The Coven

A creative writing short story post! This was meant to be posted on Halloween but honestly- let the spooky vibes continue into the 5th day of November. And like we say in Bulgarian, pozdravi:)

The brambles were scratching her delicate palms, creating tiny incisions along her wrist and cheeks. She knew nothing, and saw only the thicket of forest fauna. She knew green- that was everywhere. She felt calm in the darkness, was born in it- had the minimal sliver of knowledge that it had raised her with its own two shadowy hands. As one would rest their sore limbs on a chaise longue, she felt a submersion into her wild environment would give her some much-needed restoration. But the confusion and nerves had started to get a hold of her, each step coinciding more and more with her thundering heartbeat as her legs propelled forward. Forward. Forward. 

She was shaken from her trance by the bellowing footsteps emanating from the forest, followed by the light of burning candles and an eerie harmony:

          What calms the spider, Brings chaos to the fly. 

Open a mouth wider, pour truths that make grown men cry. 

On this Hallows Eve, Fates did decree, 

The Dead would match lively strides with glee. 

‘For over the housetops, afloat on the breeze, 

Eerie and elfin things peer through the trees’¹

We’ll match you by beat of hearts led astray, 

Our every step convincing creatures to join the fray

Let the spider be our guide, to make our celebrations joyous,

and let thee be caught in revelry,

As wings contorted strangely mask thou inability to destroy us. 

And so, our soirée shall continue long into the night, 

‘Til all worthy well-wishers are blessed with second sight.

The skirts of dark-clothed women swayed slightly with each step of the parade. The crowns displayed an impressive array of color variation- it was like looking at a moving painting. The woman in the thicket cautiously followed by continuing on a path that kept her safely disguised. She was enjoying the warmth emitted from the candles, carried to her on a light autumn breeze. 

Suddenly, a chill ran through her spine, and had the discomfited feeling that she was not alone. The chant seemingly worked, she thought, the undead are waking, the creatures of the forest only known by name- folkloric tales of close encounters. 

Something moved behind her. Slowly, she turned around, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever creature had dared go close enough to her. Feeling the darkness seemingly ooze off her, withdrawing itself into the eddies to glean a better look- she was met face-to-face with a boy. Big, sunken eyes locked with her own, drawing closer to her hiding spot with long strides. He moved with a preternatural grace, almost as if he was floating on the breeze that was now caressing her lacerated cheeks. Breeze rattled the dark fauna in his wake, and she felt the indescribable need to touch his hand. Surprise lined both their features as he reached out his own- the first move of their slow dance toward- toward what? The sudden confusion startled her, redrawing the hand she didn’t realize had begun answering his movements. There was something off about him, but the woman couldn’t quite put a finger on it. With an apologetic grimace to the boy, she began turning and he struck out his hand- latching onto her shoulder blade. Her head snapped back, bones grinding on each other like rusty clogs in a machine.

     Dark Water…

…Surrounding Depths…

          …Clawing His Way Up…

      …His Last Bubbles Of Air…

She was ripped out of her trance as fast as she was dragged in. Turning to demand an explanation from the boy- and at the very least berate him for invading her personal space- the woman was in shock to be met once again with comforting darkness. He just… disappeared, she thought, a nagging feeling settling deep in her core. Why was she even here? Weighed by the heaviness of her confusion and increased alarm, she trudged back towards her former path of following the coven.

As the procession continued, the woman couldn’t shake off the eerie feeling of being watched. Where she once found comfort in the darkness, she began questioning what hid in its eddies. Her steps became more unsure, bare feet crunching twigs and dry leaves coating the forest floor. It was a late autumn evening, and the breeze that was mild moments ago turned into a howling wind- at times sounding like faraway screams. The unease grew stronger as they ventured deeper into the woods, until she could make up small structures jutting out from a foggy clearing. The coven passed through an opening in the old rickety gates, and as they passed each witch bent down to leave her candle in front of a structure. As the woman drew closer and passed through the gates herself, she quickly registered them as tombstones, placed in a haphazard manner all over the little ancient graveyard. At first glance, some looked like stumps- foliage and tree roots almost fully covering them, as if the forest had reclaimed not just corpses underground- but their very names and identities themselves.

