Samhain Night Fever
A Halloween Mythocide tale [3,700 words]. Mal has a spooky experience on All Hallows' Eve...(Been a while since I posted here. I'm still writing but most of my stuff gets published elsewhere now)
I’m back in Lyon for a short break. I still have a place in the old town and nobody seems interested in renting it out for the winter so I might as well make use of it.
It’s well after midnight and I’m on my way home following a Halloween party, a little worse for wear. The organisers had provided casks of draught beer from several local breweries. I’d felt obliged to try them all.
It might sound a bit childish but I’m dressed as The Lone Ranger. The duster coat and boots are part of my regular wardrobe but I bought the mask, the white Stetson, and the blue shirt and jeans especially for the occasion. A silver star is pinned to my coat to finish the look. Oh, and the pair of ivory-handled, Colt forty-fives in the holsters attached to my belt are real; as is the Deringer in a special pocket in my right sleeve. Don’t worry, they’re not loaded, I’m not a complete idiot. The appropriate bullets are safely stored in my pockets.
Yes, I know, I’m a walking, talking triad of Chekhov’s gun but we’ll get there. There’s the spooky part to get through first.
As I walk past the ornate gates of the Tête d'or park, a young lad comes scrambling over. He’s in a hell of a hurry. I’m sure he’s up to no good but it’s none of my business.
As he rounds the top, his coat gets caught on the fancy ironwork. He pulls at it desperately until it rips, and he falls. He hits the ground with a horrible, “thud!” I rush over to give him a hand. He gets straight to his feet and tries to run but he’s hurt his ankle and he sinks back down, sobbing.
“Do you want me to call you an ambulance?” I offer.
“No, no, please don’t!” he says. He clearly doesn’t want the authorities involved. I told you that he was up to no good.
“So, what have you been doing?” I ask.
“Nothing, we did nothing. We were just fishing.”
“We? Where are your friends?”
“It got him.” He starts sobbing uncontrollably.
I sit next to him and put my arm around his shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
Between sobs, he recounts how he and his friend, Pascal, had gone fishing in the lake, “the biggest fish come out at night,” he insists. They’d been on the île du Souvenir (an island in the middle of the lake which is home to a war memorial) when a horse had appeared. Pascal had gone to pet the horse. He’d become stuck to it and the horse had galloped into the lake, taking Pascal with him. After that, he’d ran.
Imagine thinking that I could catch a break, especially on Halloween of all days. If I’m honest, I came to town to get away from mythics for a while. Normally, urban areas are anathema to them but recently, they’ve been turning up in the most unexpected places.
A strange horse that drags people into the water, it’s got to be a kelpie but what the hell it’s doing here is beyond me.
I call the kid an Uber (on me) and wait with him until it arrives. “Make sure you get that ankle seen to in the morning,” I tell him. I make a mental note of the address he gives the driver, just in case, and I wave him off.
I know that I should just go home but I don’t like the idea of a murderous mythic on the loose in town.
I seriously can’t be arsed to climb over the gates so I pick the lock with a set of lock picks I’d recently purchased on the Internet. They were sold by a company which uses large-breasted women in their promotional videos. I’m a sucker for that kind of marketing.
I push the heavy gate shut behind me but I don’t lock it - that might be important later on.
I was expecting the park to be lit somewhat but it’s not at all. The street lights and the headlights of passing cars illuminate the periphery but inside is a heart of darkness. I turn on my phone’s torch but I notice that the battery is nearly spent. I’d better save it, just in case. Besides, I don’t want to be seen wandering around the park after closing time. I’m sure that there will be overnight security.
The moon is a slim crescent but it provides enough light to make out the dark waters ahead of me. Boats bob along the shore. He’d said that they had been on the île du Souvenir. I’ve been here many times before so I know that there’s a tunnel connecting the island to the mainland on the west side of the lake so I head there.
I follow the tree-lined path down the side of the lake. The air is chill and the tree trunks are dark shadows against the darkness of the night. The hazy, yellow glow of far-off street lights to my left reminds me of civilisation.
On my right, two sets of stone steps lead down to the entrance of the tunnel. It looks like an infinity pool - the dark water of the lake is at the same level as the roof of the tunnel as if the steps lead to some other realm. I walk down the steps and pull at the gates but they are locked. “Damn,” I say as I search in my pockets for my lock picks. Before I can find them, the gate swings inwards with an ominous creak.
