name “Bloody Mary” onto my glass with wide, staring eyes. I don’t know what they expect to happen, but they always look at me with some mixture of relief and disappointment when nothing happens. I’ve heard the rumor that if someone breaks me, bad luck befalls them for the next 7 years. While I have my doubts about whether I can haunt them from beyond my shattering and cause them misfortune at every turn, I do appreciate the respect and care it affords me.

I do not wish to be broken. I wish to be cared for and respected. I wish to not be ignored and only looked through. I wish to be me, and I wish you would see me.

[moonlightlilygarden]

Legacy

“You have ten minutes!” their mother's frantic voice chased after them as they bolted out the backdoor and toward the twilight forest. It would be enough time. It had to be. 

Rowan’s backpack bounced against their tailbone as they jumped over familiar fallen logs and skirted around thorn bushes. Even in the growing shadows, they knew every burrow, every berry bush along their path by heart. So many of Rowan’s ancestors had held this same responsibility and traveled this same road that the way was ingrained in their blood. No one had deliberately cleared the path in fear of others finding it and following it to its destination, but it was clear where the growth had been trampled by the consistent passing of feet.

The rough bark of a trunk scraped under their palm as they used it for leverage, and it left their skin tingling–blood pulsing to the injury twice for every second that ticked away on their watch. They could see the edge of the stream growing nearer, and Rowan veered off to the spot where the far bank was closest. Without pause, they leapt the distance. Only a few more turns brought them to their destination.

Rowan pulled up hard, bracing themself against two trees before looking cautiously into the clearing. A clearing in the woods isn’t an entirely unusual discovery, but when Rowan’s great grandmother had found the spot a century ago, it had been barren and scorched. Now it flourished. Their mother tells the story the same way her mother had recited it to her, and as her mother before her had told it in hushed tones.

In the clearing, through the door, Recite the tale by gale and lark: It will come as it has come before.

A door stood across the clearing. The wood was rough and weathered with age, but stood firm regardless. It looked as though it had once been part of a fence, a way of keeping the property lines, but now the fence was gone and all that was left were the posts on either side and the door, shut tight.

Shadows stretch as to explore Along a path it craves embark In the clearing, through the door.

Horn of Plenty mushrooms grew in the shadow of the door, feeding off the nutrients in the ground and the old, fallen leaves. Their black caps reached into the clearing, creating a dark path to the door.

Eyes that glore and upon us bore, Edges creep and pull the dark; It will come as it has come before.

Rowan stepped into the clearing and felt the heaviness settle on their shoulders. They always felt watched here, but with each tik-tik-tik of their watch and with each step closer to the door, the pressure increased, leaving dark smudges at the edges of their thoughts.

Claws that mangle, scathe, and gore Seek to clasp the rough jamb’s bark In the clearing, through the door.

In the door was a small, square window. When Rowan had first seen it, they’d wondered what would happen if they’d looked through into the inky blackness beyond. Now it was all Rowan could do to keep their eyes averted. They did not know what lurked on the other side.

To tear our souls it long e’re swore And feast on our eternal spark; It will come as it has come before.

They slipped the backpack off their shoulders to the ground and opened the main compartment. 

Heed these words forevermore, Its intentions hear and mark: In the clearing, through the door It will come as it has come before.

For a century Rowan’s family had been the keepers of this secret, this old god, the Wolf Spider. Without the offerings on the rise of the new moon, it would roam free in the woods, hunting human prey. With every passing of the responsibility from mother to daughter, there was always a misstep, a rejected offering. Last month had been Rowan’s misstep. The offering had not been sufficient and a local man had gone “missing.” 

Now Rowan pulled from their bag a jar with its lid tightly sealed, the dark red liquid inside lapping the walls of the container as they unscrewed the lid and approached the door. Reaching the jar up to the top corner, they began to pour it down the door, moving to the other corner so it dripped like honey down the rough wood. Drops collected and fell from the top of the window to the sill. Before the legs of liquid reached the bottom of the door, it had soaked in, leaving no trace.

The clearing seemed to sigh as the last of the liquid soaked into the door. The weight of eyes lessened, heavy lidded, the hunger sated. Rowan closed the jar and returned it to their bag, checking their watch. They had just made it. They were all safe for another month.