The air in the graveyard felt heavy with ancient whispers and musings, and the woman’s footsteps slowed as she absorbed the atmosphere. The path in front of her was now lit up in a yellow warmth from the candles, spanning throughout the graveyard- yet it felt muted and almost smothered by the omnipresent fog. This was a place untouched. Few had crossed its gates over the centuries, so it remained unseen and engulfed by the forest. The woman bent low until she was at eye level with one of the tombstones, brushing away the vines and silky cobwebs until she was met with a weathered name. Agatha Clarkson. In a moment of whiplash, another vision was forced upon her, although, this time it was just a word: sobbing. She snatched her hand back, fingertips that had touched the stone now thrumming with adrenaline. The woman stood up in shock and scanned the graveyard in search of the coven. She didn’t know whether they were friend or foe, but felt comforted by the idea she was not alone in this ancient place. Maybe she could ask them for assistance, to join them- or maybe to just ask where they even were.

After a few fretful moments, the procession entered her line of sight. They were stopped and circled around a great, gnarly oak on the other end of the cemetery. The tree looked foreboding yet alluring, offering solace and untold truths to whoever rested by its roots. Its branches stretched out like skeletal arms, adorned with flickering lanterns illuminating its ligneous flesh. The witches sat and began crooning their chants. Feeling calmer, she continued her walk through the graveyard.

Passing by another tombstone, another word flashed in her mind: peace. Well, that’s definitely not what she was feeling. Whispers of spirits wailing trailed through the graveyard along a phantom wind, rattling her bones. She continued walking, faster- scanning tombstones as she went- words and voices filling her head: ‘Thomas was thankful he got to say goodbye to Marta before he went’, and ‘Annie was on her knees looking up- there were tears in her eyes’- her limbs started shaking*- ‘Val spoke of lush green fields and fluffy sheep as she looked at the murky depths beneath the wooden vessel’.* The woman closed her eyes and kept walking, whispers of the spirits growing louder- their voices resonating in her mind. She clawed her way into the deepest recesses of her mind, desperately trying to reach clarity of what she was experiencing- how she could stop it- but she was only met with a wall of black adamant. The floor beneath her became one of soft grass and she found herself revelling in its comfort. She didn’t realize how much her soles hurt from open wounds caused by the twigs she’d cracked throughout her journey. Her eyes flew open. She was not more than a few feet away from the coven and great oak, who seemed to pay her little mind as they continued their chant.

Her gaze fell upon yet another tombstone- this one with a big cross facing her- roots twisting around it as if the forest was trying to engulf the white marble. She exclaimed in surprise- the roots were coming from the great oak itself. Bending down to take a better look at the name, she felt something brush against her back. Snorting with annoyance at the gall of being bothered again, the woman spun her head- coming face-to-face with a red flannel fabric smelling of musky cologne and mint. She looked up in surprise at the man looking down at her. He opened his mouth but no words came out and she came to the sudden realization she was in yet another vision of a dead person. That’s just great, she sighed, exasperated- she really couldn’t get enough of this tonight. All the visions and thoughts of the dead were starting to get to her head, each one seemingly getting louder and more demanding. She stared at the man as he gave her a loving smile and looked out toward what looked to be a carnival. Her mother couldn’t come that day because she had to run errands, she thought- and the man must be the girl’s father who took her in the former’s stead.

This vision was a lot more vivid than the others. As they walked through the throng of vibrantly decorated bodies, she could smell the glaze of the candy apple stall on her right- and heard the scream of a child who dropped his ice cream a few feet to her left. The father took her hand as two girls cavorted towards them in a flurry of skirts and bows adorning their masks. They let them pass, and he calmly led her to the main event of the carnival- a Ferris wheel. Sprawled at the center of the festivities, they waited till it stopped before hopping into the closest booth. The Ferris wheel was her favorite, and she loved that Dad knew exactly where to take me. Her thoughts started jumbling, folding over each other into a tangled mess that made her dizzy. Time sped up and before she knew it, they had reached the top of the wheel. She watched in pain from her increasing headache as the father pulled out a piece of paper, watched as his face contorted into a frightened grimace. He didn’t need to tell her the news- she already knew that the letter contained the girls’ dying mothers’ last words to her. She knew that she wasn’t dead yet but told the girl she couldn’t make it to the carnival because she didn’t want to be seen at her weakest. Her mother was going to die… my mother was going to die. Memories flooded every part of her being, and she stared at her father whose face was now gray and sunken. She screamed and shut her eyes in alarm, knees suddenly wobbly as she stood.

Slowly sinking to the floor, she started as her shins hit packed earth and soft grass. Her eyes flew open to her own tombstone and the vines she’d vehemently brushed to the side moments before.

