Literary Revelations wishes everyone who cerebrates a Happy Halloween.
Telling scary stories is one of the Halloween’s traditions. Today we feature dark fantasy by Spyder Collins.
Trigger warning: Those of you who do not like this genre are advised not to read.
Eve of Elena
Alas, she sings, and with each note, my heart beats. Her warmth washes over me like the rising sun upon freshly fallen snow. She, my love, my soul, and the warmth of Heaven’s grace. Here with me, my dearest.
It has been a fortnight since the return of my darling Elena on Forefathers’ Eve—the night of ghosts and ghouls, a child’s play of tricks or treats. It will be a night I will never forget, nor take as play.
You see, a seer portended the fall of my love. She would surrender to consumption, if I did not take precautions. I, a proud and in retrospect foolish man, refused the seer. I had no belief in such craft or any craft I could not physically witness. Carpenters and masonries were crafters. I begrudge the wise who looked at mystics with a believing eye.
Enough of my ignorance. I am so pleased with the necromancer who came to my aid. Her raiment of ancient times and incantation from the tongues of devils brought my Elena home.
I fell into a grave sorrow upon Elena’s passing. The consumption riddled her with pain and dolor. My guilt rode on a trail of snide quips to the doctors who tried to cure her. Their failure was my guilt, and that failure stoked my fury. I would not let them take her after her death. She lay in my bed until her rotted flesh soaked the bed and the stench became unbearable.
As she was placed into the ground, I vowed—silently—that she would return to me. I struggled with courage, belief, and a willingness to sell it all for her. In the end, I did. My eternal life is nothing. I live for today, and this day I want Elena.
On the night of October thirty-first and until the aurora of November first, my immeasurable love would be tested. The necromancer did her due. I won’t go into details of the incantations or the process of removing the dead from their sacred home. It is not something I wish to narrate or relive. Just know you would need to prepare yourself for that unholiest affair.
Elena is here now. Her melodic voice carries the beauty of her soul, though she sings of longing for death, The fey sound haunts each moment of each hour, of each day and night. She never sleeps. My heart sings of joy—madness, perhaps. Her flesh is all but decayed from her bones. Her clothing hangs, as it did in the armoire. Her scent is as I imagine hell will be for me. Sulfuric, biting, and oddly metallic.
She sits before her vanity, as she has done many times. The empty stare at her reflection is unnerving. She’s all but brushed her hair from what remains of her scalp. Her sunken eyes shed tears, I swear it. Impossible, I know, or a product of my growing insanity. One must ask themself if this may be bedlam; it could only be expected.
My gluttony will never wane, no. I fear thralldom has me in its clutches. I wonder what will become of her when I find death’s door. But I’ve no time for such thoughts.
Elena, my love…welcome home.
Spyder also wrote a poem for us.
As the gloaming arrives
my hopes for my love arise
it has been far too long
since I have heard her melodic song
Quietus the rogue took her
from between my loving arms
in my shame I confess, I did not stir
to protect my beloved from harm
On the altar on All Hallows’ Eve
this incantation I weave
to sell my eternal soul to him
as my future is quite dim
Evermore on the raven’s wing
darkness casts its eternity River Styx
endless flames it brings
I will drown in Hades’ pitiless sea
I will pay my due, whatever it may be
to share another moment, her with me
for my undying love is greater than God
for I know the truth of His façade
I’ll play that wager for her
and I will take my punishment, for her
as there is no life, without her
this forevermore is for her