THE TOPIC OF THIS CONTEST WAS:
The sagging porch faced east. Beyond the field of rotting pumpkins, a blood moon was rising. After a long day of moonshining, the two men alternated swigging from the same jug. They’d both heard the stories. They knew they had to get inside before the moon turned orange. Then, they noticed a little girl in a white dress skipping in their direction…
(Stories need only touch on this topic in some way to qualify. And, they could not exceed 850 words.) Before you continue reading, take a moment to consider where you would take that story…
It is considered impolite to play with one’s food. This is just as true among the fae as it is among humans. However, I not only feed on flesh and blood; my sustenance also comes from fear and anxiety. I like to make my human victims marinate in dread. Let it steep in their bones. Let it curdle their breath. The more they squirm, the sweeter the taste.
There is a subtle art involved when inducing fear. If your visage is too frightening, the victim tends to flee. Or worse yet, fight. Bullets of lead and copper are crude, don’t do any permanent damage, but are painful nonetheless. The weapons of the past, swords and axes of iron, were a more serious threat to us. Funny how modernity has made humans easier to hunt. They’ve traded iron for ignorance, and many have forgotten the old rules.
I have decided to take on the guise of a young girl. For some reason, a girl is far more unsettling than a boy. I always found that fascinating. The white dress helps, I think. Something about innocence keeps them intrigued.
Humans are a strange paradox. As a species, they are generally intelligent. But many individuals make very questionable decisions. Take my latest two morsels, for example. There they are, sitting on their sagging porch, sipping from the same jug.
Ugh.
The human mouth is notoriously unsanitary and is a veritable microbial jungle. Alcohol helps mitigate risk, but why gamble with pathogens, parasites, or worse? They share everything. Jugs. Stories. Beds. Wives. Humans are communal in the most self-sabotaging ways.
Drinking from the same jug was careless. Staying out past moonrise was reckless. They know the legends and the moon is rising. The Veil Between is at its thinnest and our people can directly attack the moment the moon turns orange. Perhaps it’s a deep-seated craving for danger. It seems rather foolish, but it does make it easier for me to get a meal.
But legends fade. Warnings become folklore. And folklore becomes entertainment. That’s when we feast.
I watch them from the edge of the field, just beyond the pumpkin patch. My bare feet move soundless and my dress glows faintly in the moonlight. I skip, slowly. Deliberately. I hum a tune older than their language. One of them squints and the other stops mid-swig.
They see me.
Good.
Let the fear begin.
* * *
The jug passed between the two men like a ritual. One swigged, then the other. The moon had cleared the treeline now, crimson, swollen, unblinking
“Damn thing’s orange,” muttered Clay, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Not quite yet,” said Boone. “Still got some time.”
They both stared out across the field of pumpkins blackened and soft. Then they saw her.
A little girl. White dress. Bare feet. Skipping. Humming.
Clay stood first. “You see that?”
Boone nodded, slow. “She ain’t right.”
The girl moved with an unnatural rhythm. Step, skip, hum. Step, skip, hum. Her voice was thin, like wind through a reed. She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile. She just kept coming.
Boone reached behind the door and pulled out the shotgun. Clay grabbed the lantern and stepped off the porch.
“Little one,” he called. “You lost?”
The girl stopped. Her head tilted oddly. The humming ceased.
Boone stepped down beside him. “Blood moon,” he said, low. “Skipping girl. Maybeó”
“I think we’re about to find out.”
The girl took another step. Then another. Her eyes were too dark. Too deep. Clay raised the lantern higher.
“Sorry miss, but you need to stop right there.”
She did. But her mouth opened revealing five rows of needle-like teeth.
Boone fired.
The blast lit up the field. The girl vanished in a blur. Too fast, too fluid. The shot tore through a rotted pumpkin instead. Then the air changed.
The girl reappeared behind them. Her voice was in their ears. Her breath on their necks.
“You should’ve gone inside.”
Boone turned, swinging the shotgun like a club. Clay stumbled back toward the porch, reaching for a lever beneath the steps. The girl lunged. But the ground gave way.
A circle of iron, buried beneath the soil, flared to life. Runes etched in rust pulsed blue and green. The girl shriekedónot in pain, but in surprise. Her form flickered. The white dress melted into shadow. Her limbs elongated, spindly and gnarled, like branches of an ancient tree.
Boone dropped the shotgun. Clay slammed the trapdoor shut.
The field went silent.
The orange moon hung above them, watching.
* * *
Capturing fae is a dangerous pastime, but many are arrogant and overconfident. They think we’ve forgotten. That we’ve traded iron for ignorance. That we no longer know how to listen for the hum of the old tongue.
But we remember.
Fear is a currency they spend too freely. They forget that some of us have learned to counterfeit it. To wear it like bait. To let them feedójust enough.
The creature will thrash for a while. They always do. Then it will bargain. They always try.
But the runes are old. And the circle remains intact.
We’ll wait until the moon fades.
Then we’ll ask our questions.