[moonlightlilygarden]

Through the Door - Villanelle

In the clearing, through the door, Recite the tale by gale and lark: It will come as it has come before.

Shadows stretch as to explore Along a path it craves embark In the clearing, through the door.

Eyes that glore and upon us bore, Edges creep and pull the dark; It will come as it has come before.

Claws that mangle, scathe, and gore Seek to clasp the rough jamb's bark In the clearing, through the door.

To tear our souls it long e’re swore And feast on our eternal spark; It will come as it has come before.

Heed these words forevermore, Its intentions hear and mark: In the clearing, through the door It will come as it has come before.

[moonlightlilygarden]

Vesuvius

Dearest Nephew,

To understand why I’ve left, you must know a piece of your history which you have forgotten.

The dreams began when you were nine. You would come to your mother’s room and talk about the ground shaking and a dark cloud that covered the sky. Some nights you would rouse her with urgency, telling her you needed to leave before the stones started falling from the sky and the buildings started crumbling. Of course, we only believed them to be nightmares, perhaps brought on by some deeply held memory of the earthquake the year you were born. 

The dreams terrified you for weeks–so much so that you would refuse to sleep and would keep yourself awake drawing images from these dreams. Some of them were truly ghastly. People pinned under rubble. Vague forms frozen in place under a black sky. A great pine tree reaching ever upwards. Fire flowing across a mountainside. 

Eventually, the dreams subsided and you seemed to forget ever having them. Your mother and I did not wish to question you further in case they returned, but we never forgot. 

The pillar of ash now reaching into the sky to the Northeast is unmistakable. Your mother recognized it from your childhood drawings immediately, and the quakes these last four days only confirm that the dreams you had were not dreams at all but a gift from the gods foretelling the catastrophe that is about to occur. 

Your images of shadowy figures frozen in destruction cast a pall over my thoughts. 

I cannot leave the people of Pompeii and the surrounding towns to their fate as you have seen it. I must do what I can to save as many as possible. I will take my fleet with me and by the favor of the gods, I will make a difference. 

Gaius Plinius Secundus

[moonlightlilygarden]

Unfinished Business

Eliza, or Lizzy as she prefers to be called nowadays, really is a clever girl. I dare say she got that from me–I raised her after all. It was just as hard for me to watch her find my body as it was for her to find it. We both knew I didn’t have much time left in the world, but I’d been relatively healthy and certainly active enough that neither of us expected the aneurysm that took me. Oh, how she wailed when she found me, and oh how I longed to wrap my arms around her and comfort her, but that was no longer an option. My arms had moved through her like thick water.

Finding that I could move doors if I concentrated enough was an accident. I had been frustrated with my new situation shortly after my demise, and had wanted to slam a door in my anguish. I threw myself at the bedroom door, expecting to go hurtling through to no effect. I was partially right. I did in fact fly through the door, but this time it followed in my wake, caught on the pull of my passing. Lizzy had been there for it and immediately knew it was me. She knew I wouldn’t leave her, even as grown a woman as she had become. 

Initially, yes and no questions were the best we could do. There was a good amount of intuition needed on her side to understand me at first, but having lived together for 23 years meant we already had a place to start. She knew my replies of “Yes” to “I miss you” meant that I missed her too, and that was enough to begin the healing. It took time, but eventually I was able to control how much I could move the door. Lizzy oiled all of the hinges in the house to make it easier on me and we came up with a system for communicating with each other.

So clever, my Lizzy. She’d tried communicating with me through a ouija board, but I couldn’t move the planchet. After trying for a week, she brought chalk home and marked the alphabet on the floor along the swing of the door, emulating both a protractor and a piano keyboard. When that worked, the chalk was replaced with paint. Paint! On my hardwood floors! My first message to her after that had her laughing like I hadn’t heard since I’d died. 

We’ve since fallen into an easy cadance. I imagine for her it feels like I’ve moved house instead of died, as we have a call every morning and evening to catch up. Lizzy does most of the talking, as she always did, but it’s soothed something in both of us that we can have a few minutes a day together. I watch over her as I always have, and she talks to me about anything and everything, as she always has.

“Gran? Can I ask you something?” She already knows the answer, but waits beside me in her chair for me to move the door to “yes.” 