They must have just been stuck and I released them when I gave them a pull, I tell myself. Why they took so long to open afterwards will have to remain a mystery, I don’t have time to think about it.
Clouds cover the moon and I’m plunged into darkness. The way ahead is even darker, pitch black. I can’t see the walls on either side and the exit is an unknown distance off.
I put my hand out in front of me and shuffle forward. The ground is slippery underfoot and I can’t see a thing.
There’s a low rumble through the tunnel, the wind or maybe it’s the water flowing above, I assume. I can also hear my own sloshing footsteps as well as water dripping down the walls. There’s a recurring whirring sound, maybe it’s the plumbing? The sounds are slight but enhanced by the darkness.
I hear a second set of footsteps splashing behind me. It must be echoes. I pause and the footsteps behind me continue, heading away. I turn but there is nothing to see but darkness. I only succeed in disorientating myself. I stagger towards the wall and point myself in what I hope is the right direction but it’s hard to tell in the darkness.
Laughing voices echo through the tunnel. Maybe the kid had been winding me up and his friend or friends are still on the island.
“Who’s there?” I shout but the only reply is the echo of imagined laughter.
I can’t help but think about liminal spaces - about crossing over - but there are no tell-tale signs of a portal leading Beyond the Veil. Maybe the beer has anaesthetised my sensitivity to the signs.
My own breathing comes to the fore in deep inhalations as the exit doorway a few meters ahead of me is suddenly illuminated.
I quicken my pace while I can see where I’m heading, being careful not to slip on the damp floor and I reach the stairs leading onto the island.
A stone staircase leads up to a paved area at the south end of the island. There’s just enough light to make out the walls of the war memorial with more steps to the left leading up and others leading down to the lake to my right. If I hadn’t been here before I’d be lost in the dark. As I remember, there is a central, raised area with a statue surrounded on three sides by trees and walls bearing the names of the fallen from the First World War. It can be a lovely spot for quiet contemplation in the daytime but tonight, it’s a portentous place full of shadows.
I see a pair of abandoned fishing rods sitting at the end of one of the short piers that jut out either side of the steps leading into the lake, next to an open tackle box. At least the boy wasn’t lying about that. Now, where is that horse?
The wind rustles through the leaves in the trees behind me. I shiver as a dense mist rises from the surface of the lake and covers the ground. I walk back along the narrow pier. In the darkness and with the obscuring mist around my feet I could easily step into the lake. At this time of year that would be a chilling experience.
Back on the relatively safer terrace of the island, I pause and take a deep breath. The mist continues to rise, obscuring my feet and ankles, swirling slowly in smoky whirlpools as if drawn by invisible undercurrents slithering through the air. My footsteps leave nebulous wakes as I walk back towards the centre of the island.
Something is emerging from the water. A dark, rounded shadow bulges the murky layer upwards and it rises, drawing the mist with it like a child’s ghost costume. It is illuminated by an eerie blue-green glow like bioluminescence as it advances up the steps to stand on the platform where it pauses.
I push myself against the wall of the war memorial and inch my way around the corner. Whatever the uncertain shape is, I know that I don’t want it to notice me.
I watch in awe as the strange, spectral shroud of mist opens like a cloak and I hear a sickening slurping sound as something flops to the floor in front of it, then the floating shade silently ascends the stairs, dragging the layers of brume behind it like the train of a ghostly bridal gown. The mist trails afterwards, uncovering the stone surface and revealing the dark lake below.
I rub my eyes. What did I just witness? Everything seems to be back to normal and I wonder if it was a hallucination or a flashback. Then the lake begins to bubble, foaming and gurgling as if boiling and dozens of fish start flinging themselves out of the water onto the steps. Wriggling and writhing, they try to mount the steps like some suicidal spawning run. Scales flash in the moonlight and soon, the flagstones are covered with flapping fish of all shapes and sizes, concertedly convulsing in a suffocating, shared swan song. I watch wide-eyed as the outrageous oscillations of the scintillating, squirming, worming piscine immolation slowly slackens and then stops.
