The Curious Case of Jacob's Hallow

by Patrick Walsh

  Hansel had no such optimism. For the last few days, he’d been listening nonstop to Agnis talk about the deeds of these two boys, along with a third who was absent. He knew this battle was coming. It had been on its rotten way for ages…. it was only a matter of where and when. They had no hope of surviving, but at least they had done some damage. At least the witch would lose any hope of finding her precious glove.

  Aza was out of it. This was too much, yet what did he expect would happen if they investigated, if they had started the Nightwatch again? All this, the guardians, Gregory, a conspiracy, magic...it didn’t feel real, none of it did. Yet despite it all, here he stood. He took a deep breath and pulled his wandering mind into the moment. Like Luke, he had hope that they could win this....and if they didn’t….he couldn’t think of anyone else he’d rather die fighting beside.

  An explosion was heard outside, then another, and another. Hansel gave a wide smile. “I see they like my land mines.”

  Aza and Luke smiled as well while they drew their weapons; threads of the soul for one and a woodsman's axe for the other, a few pistols tucked into his bag.

  “I was wondering something.” Aza spoke calmly despite the manic webs of terror being weaved around his mind.

  “Yes?” Hansel turned to face him.

  “That red light when you swing your scythe, what is it? Is it magic or is it the weapon?”

  He laughed. “That my boy would be destruction. Not really magic, anyone can… look I’ll teach ya all about it in the morning.

  “So never?”

  He laughed. “That’s the spirit lad.” Then at once, he turned his attention to the front of the hall. The explosions had ceased.

  The three heard the main door get bombarded with pounding, grasping hands. It was little more than a decoy of sorts, heavily barricaded and leading to a hallway lined with more traps. The men braced themselves against the balcony railing as an explosion rocked the house. Another followed that as the front of the mansion was ripped clean off. Wights began pouring in, triggering more traps and tricks as they swarmed down the deadly hallway. None of them a care for their own existence, only a need to satisfy their own ravenous hunger. Hansel looked to both Aza and Luke and tightened his grip on a rope that had been wrapped around the railing. It was connected to more odds and ends leading to a hanging heap of broken metal and wood. A good pull would send it toppling down in front of the main entryway, further worsening the bottleneck already there. A few minutes passed before he dropped it, crushing the first two monsters underneath its weight. With that done, he tore down the stairs, Luke and Aza trailing behind him.

  “Luke, you need to stick by me. Aggie and us are resistant to their fear, among a few other things. If you’re able to keep up, you should be good to fight. Without that precious fear of theirs, they’re basically just dumb animals.” Hansel met his ally’s gaze, deathly serious.

  Luke nodded as he ran behind.

  His head swung away. “Aza, I need you to keep an eye on the hallway we came down. If you see them pouring through before I do, you need to scream at me! Ya got it?”

  Aza nodded and began twisting his threads together.

  “Good. Now just try and stay alive for a long as ya can!” He swung his scythe through two multi jointed arms, severing them with ease. As the horror got further through the barricade, he struck it again and again until rancid organs began to spill out.

  Another just shoved the mangled corpse to the ground and began pushing through. Aza shot down the mass of threads like a whip, nearly slicing the evil thing in half. Then immediately after, he flung more of the glowing strings from his other hand. The enraged bundle shot forth and cut deep into into the wight’s wounded body, finishing it off. That one lay where it died as the rest of the junk pile began toppling over. Aza began extruding his own fear, counteracting their own as he prepared for the barrier to break. As the top layers fell, Hansel began swinging away while Luke fought by his side. One went down, then two, then three but there were too many more. Then the bottom dropped out. The three lurched back and began retreating to the stairs as the squealing, clawing masses of flesh began flooding into the room. Luke was barely holding on as his body kept wanting to lock up. The ice cold whispers of dark magic were trying to keep him down, wanting him to give into their fear and die. Yet he fought on, they all did as the rotting demons followed them up.

  With the high ground on their side, the trio threw everything they had at them. Alone in the darkness and fog, with fear and the unknown at their backs, the wights had seemed invincible, unkillable. Yet here they stood holding the devils back, fighting them off. The monsters had no real cohesion or teamwork. No higher thoughts or plans. Aza could fend off the fear from freezing his body, but he could still hear their twisted song. Their pain, their loss, their hunger. Within all these mangled husks were human souls, people of this town in agony, able to feel nothing but rage as they fought blindly for their master.

  Aza used all the power he could muster, the emotions within his soul, his drive, his ambition. He channeled them into a massive bundle of twisting blue threads. They coiled together and stabbed straight through the first wight, swinging it like a flail into the others and sending the mass flying down the steps. Those lower to the ground lurched ahead, but Aza smashed the wight on the end of the line through the stairway. With it now blocked off, Aza could strike at them from a distance, taking cheap shots. On the other side, Hansel and Luke were holding their own. Hansel did the kraken’s share of the job, but Luke was able to strike out at the grasping claws and twisted arms.