“Why are you still here?” Her eyes have nothing to focus on. She can’t see my face or the anxiety that twists it at the question. She can only wait and watch the door for my answer. There is a reason, but I fear if I tell her–if I show her–I’ll no longer be tethered here. While there must be some great beyond ultimately waiting for me, I can’t imagine it being a better place for me than by my dear Lizzy’s side.

In the end, I swing the door to spell out “unfinished.” She gets the idea.

“Is there anything I can do? Can I help? I don’t want you to be stuck here forever.” She seems so sad at the idea, I want to wrap her in my arms and whisper comfort into her ear. Not being able to… she’s right. I can’t stay here forever, but how can I ever leave her?

“Want me leave?” I spell.

“No!” she immediately defends. “Only I love you and don’t want you to miss out on your reward–” she scrunched her nose. “–or something.” 

I move the door to the painted, red heart symbol, the only addition we’d made since starting this method, and leave it there for a long moment. I consider everything I’ve seen since dying. I’ve seen how Lizzy is more than capable of taking care of herself. How she swiftly and easily picked up the responsibilities I’d shown her in the past, but handled myself. Bills, insurance, house maintenance… The life insurance and inheritance I left her along with the house is enough to pay the bills for at least a few years while she settles herself into a career. Except that she loves me, she doesn’t need me.

“November?” Lizzy reads my message. It takes her a moment to understand. “You’ll tell me in November?” With my confirmation, she lets the matter drop.

I need time to prepare. Time to be sure. And time to say goodbye. November comes so soon.

As the days pass, I see Lizzy’s anxiety mounting. She doesn’t want to ask. I think she realizes now the reality of what will happen if she helps me complete my unfinished business. She’ll lose me again. This time permanently. She’s fully convinced me in the past 13 months that it really would be alright to leave her. I love her, but it would be cruel to hold her back with my presence. 

If she doesn’t know, she guesses. November 22nd. Our birthday. 

Her instructions are clear. My unfinished business can be found in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Initially when she pulls out the nearly completed knit scarf, she sets it aside and looks back in the drawer for something else. Finding nothing, she turns back to the scarf, on the final color and only a few rows away from completion, and laughs. There are no markings under this door, so she wraps (and wraps, and wraps) the scarf around her neck and shoulders before leading us both to her room, the closest door with our signs. I move first and write out “hbd <3”

“You made me a Dr. Who scarf!” The laughter is turning into tears as she’s overwhelmed. I’d hidden it well from her that last year. It’d taken months of late nights tucked in bed with skeins of yarn, meticulously selected to match the original. 

“I love you Gran,” she sobs into the loops of knitting. They are draping over her now, enfolding her in woolen arms, extensions of my own. One last hug from me.

The door does not move from the red heart as I pass by one final time.

[moonlightlilygarden]

Sanctuary

“You come back here!” The shouting of the guard trailed behind Isaiah as he rushed around corners and dodged the people on the sidewalk. He hadn’t expected the guard to chase him this far and certainly hadn’t expected the man to actually keep up. He was only just behind him and if Isaiah tripped or slowed down at all, he’d be caught. He didn’t understand what was so bad about what he’d been about to do. He’d only wanted to cover the hideous graffiti already painted on the building with something better. Honestly, who wants to look at a sea of naked babies? He’d only just raised the spray can when the guard started shouting at him and he’d run. “Stop!” The shouting continued, but Isaiah’s feet took him around the next bend and onto a stretch of green.