A hundred dead fish eyes stare up at me accusingly. Bony mouths gasp soundlessly as sagging gills quiver uselessly and the last of life departs the sickening scene.
The moon disappears behind thick clouds, plunging me back into darkness and drawing a sombre curtain over the repugnant performance.
In the darkness, a foreboding glow becomes visible from the centre of the island providing the only light. The shrouded spectre is still up there.
I pick my way through the fallen fish. A dark, irregular shape glows obscurely in the dim luminance emanating from above where the mysterious figure had paused. I look down in horror at a mass of dark flesh, a liver, a human liver, and a pile of intestines. Suddenly, the stilled lake surface begins to bubble again. I sprint back to the wall, terrified of another suicidal shower of fish.
This time it’s worse. An army of crabs comes scuttling up the stairs. The crustaceans begin chopping at the fish flesh with their claws and dragging the chunks back into the lake. In a few minutes, the carcasses have been picked clean and returned to the water. I’m left dumbfounded again, wondering what the hell I had witnessed.
I run back to the tunnel, determined to escape the aquatic horrors of this nightmare island but the gate is now locked. I struggle at the lock with my tools but they turn to rust and break. Unless I want to swim back to the mainland, I’m stuck here.
“Don’t go. I’m lonely.” A sultry, unsubstantial voice fills the air. I swallow hard and head to the source of the sound.
I mount the stairs to the central area, loading my pistols on the way. As I arrive at the top, I can see the silhouette of a young woman sitting on a stone platform in front of a cenotaph representing bearers of a tombstone wrapped in a shroud. The only light is a blue-green glow emanating from the woman herself.
Water weeds drip from her damp hair and hang over her slim shoulders. She’s dressed in a diaphanous, tight-fitting gown that folds and clings to her delicate, moist body, glistening wet in the moonlight.
I approach her but I’m unsure if I am moving under my own violation or if she has somehow mesmerised me and brought me under her control.
I’ve faced monsters before, many times, it’s my job but there is something different about this woman. I’ve also met intelligent mythics before, they are strange, fae and often impenetrable but they have never felt like this.
She beckons me forward and I approach. She rises to meet me. I notice that she is floating above the ground.
“You killed that boy,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Killed and ate him, yes. Apart from the liver and the intestines, I can’t abide offal,” she replies nonchalantly.
“Thanks. That’s all I needed to know.” I draw a pistol, cock it and prepare to shoot right at her all in one swift movement but my finger freezes.
She looks at me quizzically. “That was unkind,” she says then she lifts her hand and gestures with a finger. Involuntarily, I lower the gun.
She turns her hand in front of her and I press the barrel of the Colt under my chin. I can’t stop it. I feel my finger squeezing the trigger. I try to fight it but I sense that she has chosen not to make me pull it fully. My finger trembles as it holds the trigger just on the threshold of firing.
“I think I have made my point,” she says. My trigger finger relaxes and my hand drops to my side. I sigh in relief. I’m in control again but it is clear that it is only at her discretion.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? This is a public park in the middle of a city. How can you even survive here?
Who I am is none of your concern neither is what I’m doing here. If it will appease you, you should know that I’m just passing through. I would have been gone already had I not been offered the opportunity to feed. I had expected this place to be empty.
“You ate a young boy,” I remind her.
“As I will devour you in turn; I will be well-satiated for the rest of my journey.”
So she intends to kill and eat me unless I do something but what can I do? She can stop me as soon as I go for my guns.
I have to hope that she can’t read my mind as I think about the Deringer hidden in my coat sleeve. How can I make sure that she won’t see it coming? It isn’t loaded with silver bullets, which, if you believe the folklore, are required to kill her but it might hurt her and provide a distraction for me to escape. But where will I escape to? We’re surrounded by water, her natural element. If I end up in there I’ll be even more at her mercy. I need another plan.
Folklore can be unreliable but there is usually some truth to the tales that endure. I have no choice but to rely on what I know.
I look at the kelpie straight in the face. She has overly large, overly round eyes that are full of dark malice and her mouth almost stretches from ear to ear like a fresh wound, otherwise, she’s cute.
I approach her and stroke her hair then her cheek. It’s a hell of a risk but I’ve learned that most mythics are quite vain. Meanwhile, I pull my right hand inside my coat sleeve and finger the Deringer. Once I have it firmly in my grip, I fire.