  Not counting the two that had initially died, there were around twenty wights heaving themselves across the room below. The wounded began ripping pieces from the fallen and fusing them onto their own malformed bodies. There were more tearing through the manor, but most were outside with the guardian forming a ring around the property. Aza was the first to sense him. Hansel was next, a chill running down even his spine. There were seven or so wights now, the others having been slain or wounded, and torn apart by their own. The monstrosities began backing away from the stairs as if they knew they didn’t need to keep fighting. The three caught their breath, but there was no relief. They knew who was coming, whose blood soaked boots were striding up the hallway, whose fiery lantern led the charge.

  The Nightman emerged from the darkness and gazed over the room, at the fallen and those who had fed upon them. He looked up to the three upon the stairs, his socket blazing with blue light while the rest of his face remained obscured behind tattered scarves and his grimy hat. The side of his overcoat flew up as he ripped his sword from its sheath. It had a wide, black handguard carved to look like bone, with dark blue light emanated the cold blade itself. It seemed to whisper and call to them, not unlike the wights.

  The evil figure swung the lantern and the undead began moving. They followed at his sides while he strode up to the steps. Hansel ran down to the ballroom floor faster than Luke could follow, forcing him to remain on the landing. He spun the blade and fired two slivers of red light from his strikes. The Nightman blocked both with his sword, the attack not even knocking him back. Hansel swung the scythe again, this time within range of the blade. His opponent blocked with one hand and raised the lantern with the other. While they fought, the wights swarmed the base of the stairs. Yet none crawled up, only needing to keep the boys at bay so the men could duel.

  The Nightman pushed back the scythe and swung his own blade, firing a sliver of blue that collided with Hansel’s weapon. He was pushed back, going on the defensive. They were no longer near the steps, meaning Hansel had the freedom to hang back, to let the Nightman come to him and draw this out. Yet the Nightman didn’t budge. He struck through the ground with the tip of his blade and watched his opponent. Hansel could feel the temperature begin to drop, the ground around the sword freezing over. The ice spread like the legs of a spider as the temperature directly around it fell to freezing, with the whole of the room quickly followi
ng suit.

  “Coward!” Hansel began backstepping as the frost bit into his hands.

  The Nightman had no response, he merely gazed on as his opponent was forced to attack again rather than defend or flee to some hidden trap as he had in so many past encounters. The lantern was set delicately on the floor while he waited, knowing the fool would have no other choice but to attack.

  Hansel’s strike was fast but the Nightman was faster, ripping his blade from the ground. The two ancient weapons clashed back and forth in a violent fight for supremacy. At first things looked even, but quickly Hansel was outmatched. Strike after strike, each one using destruction and causing havoc across the room. Tables, chairs, supports were all slashed and broken as the two fought across the ballroom. Each strike took more out of him, each block becoming more difficult to hold. The cold of the sword had left the room, but he could feel it in every collision. The power trying to creep down his blade and rip into his hand, to drain the warmth and leave him a withered husk.

  Aza and Luke could only watch as the wights clawed and scratched about the stairway, easily able to overrun them if provoked. He couldn’t risk Luke, and Luke could barely keep himself together without Hansel to lend him protection from the dark magic all about them. The two blades struck again, swiped, blocked, clashed, crackled, then it happened. A simple oversight from a quick move made in the heat of battle. Hansel swung and the Nightman deflected, twisting his weapon against his opponents. The scythe went flying across the room. The shock of it stunned its owner as the Nightman threw his own blade into the air.

  He flew at Hansel and struck him square in the jaw, straight in the gut, and right into the side of his head. The Nightman grabbed him from the ground, swung in a wide arc, and hurled Gretel across the room, smashing him though a heap of broken tables. The sword was plucked from the air and his fiery eye fell to Aza and Luke. The wights parted as he snatched the lantern from the ground and strode up to the stairs. Threads of light twisted together and shot down faster than a bullet. A sliver of dark blue flew from the blade and cut it in half as he had sidestepped it before Aza even fired. Luke was paralyzed now, unable to move as this evil power approached them. Aza tried to sense the soul of his enemy, to try and predict what he might do. There were too many within him. Each one with their own idea, own move, the whole of them forced to converge at only the last possible moment.

  Aza smashed his hands together as threads swirled between them. The fiery bundle shot out like a net, but the Nightman only cut them down again as he marched onwards. A blood stained boot shot out and hit Aza square in the gut. He cried out in pain as he stumbled back and fell, threads beginning to reform. They weren't fast enough. The Nightman leapt forwards, drew up his sword, and brought it down with all his might....

  Yet it never met its mark

  The fear of the wights and the terror of the Nightman. Both born of real emotions at the heart of all men, and of dark magics that sang like a siren’s song of woe. He shouldn’t have been able to move, but this was it. His best friend was about to die. Raw strength of spirit shattered the magic that held him, if only for a moment. Memories flashed through his mind. His first evenings with his older brothers, the birth of his sister. The fights and the joys of his crazy family. His first time meeting Aza. The day they made a pact to become heroes. The day they found the old mill. The day they began practicing and buying resources. The day they met Han. The present… where he made the ultimate sacrifice.