There! He hadn’t known where he was going until his eyes locked on the old building, but he walked through this neighborhood to get to school, so he knew it well and he trusted his own feet. Isaiah vaulted the stairs two at a time, flung open the glass paneled doors, and rushed inside. It was at that moment he felt the sharp tug on his backpack. He was caught. “Gotcha!” “Sanctuary!” “Nice try,” The guard gritted his teeth in a smug grin. “Only holy places can grant sanctuary.” “Sanctuary granted.” Both Isaiah and the guard turned in surprise to the librarian who was coming out from around the checkout desk. The stern, no-nonsense look on her face was a comfort to Isaiah who came to this library most evenings. He was known here. His family couldn’t afford to buy books and didn’t have internet at home, so the library was an oasis where he could work on homework and escape into a good story. Her eyes found his in a briefly assessing look and then turned her full focus on the guard. “What is going on here? Let him go.” “I caught him about to tag a building and destroy the artwork the owners had commissioned. He’s coming with me.” “He is going nowhere with you. ‘About to tag a building’ you say. It sounds to me like you stopped the crime before it was committed. In that light, this child has done nothing wrong and you have run down and laid hands on a minor,” Her hand reached out and rested on the desk phone on the counter. Even Isaiah could see the threat in that movement. “You will let him go. Now. Or you will answer to the police.” Now that he wasn’t running anymore Isaiah felt the burn in his lungs and his heart slow its pacing. His muscles were still tense, still ready to flee at a moment’s notice, but with the head librarian on his side, the guard didn’t seem so sure of himself anymore. After a long hesitation, he felt the grip on his backpack finally drop. Isaiah didn’t waste the opportunity and immediately went to stand with the woman. “He needs to be held responsible for what he did.” “According to you he did nothing. And I’m sure this experience will deter him in the future from any similar acts that he might have had planned,” The guard’s mouth pulled to the side in a sneer, but he knew he didn’t have any leverage. “Fine.” And with one last glare at Isaiah, the guard turned and left. Relief washed over Isaiah before the librarian finally turned and locked her gaze on him. It wasn’t nearly as fearsome as the look she’d given the guard, but she’d bent her knees to come down to his level and there was a firmness in her eyes. She’d accept nothing less than honesty from him. “Is what he said true? Were you going to graffiti a building?” “I wasn’t going to graffiti it,” he hedged, “just cover some of the weird stuff in the painting.” She considered his answer a moment before continuing. “And will you be trying that again? Ever?” “No way! If they want something ugly on their building, they can have it. No way I’m going to get chased down again. That was scary.” She kept her eyes on his, almost until it became uncomfortable, before she finally stood. “Good. Back to work ladies,” Isaiah hadn’t noticed until then, but there were two other women nearby who had been watching the situation unfold and had been ready to intervene at a word from their boss. Now they smiled at him pleasantly and went back to checking in and putting away the returned books. The librarian at his side looked down at him now with a smile and began leading him further into the library. “Now, what kind of book are you interested in reading tonight?”

“Sanctuary,” the child cried running into the library “Nice try,” the guard following after sneered, “but only holy places can grant sanctuary.” The librarians glanced at each other. A small nod The head librarian gave the guard a stern look. “Sanctuary granted”

[moonlightlilygarden]

Perigee

Prompt: She locked me in the cave again. I sighed, but it was okay. Her partner would come for me tonight.

—

The metallic click of the key in the door behind me echoed off the walls of the cave, bouncing back strangely from the odd angles of stone. She locked me in–again. I sighed in resignation. It was understandable–recommended, even. It was for everyone’s safety after all. 

She could have at least let me light the candle before she closed the door.

I leaned back against the door and dropped my pouch to the floor. From one of the pockets I pulled my flint and fire striker and set to work on lighting the first of my candles. It’d been a few months since I’d last needed to light a candle in complete darkness, but over the years it became familiar enough that I made quick work of it. 

The cave looked much as it had the last time I’d left it three months ago. 59 paces deep, 27 wide at the back, and only 2 at the mouth where the iron door had been set. It was larger than all of the homes in the village, but without windows or a chimney, the air stayed stale. It was better suited for emergency shelter than daily living, but at least one of the women in the village had prepared fresh straw bedding for me and had even laid a blanket of linen over the top of it. That was better hospitality than I knew I would get back in the city if they knew of my… condition.

I relocated my pouch to the table, fixed the candle into the waiting candlestick, and lowered myself gingerly into the solitary chair. It wobbled slightly but otherwise held firm, a vast improvement from the broken condition I’d left it in the last time. 

It was still late morning and moonrise wasn’t for another several hours. I’d brought with me some rations, but I knew the village woman’s partner would be coming for me tonight, and I didn’t want to spoil my appetite. I reached instead for the quill and journal. The journey from the city hadn’t been long, but I’d spotted an absolutely iridescent starling and needed to detail it before my focus was lost.

Some people claim that the waiting period before an event or experience is the most difficult part. As the anticipation builds, so too do the nerves. Until all in a rush the event is here and the experience is over. Perhaps that’s true in a novel situation, but not when you’ve gone through the same steps, the same dance, so many times.