                                                 Corinthe Malaise    

                                        Loving Daughter and Friend  

                                                     1925 - 1944                                          

Understanding dawned upon her. She was not walking amongst the living, on feet powered by the rush of red blood in her veins- but amongst the dead- on the one night when they could accomplish such a feat. With glassy eyes and a still-pounding head, she trudged towards the encircled oak. The coven had stopped their chanting and adopted sitting positions with heads down. With each passing moment, her memories solidified, intertwining with her newfound understanding of the boy in the woods, the feelings and visions of the dead- all speaking to her. She had known all of them, spoken to all of them- in their last moments. It was not a mere coincidence or a haunting presence that kept following her, but a manifestation of her own essence- a reminder of her duty to the departed. The wind stopped howling, branches stopped swaying- and the whole forest seemed to take a breath. She stepped cautiously into the center of the ring of witches- and their heads all snapped to her in unison. 

“Hello, Lady Death”

The old crone closest to her whispered, eyes full of dazed mirth. Her voice sounded far away, and Corinthe discerned the crone’s voice was not completely her own. The words lingered in the heavy autumnal air, and she noticed all the witches were staring at her with the same expression. The crone continued, “You have come a long way to be with us tonight. We’ve-” Her voice was interrupted by a sharp crack echoing through the still forest. As the sound reverberated, the shadows around them appeared to shift and multiply. Corinthe's eyes darted around, catching sight of silhouettes closing in on the graveyard. Her heart pounded in her chest, but as the figures drew closer, she realized they were not coming with hostility. Their eyes were wide and searching, a silent plea for guidance hanging in the air. “-been expecting you”. The wind commenced its ghostly howls, sweeping fallen leaves in its wake. “For this night-”, began a young, blond-haired witch in the same tone, “our fortuitous spider, you shall catch all flies led astray-” the silhouettes moved closer and as they looked at her, Corinthe felt a strange sensation- “and return them to their former forms of decay”. 

Corinthe’s delicate corporeal form began shimmering and morphing, as she felt her bloodied soles lift off the ground. Her limbs elongated, bone pushing through what was once muscle and skin- and now a grey wispy encasing shadow that slithered from her core to her fingertips. With each settled realization of her true identity, she looked on in wonder until her eyes locked with an object on the ground beneath her. A tool she was very familiar with. She’d used it many times and would use it many more. With a final look towards the coven and the lost souls now forming an outer ring, she picked up her scythe. 

A jolt of electricity ran from her clasped hand through her arm and into her skull. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, she no longer saw the witches or the souls. Instead, she saw auras- symbolizing the dead and the living. The latter were basked in an ethereal amber glow, and the former in a muted, milky alabaster. The final part of her transformation was complete. As she settled on the ground once more, the coven stood and shifted to make a clear path for her toward the damned. She took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp autumn air, and met their gazes with a newfound sense of purpose. They were not her enemies, but souls in need of guidance. As she stepped forward to meet them, her form solidified into something more tangible, more powerful. She was Death, the guide of lost souls, the bridge between realms. With renewed determination, Corinthe set out to fulfill her sacred duty, her spectral form blending seamlessly with the shadows of the night. Like moths to a flame, they gathered around her- each one reaching their hand out in comfort, she recognized, in need of solace. This time, she reached back, feeling the hands of many- and then none at all. 

Death had returned to roam the land of the living on All Hallows’ Eve. Upon her early passing, she was chosen to embody this role to experience life- once a year, until her summoning. A small mercy gifted by the gods. She swung her scythe- it fit perfectly in her shadowy hands- now boasting an array of talons, fit for slashing anyone who disrupts her mission. 

As the night continued, Death roamed the land, guiding countless lost souls back to the underworld, offering them a chance to find peace. Each encounter filled her with a profound sense of direction and compassion. She recognized the suffering, regrets, and unfulfilled dreams of those she guided, and understood the fragility of life. The importance of cherishing every moment was something she was reminded of every Hallows’ Eve, and it brought peace to her heart that she got to experience such emotions in and as Death. 

As the night drew to a close and the sun’s rays began lazily coating the land like a warm blanket, Death stood and watched in awe amidst a field of wilting flowers. As daylight struck, and her shadowy incorporeal form began fading, she grasped the truth of life and death. The two were intricately intertwined- and every soul she guided served as a reminder of the transience of the human experience. 

Life- like the wilting flower- is a delicate and fleeting gift, and it is in embracing our mortality that we truly learn to appreciate the beauty and significance of every moment. In the darkness, there is always a glimmer of light, and facing death allows us to fully embrace life. 

1. By Catherine Dennis “All Hallows Eve”