The Ghost of Selene

by Logan Branjord

  # # #

  Drolta's notably bare home reminded Simon of a chicken coop. Warping floor boards left drafty cracks between them, making each step treacherous. Straw lay in mounds along the edges of the walls to insulate from the cold. Lamps hung low enough to catch a forehead but high enough to produce little usable light and they dripped oil continuously.

  “Take a seat,” Drolta ordered, gliding off to stoke the fireplace. She held her robe shut as she crouched and added a few damp birch logs. The fire spit and crackled angrily but she took an iron poker and shuffled the embers into a red-hot pile to settle it down.

  Simon obeyed; he eased himself into a chair that balanced on three legs at a time. Which three touched the ground was his choosing and depended on which way he leaned.

  With a flickering orange glow emanating from the fireplace, Drolta cast a long shadow across the floor. She looked taller in this squat house, perhaps taller than Simon. Her shoulders slumped, making her arms hang lower than an average person, almost to her knees in fact.

  “Selene drowned in the Flamberge River,” Drolta wove her fingers together at her waist, “so for you to contact her, you will need to visit the exact place where she fell through the ice.”

  “Do I have to go out on the water?”

  “You should.” Drolta pulled open half a dozen drawers on a small chest, before settling on one and then reached in and scooped out a handful of something. “To speak with her, you’ll have to drop these stones in the water as close to the place where Selene drowned as possible. The stones will glow the instant they touch the water and then dissolve in about a minute.”

  “So Selene will see the glow and come to it? How will these stones find her?”

  “They won’t. Selene will find the stones because when they dissolve, they produce a piercing sound that only the dead may hear. You must understand however; every inch in our world is a league in their world. If you miss the spot by too much, the sound will be too soft and she may not respond to you.”

  “Wait a second! I paid you to speak with Selene and there were no maybes involved. What if they don’t work, do I get my money back?”

  “Drolta doesn’t give refunds, but she will replace your stones so you may try again. They are very expensive, so remember that I am generous and don’t waste them.”

  Simon cupped his palms to accept the handful of jewels or stones or whatever Drolta offered him. The polished orbs were terribly cold and covered in some kind of whitish powder.

  “Will they hurt me?”

  Drolta did not validate his question with a response. She dusted her hands of the stones as if glad to be rid of them.

  “The longer you keep these stones, the greater the burden becomes. Many spirits are drawn to the stones whether activated or not. You’d better take them to the river on the morrow.”

  Simon’s cross burned as hot as hell’s embers. “Shouldn’t I take them to the river tonight? I don’t want spirits coming after me.”

  “You could go now if you wanted. Selene would like that I’m sure.”

  Simon felt a rock form in his throat. Selene would like to see him as soon as possible; he had no doubt in that, but for what reason? Revenge was a good reason. Love was another good reason. Either seemed plausible and no man could know how the afterlife affected a woman’s emotions.

  “These spirits…that follow the stones, can they harm me?”

  “The spirits can do whatever they like. They’ll hurt you if you deserve it. Oh yes, they’ll do terrible things. Don’t go out of your way to speak with them and don’t ignore them if they speak to you. Follow that rule and you’ll find that most spirits are benign.”

  “Benign. Good.”

  “Do you have a guilty conscience?”

  That question made Simon relive every cruel moment in his life: kicking a stray cat to death, breaking a man’s nose and teeth in a fight, cheating hundreds of customers out of their coin. Despicable as these acts were, he doubted these would be the reason ghouls would choose to haunt him. He had one particular deed that stood out in his mind like a black obelisk standing in a desert of ivory sand.

  Selene must forgive him that. She had to. Every time he recalled the events leading up to that horrible night, the cross burned his skin as if to remind him: “You are a murderer Simon.”

  “Well,” Simon cleared his throat, “I mustn’t linger.”

  “Best not. Drolta doesn’t want you attracting abominations to her house. Go meet your wife again.”

  Simon left for the evening and pushed himself into a blurring sprint for the Flamberge River where Selene had passed away. He ran because he mourned, but also he was afraid of what kind of undead attention he may be attracting with those powdery stones the witch gave him. A large part of him wanted to throw the stones away and never see them again, but morbid curiosity made him hold on.