For example, I knew that the muscle cramps already beginning to seize my lower back would next work around to the front, cutting my body in two like a constricting belt. The spasms would then simultaneously work up my chest and down my thighs as the intensity of each contraction grew. My reason would be the last thing to go. A blessing and a curse. I would know myself and know all that was happening in me until the last moment. As bad as the pain would get, it was still preferable to what I knew came after. So no, the waiting was not the worst part.

I alternated between staying at the desk and walking the length of the cave for as long as I could until I knew if I didn’t move to the bed, I’d be bound to either the chair or the ground until moonrise. My legs almost didn’t obey me, but I gritted my teeth and struggled to cross the small space. 

While the bed was certainly not as soft as my usual accommodations, it was better than the cold or bent alternatives. I turned my head to face the desk, focused on the small flame of the fresh candle, the last I would be lighting tonight, and let my mind drift.

—

It wouldn’t be long now. My hands were starting to constrict into claws. My shallow breaths turning into choked gasps. The pain began to level out, peaking and pressing into a sustained thrum. When the familiar sensation finally fused my lips into a snarl, I heard the commotion outside the door. 

A surprised shout, muffled through the iron door, echoing through the chamber. Several other voices joining the first, issuing commands. 

The door swung open and immediately a man was thrown inside. The final turn of the key, his death knell. He pounded on the door, pleading to be released, and clawed at the seams around the frame in a desperate attempt at escape.

As the saliva pooled in my mouth, my final clear thought was yes, it was good I hadn’t spoiled my appetite. 

[moonlightlilygarden]

Stairway to Heaven

It’s too on the nose. 

Yes, you remember being rushed into the ambulance and the urgency of everyone around you. You even vaguely remember the pain you must have been in while your system was in shock. So it makes sense that you have died and this long flight of pearlescent stairs leading up into the clouds–Seriously? No handrails?–is going to lead you to Heaven. 

But really? A literal stairway to Heaven? What are the chances of some random rock song getting that exact imagery correct? Then again, it was rumored the guitarist sold his soul to the devil, so maybe he wasn’t so far off the mark.

You yourself are an occult practitioner. Were, you suppose now. You never did like any of the titles so many of your colleagues went by. Witch, wizard, sorcerer, magician. They were all too fantastical, too steeped in fiction. You used magic for the practicality of it. You had a life to live and things you wanted, and magic got you those things. As long as you followed the rules and made the best effort you could, everything tended to work out. 

While you more or less kept your mouth shut about your practice, there was no avoiding the occult community. Magic, like technology, is an ever-changing landscape, and while there are many charlatans to avoid, there are some who really do know what they are doing and are advancing the field. Why go through the effort of performing a full demonic evocation if you don’t have to? Just to prove you can? Not your style.

That rubbed some people the wrong way, though. There are–were–more than a few who for one reason or another saw you as a threat. Maybe because they knew you were the real deal and didn’t give a shit about their inflated egos. If they didn’t like when you called them out on their bullshit, that was their problem. Maybe someone in that troll-infested comment wasteland would pay attention and actually learn something. 

The fact is, you’ve made some enemies.

Even if you really have died, you never expected Heaven to be your final destination. You’ve made plenty of deals with supernatural entities in your lifetime and you’re sure that if there is a Heaven, and therefore a capital G God, there’s no way you’ll be welcomed into eternal paradise. 

The fact is, you’ve made some enemies and that stairway is fucking suspicious.

And so you do the only sensible thing and cast a disillusion spell. 

Only nothing happens. The white, never ending rise of stairs remains. 

An uncomfortable itch twitches the skin between your shoulder blades. The kind of irritation you feel when there’s someone unseen watching you. You turn around and realize that you aren’t on a level patch of ground like you thought but that you are on a landing and the steps ahead of you continue down behind you. 

A choice.

You’ve dealt with demons and held conversations with angels before. You’ve always held up your end of the bargain when it came to the demons, and while angels don’t like humans in general, you never got on their bad side and called on them for something frivolous. But you’d also dealt with the fae and with elementals and other beings too. Maybe that’s why you are being offered a choice. Because you know what is out there and it is so much more than the straightlaced dichotomy of good and evil. 

The disillusion spell hadn’t done anything, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a deceit here. A stairway has two directions, but there’s nothing that says going up will take you to Heaven and going down will take you to Hell. It could very well be the opposite.