The bullet blows right through her abdomen, leaving a dripping hole. She falls backwards and screams like a banshee. The scream hurts my head like thunder but I ignore it. I need every second I have to prepare.
I unbuckle my belt, letting the holsters fall to the ground and I pull my hunting knife out of my boot. I quickly carve a crude cross in the leather as she rises back in front of me.
Her unnatural mouth is open wide in outrage and I lasso the belt over it and pull it tight.
The lore states that a halter bearing a cross can be used to control a kelpie. I hope that my hastily improvised version has the same effect.
“Stop!” I command. She stops moving at an awkward angle, halfway between lying and sitting. So far so good. “Sit up,” I say. “And don’t even think about trying to control me,” I add, just to make it clear.
She sits upright on the slab, her bug eyes bulging wide in fear and confusion.
“Now, I will ask you again. Who are you and why are you here?”
She mumbles something in reply but the belt in her mouth makes it indecipherable.
Without taking my eyes off her, I reach down and pick up one of my fallen holsters. I fumble awkwardly the get the pistol out with one hand while I hold the makeshift bridle tight in my other hand.
Once it’s free, I point the pistol in her face while I loosen the belt and let it fall to her neck before pulling it tight again.
“One more time, who are you and why are you here?”
“I am named Namira,” she replies. “I am on my way from Bretagne to join La Maisnie Hellequin for la Chasse sauvage as my master commands.”
The Wild Hunt? I just encountered them back in England, what are they doing here in France? Unless it’s not the same hunt!
There are many tales of the Wild Hunt all across Europe. I’d always considered them to be referring to the same phenomena under different names but what if they were not the same? What if there are several Wild Hunts scattered across Europe and they are all gathering at the same time?
That’s a horrifying thought. One Wild Hunt in its full power would decimate an unsuspecting town or even a city. What could several at once do? It would be like Armageddon or Ragnarök.
“Who is your master?” I demand.
“The Hornéd One, you fool,” she replies.
“Tell me more,” I demand, pulling the belt tighter.
“There is nothing more to say. Your doom is coming, mortal. We are coming to reclaim our world!” Then she laughs a hideous laugh.
I hear the furious rushing of water all around me. Not another shower of fish, I think but it’s much worse than that.
The water all around the island has receded and now it’s heading back in an enormous tidal wade threatening to flood the island.
“You never commanded me not to harm you. Feel my wrath,” she says, grinning an awful grin.
As the waters rush towards us, her face starts to grow and elongate as her body expands. Her limbs stretch out impossibly as her hands and feet turn into hooves as she assumes her equine form.
Grasping the belt that’s still attached around her neck, I swing myself onto her back. She starts kicking and bucking under me but this isn’t my first rodeo.
“This isn’t my first rodeo, bitch…, mare…, bitch-mare,” I exclaim as I press my Colt to her temple and fire three silver bullets into her horse flesh (Lone Ranger, Chekov’s gun, you must have seen it coming). Her head explodes and she collapses to the ground.
I roll off and get to my feet. I’d like to say that I blew the smoke from the barrel of my gun but I didn’t think of it at the time.
The water is still coming.
It’s too late to stop the tsunami so it looks like I’m going to perish anyway despite all of my arcane knowledge and my quick thinking. I might as well try.
I rush to the nearest tree and start climbing. Halfway up, I hoop my belt around a thick branch and around my wrist and fasten it as tight as I can then I hug the branch with all my strength as the tumult hits.
The force of the rushing water uproots the tree along with many others. I hold my breath as I’m dragged underwater before surging back up and gasping for air.
Eventually, the waters calm. I unfasten my belt and hold on to what’s left of the tree and kick myself towards the shore.
Soaking and exhausted, I drag myself onto dry land where I rest for a while.
One death, not counting the kelpie and the fish, I muse. It’s not too bad an outcome considering. Then again, at least two Wild Hunts are mustering across the continent. I’m going to need backup.
As much as I hate the idea, I might have to get back in touch with my former employers, even though they want to kill me.
Buy My Books!
The Bizarchives
Toadstool
Great story I did chuckle at the Bumpkey ref. Madlizzie75👍