A taste of my written work, waiting for you below.

Remnants

The ground is tainted here, filled with old memories and forgotten names. A wash of feeling invisible to the casual traveller but to me, as I settle and begin to make camp, it’s almost crippling. A miasma of confusion and pain that seeps up from the ground and swirls around me, begging to be heard. I ask them to be patient. Promising them that I will listen. It is, afterall, why I came here. 

Once my tent is ready and a campfire is lit, defiantly bright against the seeping black sky, I call to a nearby stone. A large, flat topped slab that heeds my whistle like a jagged, grey dog. Grinding through grass and mud. Rushing to my side and slipping into its new place behind me. Good.

I thank the stone, pulling back the spark of animation I gifted it as I do. Letting it become empty once more, before those shifting in the soil can grow jealous. A revolution it would be best to avoid.

I sit on my newfound seat, settling in place, back to the fire. Close enough that I can feel the flickering flames dancing on the nape of my neck. Burning into the small of my back, too hot for comfort. An extreme heat necessary to counteract the plunging cold that would soon consume me. 

To touch death is to touch the void, the endless emptiness that eats every breath, chewing on vital essence while hungering for more. Emptying you until only remnants are left behind. No warmth. No life. Just stillness, bone… and for the unlucky ones, like the ones here, regret. A final, unbroken tether that binds them to the world, leaving them to fester. Unheard, until now.

I'm ready. I close my eyes and call to them as I did the stone. It takes far more power this time, a dangerous amount. Pulled from my reserves, dwindling them from a triumphant ocean to an aching puddle. My fingers begin to shake, turning pale and dark to match my toes that have already done the same. My jaw winds tight, bouncing on its hinge, muscles begging for heat. The fire is barely noticeable now. It’s burning roar reduced to a whispered spark, dying even as I do. Crossing right to life's threshold that I might open the door.

I do not move. I do not look. Instead I focus on those nameless, hidden senses to tell me when it is time. Trusting in the gift that once saw me abandoned and cast from home to home. A monster best left to the street. Far away from family gardens and the pets that lay resting there, begging for one more hour with their owners. An hour my heart had ached to give them. An hour that had cost me dearly each time. I learned quickly that reunion rarely is a joyous thing when cloaked in rotting fur and trailing flies.

Im older now. Maybe not wiser, but I've accepted my place. My people. Twisted shapes with barely a notion of what they once were. Babes crying out without the words to express their desire. I reach out to each of them, touching them in turn with a hand absent of flesh and sinew, a construct of power alone. A gentle welcome that invites them to the surface. Come to me. Come to me and find your voice once more.

All at once the ground begins to boil. I hear it torn apart around me in violent sprays as the tenants of this abandoned, makeshift graveyard begin to claw the soil away. An army of burrowing, wild things that flail and twist without grace. Driven by need with no artifice to hide what they are. No shame in their malformation. After all, they were not the ones who broke these haphazard bodies that now climb. They are not the bearers of that sin.

My eyes only open when the world falls still. Silent but for the crackling of wood eaten by fire. That distant heat, my only tether. One now shared by my countless guests. As my vision adjusts I find them waiting, surrounding me in the dark. A ring of white, watching with empty sockets. Uncertain how to approach. Terrified to lose this opportunity and be cast back into mindlessness. I remind myself to be gentle, to respect their fear.

I gesture to one, a small thing missing both legs. They drag themselves forward, curving around the freshly dug holes to avoid being entombed once more. Pulled along by exposed finger joints, fleshless but bound together by my power. Bones forced to remember their shape. Held together long enough that they can enter the firelight and rest just beyond my feet. Cracked skull angled upward to meet my own. Toothless jaw hanging open, a whisper spilling out of it.

Murderer. Betrayer. Kinslayer. Accusations formed from sorrow, each riding the chill night’s breeze up and to me. Begging me to listen, to hear and understand. I do. I make sure they know that with every nod, my eyes never leaving them until the tale is done. Waiting for their jaw to snap upward with a rattling click, a signal that they, or as I had just learned, her part is done. Now she waits for mine.

I reach into my jacket, fumbling with numb fingers that are sluggish to respond. Working my way into an inner pocket and grasping the twin tools that reside there. Vital components of my craft. Ink and paper. Another form of memory, one that would hold hers now. I begin to write, the letters scratchy and uneven. Poor handwriting from one so practised, but hardly surprising from flesh that felt submerged in ice.

I record it all. Her name: Edwina. The accused’s name: Adam. Their home: 22 Rose Street, Trannau, Oldport. Every detail is carefully marked in its place, the page split into helpful rows waiting to be filled. Already half is black from previous conversations like this one, the ink long dried, the book now mostly full. I would need a new one soon, this record joining a dozen others when complete. A row of black, nameless leather on a shelf in my study. Proof of my work.

When I am done, satisfied that no detail is missing, I close the ledger with a snap. Unnecessary force but the sound is part of the ritual. A closing of this moment. The beginning of the end. There is one last thing I need from Edwina now: the promise. 

Her vow to fulfil her duties to me, even as I give her the same in return. I ask for her service, for a year and a day. To be bound to me. A voice to be called upon, her memories and life fuel for my questions. A simple exchange: her knowledge for my knife. The price of vengeance. One that she, like the hundred others swirling around inside me, gladly pays. Her jaw falls one open final time, empty ribs heaving out a desperate acceptance. No sooner is it spoken than her shell falls to dust. 

I feel her joining me. Babbling excitedly, greeting the others. Spinning in the pool of voices that clings to me like droplets in a rainstorm. I give them a moment before demanding silence. My business this night is far from over, work that requires every ounce of my concentration if I do not want to slip too far and fall over the precipice, joining them all in death. I would be unable to keep my promises then. That makes them quiet. 

And so the night continues, with nearly two dozen pale shapes taking their turn before me. Each given time to speak, recorded and then bound. Joining the growing pile of dust that by night's end would rival the fires' ashes. Strangers whittled down to the last. A nearly full skeleton that shook and rattled with every step as it approached me, a sign not of their weakness but mine. Exhaustion is dragging my chin low and eyelids lower. Still, I hold on long enough to hear them speak. Making sure their story finds its way into the world, and then my ledger. Truth recorded and made real. 

Only as their spirit enters me do I at last let my power fade. Releasing my intangible grip on the land, and in return losing hold of my own body. Falling forward onto the cold ground that to my shivering flesh feels like beach sand, boiling from an imagined sun. I hear them all, whispering into my ear as darkness comes. Thanking me, wishing me sweet dreams. Welcoming my rest, knowing that sunrise would bring a new day. A fresh chance to fulfil my promises and make them whole.

If ever I have my doubts, these moments dispel them. To hear the joy of the damned, knowing myself both jailor and saviour to each one. A walking prison that will see them all freed. That is my purpose, one that brings a smile to my lips as I fail to reach my tent and instead give in to sleep here on the ground. Filled with countless dreams, so few of them mine.