A choice. Or more accurately, three choices.

Up.

Down.

Neither.

With the same confidence you held in life, you step off the edge.

Having dealt with deceivers your entire life, you finally die and find yourself on the stairway to Heaven. Just in case, you decide to cast one final disillusion spell.

[moonlightlilygarden]

The Wishing Well

Once upon a time, there was a well deep within the forest next to a village. It had at one point been the source of water for the people that lived there, but it was abandoned when water sprung up just inside the town. As the years passed, parents made up stories about the monstrous creatures that lived in the woods so as to keep their children from wandering too far beyond the forest’s border. It was these tales that spurred the older children into tests of bravery and the younger into nightmares.

One day as the sun began to kiss the earth, a young boy chased after his friends into the woods, laughing and calling after them the whole way. As long as they stayed close enough to the edge that they could see the village through the tall, thin trees, going into the forest was not a frightful thing. Ambushing the boy, the two friends covered his eyes with his own hands and spun him in circles. “Come and find us!” they called, circling around him before racing back toward the village. The boy kept his eyes closed and chased after their circling voices. Almost tripping over a tree root, he laughed and opened his eyes. Not seeing his village in the direction he was going, he turned around to return home.

But he could no longer see his village through the trees.

Perhaps his friends were still close by. He called out to them, raising his voice even louder when they didn’t respond. Even though the sun had set, he searched the ground, trying to find the shadows that would tell him the sun’s direction and the way to the village. Seeing the slight length of the nearest shadow, he walked in the opposite direction, cautiously confident of his decision.

As the minutes passed and no village appeared, the boy grew apprehensive. The trees of the forest may have been skinny, but their foliage consumed the sky, shrouding the land in a kind of dark the boy had never experienced before. Knowing he must be walking farther into the forest, he stopped and sat beneath a tree that looked exactly the same as all of the others. If he just stayed there, he thought, someone would find him. Surely the people of his village were already looking for him. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the sounds around him, listening for his name being called.

A shifting of last Autumn’s leaves to his right.

A branch creaking far above his head.

His mind wandered to his mother’s frantic whispers in the dark, careening in tones of mystery and fright as she wove stories of the monsters that lurked in the woods.

The screams of a mouse lifting up into the sky.

The crack of an old branch splitting from its mother and falling to the ground.

A steady crunch of pebbles and dirt.

Footsteps! The boy darted to his left, hoping beyond hope that someone had come to his rescue. Breaking into a small clearing, the boy opened his mouth to call out, only to have his voice vanish and his body take a step back in fear.

Before him stood a tall figure, cloaked in robes the color of midnight shadows. The boy may not have even seen him if it wasn’t for the sliver of moonlight that leaked through the leaves and gleamed off of the figure’s slowly moving hands. It wasn’t until those pale, thin hands grasped the bucket that the boy realized the figure was stooped over an old well. The boy wanted to run, but the figure had already inclined his head in the boy’s direction.

They are human hands, the boy reasoned with himself. This is just a man. Fighting his body’s desire to run, the boy took a step forward. Then another. Just a man, he thought. Standing before the cloaked figured, the boy attempted speech but failed.

A wrinkled hand reached out to the boy’s face and the small body prepared once again to run, but was frozen in place. With the palm against the face and the thumb pointed to the ground, the hand slid slowly and softly from the boy’s forehead to his chin. When it crossed his lips, the man in the cloak spoke.

“I am hungry.”

The hand left the boy’s face and the cloaked figure picked up the bucket and walked back into the forest.

The deer trail that had once been a solid path still connected the well and the village. It was by following this trail that the boy was able to return to his home. Although the welcome from his parents was joyous, he couldn’t get the strange man in the cloak out of his head. He haunted the boy’s dreams that night, but the fright was erased from them and all that remained were the words.

“I am hungry.”

In the brightness of day, the woods didn’t seem nearly as terrifying as they had been the night before, or so the boy thought as he followed the trail back to the well. The birds sung just as they did on the branches of the trees in the town. The animals went about their business just as the humans did. Nothing seemed odd or out of place.

The well, when the boy approached it, looked almost cheerful with the spattering of sunlight on its moss covered stones. Allowing the sun to warm his skin, the boy placed an apple on the edge of the well. He looked at it, wondering what leaving an apple for the cloaked figure would accomplish. With a shrug he turned back to the path and started home. It didn’t matter if it accomplished anything, he decided. He felt more at ease just by doing it.