  Stumps, he leaped over daringly; branches, he crouched under stealthily; patches of damp moss, he slid unwillingly across, dancing to regain his balance. Simon relied on his memory and reflexes to guide him through the dense forest to the precise spot where his wife drowned one summer ago. A loud crashing in the brush caught his full attention and Simon spun around with dagger in-hand.

  Somehow, under the moonlight, he felt as dangerous as any creature he may encounter. A silent man in the darkness, clutching a dagger could cause quite a ruckus. He gritted his teeth and spread his legs into a shoulder-distance stance.

  A patch of grown-together shrubs were shaking. A black shape scooted out from the leaves and scurried up a tree, its long tale flailing behind. The streaking animal was nimble like a squirrel. It was anything but a demon.

  Simon sighed.

  “How’s that for a scare,” he said aloud.

  Simon continued sprinting. Mist stuck to his arms, around his collar and on his face, chilling him to the point of numbness. There were better nights for this kind of thing, but his life couldn’t have gone on one more day without facing this; facing Selene. Most men didn’t get a second chance to right their wrongs. If Simon didn’t know a witch, he would be just like all the others, thinking of a thousand things he would say to Selene if he ever spoke to her again.

  The sound of rushing water raised his spirits and awareness. A pair of trees leaned into one and other, their long limbs draped down together, but leaving a small gap where the white froth of the Flamberge River could be spotted a few yards behind. Moonlight glinted off the violent spray of the rapids.

  With one swipe of his dagger, the leaves fell to the ground and cleared the way. Simon climbed through the gap and stepped gingerly along the bank of the river. The clouds cleared overhead and moonlight spilled down. His skin prickled.

  Mud on the bank slid inward, pulling his leg into the water. He leaned back and pulled his leg out but the mud sucked his boot off. With his other foot, he managed to keep his boot in turn he lost his balance. Simon fell headlong into the rushing water.

  On impact he expected to feel water, but his forehead struck a boulder and he saw starbursts. He slipped into a daze as his body set into motion. Tiny blurs of blue light illuminated the water. Their sparkle faded as fast as it came and as he became more aware of himself, he realized the danger he was in: The Flamberge’s angry current was dragging him against the river bottom, grinding his body against sharp stones.

  Simon grappled for any handhold. He pushed against the bottom, trying to break out of river’s tow. Then a tangle of branches underwater netted him. The current tried to pull him through the branches but his body wouldn’t fit and pressure pinned him to the branches; his head could not reach the surface. Water blasted up his nose and into his open eyes. Simon accidentally screamed, which came out in muffled bubbles. The air he just wasted might be his last breath. Rivers didn’t magically change course and he didn’t have any more strength to try and escape.

  Now, in his last seconds of life, Simon he realized what the glowing indigo light was in the water: Drolta’s cursed stones ha
d fallen out of his pocket underwater. Had they fallen close enough to the place where Selene drowned, she could save him, her ghost that is. If she heard the signal, as Drolta had explained, she might come!

  Simon fought the urge to inhale frigid river water. His lungs burned and screamed for nourishment. His arm hung at the edge of a log, feeling like the strength of the current could break it off at the elbow. If he would just take that breath of water, he could leave this whole nightmare behind. He could speak to Selene in the afterlife. Perhaps she’d be more inclined to forgive him if he subjected himself to the same death as her.

  Wooden hands grabbed him by the shoulders and interrupted his death. Fingers pressed into his skin with surprising strength and yanked him up until his head pierced the surface of the water and he could see the moon again. Simon gasped.

  The hands could only be Selene’s. He felt cool grass under his back and coughed. Water sprayed from his nostrils and mouth, though he didn’t remember drinking any. Selene grabbed his chin and wrenched his head sideways, which forced him spit up the rest of the water he’d inhaled.

  These fingers felt sharp and cold. He started to worry that it had not been Selene that pulled him from the water but his savior’s face was hooded and couldn’t be seen. There was no love in the touch; but that could still be Selene, for she might not love him anymore.

  An open mouth descended on his face to help him breath. In transit, the savior’s hood fell off and Simon recognized the pale face of Drolta the witch. He sat up in alarm before her mouth could contact his and in the pale light she looked as wicked as ever before.

  “What?” Simon gagged and spit water.

  “Breathe. Can you breathe?” Drolta huffed.