  Luke shot between them. His arms were straight up, the long handle of the axe perpendicular to the evil sword’s path. The ancient weapon, born from enchanters in ages long forgotten, cleaved through it like nothing. It broke directly through his shoulder and deep into his chest. Luke was nearly ripped in half as the Nightman retracted his weapon, enraged that this farmer had disrupted a perfect strike. Luke collapsed to the ground as his organs fell from his body, blood gushing onto the floor.

  Aza lay there, paralyzed.

  This was impossible.

  Tears were welling as denial about Gregory, about the betrayal of Han, at his own shortened life all washed away in the blood of the only person he had left, who he cared about above anyone else. He had taken all the past events in stride, pushing down the pain for the greater mission, but he couldn’t anymore. The Nightman stepped back and readied another strike... but didn’t get the chance. Azriel screamed and a wall of fear, not seen since his dad had fallen all those years ago, erupted out from him. Every bit of pain radiated through it, powered by a cracked soul that only split further at such a release of power. It slammed through the Nightman, sending him reeling back as all the spirits within were thrown from their perfect harmony. The wights at the stairway screeched like a chorus of dying rats and fled from their posts.

  Azriel charged forwards and tackled the ghoul down the staircase. The sword flew from his grip as the two toppled down the steps. He focused everything he could on the Nightman. He could feel the souls within now babbling and contorting in confusion, unable to properly act. The fiery eye glared down at the boy has he leapt up and swung his fist. Azriel dodged and it smashed through the base of the railing. He reared back his own fist and cracked the Nightman right in the head, then again, and again. Throwing punches of his own, the Nightman fought back, but each one of them missed as Azriel landed blow after blow. None of them seemed to do much, just further disorientate his enemy, but Azriel didn’t care.

  “Everything!” He pulled himself to the side as the Nightman swung at him. “All my damn life this rotten place just takes and takes and takes! Can’t believe Aza, the only one who actually does anything. No, Tobias kills one werewolf, and everyone lines up to buy his trash! We plan and plan and wait and did everything we could and for what!?” He landed another hit to the Nightman, catching and ripping at the scarves around his face. “An incurable fungus? Ridicule? Death, mockery, lies!” He dodged and landed another blow as they swung around one another and back up the steps. “Were all the books just a lie? The heroism all just a bunch of hogwash? Did they all die for nothing!? Did Luke die for nothing!? Answer me!”

  As they reached the peak Azriel reared back and shot out threads from either hand in writhing swarms. All his life he had felt cold, like he was missing something impossible to place. He had told Luke just a day or so before but didn’t tell him the whole story. When he was just a child, before the fire, before Gregory, before any of this, he found out about the threads. They passed through things, doors, windows, trees. No harm, no scars. It was amusing. Then one night he saw a frog hopping by. How funny it would look with the lights through it. So he fired them, but they didn’t go through this time. Its flesh wasn’t pierced, but Aza had grabbed something, something warm…. so impossibly warm and alive. He had lost himself for a bit, it was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted. Then when he looked down, the frog was in agony. He was terrified, full of regret, but didn’t know how to get them out. In a moment of emotion, he did so, and lost hold of the poor thing’s soul. The threads became whole within it and sliced the creature apart when Aza retracted the glowing tangle. He cried on his dad’s shoulder all that night; they even buried the animal the next day. After that, he kept the strings corporeal, interacting only with the physical world. Yet from that day on he remembered the feeling. The warmth of its soul...and how much he wanted to feel it again.

  The threads struck into the Nightman, passing through his flesh and clothes without harm, latching like a swarm of leeches onto the souls within. He began pulling the power from them, angrily ripping the mass forwards as the bliss they offered washed over him. Could he pull a soul out? He had never thought of it, never something he would ever do, but here he was with anger overriding every other thought and feeling. Yet even with the outer souls being siphoned, the majority of them had reconfigured themselves and the Nightman regained control. He tore his sword from the ground and spun in a wide arc, cutting all the parasitic threads.

  Azriel spun the remaining pieces back toge
ther and stabbed them from each hand, fueled by the life force he had drained. One was cut nearly in half, but the sword didn’t break through all the way. The weapon instead pulled its owner to the side and the other cord struck along the edge of his face, ripping the scarves from his neck and finally toppling the hat from his head. When Azriel looked down at his adversary again, he stumbled back. The face. It was rotten, burned, with a large crack splitting down the left side. Yet he recognized it, what soul must be in there among the rest.

  “Dad….” He jumped away as the Nightman lunged forwards with his blade.

  Now Aza was at the top of the steps and back onto the landing. He didn’t know what to say or to do. He was terrified, ashamed, hurt, confused. His threads spun down and coiled around the blade, ripping it from the Nightman's hand. It did little, as the demon dashed forwards and punched Aza in the chest then right in the eye. The souls had powered him up, if only a little. He knew it because if they hadn’t the power of the strikes would have killed him. Yet his strength was now fading, his resolve faltering. Faster than he could redirect the threads he was picked up and hurled over the side of the railing. He crashed through one of the tables and was left stunned in the rubble. The cold blade was pulled from the ground along with the rest of his fallen effects. His steps echoed down the hallway as the weary corpse followed a yellow light emanating from one of the rooms.