The rest of the day seemed easy for the boy. Chores were simple and almost enjoyable. His mother baked him a small pie. Even the boys who had left him in the woods were apologetic and eager to win his favor back. He had, after all, spent almost an entire night in the woods and had survived the monsters.

When the sun started to go down, the easiness began to vanish and a peculiar kind of curiosity took its place. He wanted to know if the cloaked man had taken the apple. What did it matter? He tried to reason with himself, but there was no satisfying the urge to return to the well. To settle his nerves, he decided that if he still felt this way in the morning, he would return to the well in the daylight and see if the apple was gone.

Waking just as the sun was high enough to enter his room, the boy bounded out of bed and rushed out of the house. He had had a terrible time trying to sleep the night before as his curiosity gnawed at the edges of his dreams.

He wasted no time with shoes or shirt and raced down the path that his feet were beginning to memorize. He caught a glimpse of the well just before the trees broke into the clearing.

The apple was gone!

The boy’s face stretched into an excited smile as he approached the well. The cloaked man had taken the apple!

No, he reasoned. A deer could have stolen it.

Or it could have fallen into the well!

The boy rushed forward and leaned into the opening. The darkness was as deep as the night had been in this forest. He could see no bottom. He could see no apple.

As he leaned back away from the opening, a glint on the well’s lip caught his eye. A small silver coin rested on the stone exactly where the apple had been placed. The boy took it up with excitement. The man really had taken it! Strange markings lined the coin’s faces but the boy merely glanced at them before placing the coin in his pocket and returning home.

Every day that week the boy left an apple at the well in the forest for the strange man in the cloak of midnight shadows. And every day the apple would still be there the next day. No new coins were left at the well and no other strange presents appeared there. Soon the boy stopped making his daily trip and life returned to normal for him in the village.

Life seemed to be blessing the boy and his family. His mother began baking his favorite pie for him whenever he wished for it and the boys who used to play tricks on him stayed far away when he told them to. His father’s livestock grew healthier and everyone in the family was happier for it.

The coin remained in the boy’s pocket for so long, he forgot about it.

One day the boy awoke with a fever and was ordered by his mother to stay in bed. The day outside his window was warm and sunny with only a few spots of clouds in the heavens. The people of the town bustled along happily, carrying out their day with energy and enthusiasm.

It disgusted the boy.

If he was sick in bed, the boy wished, everyone in the town should be sick too.

Seeking escape in his pillow, the boy fell back asleep.

It was midafternoon when the boy finally opened his eyes again. The birds were still chirping in the trees under the bright sun, but the people of the village seemed strange. Their bodies moved sluggishly and with great effort. The boy supposed the day was wearing on and so everyone was preparing for the evening. Feeling better, the boy slid out of his bed and wandered into the kitchen where his mother was busy preparing the evening meal. She jumped when he called out to her and she held her hand to her heart as if to keep it from bursting through her chest. Dismissing her surprise, she rushed to his side and felt his forehead, nodding when she was satisfied that his fever had receded. Sitting down at the table, the boy waited for supper to be done.

His father came in not long after, looking as worn as the town did. He told his wife and child about how everyone in the village suddenly became sick. The village elders and young children were on their deathbeds if they hadn’t died already as the babies had. The boy’s eyes were wide when his father left the room to get cleaned up. Hadn’t he wished for everyone in the town to be sick like him earlier?

To test his theory, he quietly wished that his mother was no longer sick. He watched as her back straightened and her head lifted. She exclaimed at her sudden change of health and continued making dinner with her usual enthusiasm. Calling out to his mother, he ran from the house, promising a quick return.

Running down the path in the forest, the boy removed the coin from his pocket. He realized the pies, the distance from his rival boys, the health of his family’s cattle, had been because he had wished for it. But his wishes had only started coming true after he found the coin. He had to get rid of it.

Reaching the well at last, the boy looked at the coin and made two last wishes.

He wished for the people of the village to return to their normal healthy selves.

He wished for no one to find the coin ever again.

With a reluctance he had not known he had, he held the coin above the well and struggled to let it drop from his hand.

Finally, his body obeyed and the coin dropped soundlessly into the forest’s well.