  Simon tested his lungs with a deep inhalation that made his throat tickle. He held his hand out and nodded to her to indicate that he could. Anything to stop a kiss from Drolta was worthwhile, even drowning in his own lungs. It’d be better to be left in the water than to taste that rotting mouth of hers.

  “That’s good. Keep taking deep breaths and clear out all the water.” Drolta pat his back in rhythmic thumps.

  Although he had questions, Simon could do nothing but obey; he needed to clear his airway to survive.

  Amidst rasping and gagging, a glowing shape appeared behind the trees in the distance. Spears of light—so painfully bright—fanned out from a central shape of a woman whose figure matched Selene’s.

  Simon used his peripheral vision to gaze upon her. Looking directly at the light would hurt, but also leave him night-blind in a forest potential specters and witches.

  Drolta noticed the light too. She dropped her hand from Simon’s shoulder and ran out to meet the figure, dodging trees and brambles. The figure passed through trees with ease, maintaining a straight, narrow path toward Simon. Selene’s face formed in the figure, every detail precise. It was as if the light were a liquid statue, carved with precision.

  “Dear Selene,” Drolta shouted with obvious fear, “I’ve got him. I caught him for you. I even brought him back from the river so you could…have him alive.”

  The voice of the lighted figure was not Selene’s. Two dissonant tones twined together to form a snakelike hiss. “So what? You want a reward?” said Selene's ghoul. “This is no business of yours now. Go away.”

  “Of course! Take him; he is yours.”

  Simon grabbed Drolta by the shoulders and slammed her to the ground.

  “What is this? That's not my wife!”

  Drolta was no longer present. Her eyes widened into brown terrified orbs. Simon was no more than an obstacle to be overcome in order to escape.

  The idea of being tricked had Simon frightened and livid at the same time. He took the witch by her silver strands of hair and yanked her head back. “Stop her!” he shouted to the witch.

  “I...cough...cough...can't. She's here for you.”

  “God damn it. Stop her!”

  “She’s here for you, let me go!”

  “I want my wife. Send your ghoul back.”

  The glowing specter hovered through trees and shrubs, until her glow illuminated the night to day. Her face was a ghoulish, twisted mask of what Selene's used to be. Ghastly water poured from the corners of her lips and proceeded to leak down her neck and then traversed the contours of her bare, sagging breasts. She looked like a decaying corpse, pieced together just enough to be recognizable.

  “Simon,” she called in a sad tone, “I've been waiting for you.”

  Simon grabbed his dagger and pressed it into Drolta's throat. “Selene, stop. We can talk. But if...you take another step...I'll...”

  Selene was floating, not stepping. She didn’t seem to value Drolta’s life in the least, rendering his hostage useless.

  Drolta squirmed against the blade, causing a bead of blood to form. She started to shake and speak hysterical rants. Simon pulled the blade away from her to keep from cutting her own throat. He didn't really want to kill her. He’d learned to cost of taking a life and he’d rather die himself.

  The witch felt the absence of the blade and squirmed to freedom. She sprinted a few yards and then caught her foot on a vine and sprawled into the brush. She turned around and yelled, “Selene, you have him. Our deal is done!”

  After that, Simon never saw Drolta again. The glow of light from Selene's specter blinded him to all but her ominous presence.

  “My sweet Simon,” she said in her snake's voice. “Why have you come back to me?”

  “I have come to apologize. I shouldn't have done it,” Simon cried, “I thought you were unfaithful. I was hurt! I…I…”

  “Hurt?’ Her demonic voice cut him short. “What do you know of hurt? I loved you, up until my last breath of river water. I loved you every day of my short life. You held my head underwater.”

  Tears streaked his face. No words could suffice. Simon finally had what he had wished for all along, punishment for his crime. “I didn’t mean to kill you, just punish you. You know? For sexing Illiad. I thought you really had done it.”

  “It would make little difference if I had. I wouldn’t have deserved this, Simon. You are a jealous fool.”

  Her pale hand lashed out and snapped around the back of his neck like a viper. Such strength, he could never slip free from her grip.

  “Just tell me,” he whined as she dragged him to the river's edge. “When th...this is over. Can you love me again? Can we be together?”

  Selene didn't reply. Her hand squeezed him with ghoulish strength and forced his face underwater. She ground his flesh back and forth over the rocks. Her body was an anvil his back, giving him no room to struggle, nor did he try. Simon heard his teeth grinding against sandy river bottom, and inhaled.