by Scott Hale
The Maiden’s origins vary from culture to culture, from storyteller to storyteller. In Africa, they speak of a child who was taken by evil spirits to Hell, only to be dropped accidentally along the way, lost forever in the endless forever of the beyond. In the East, she was a little girl led to the river by her mother, who saw the Maiden as she was and tried to drown her for it. The townsfolk intervened, however, saving the girl. Bedridden, the girl waited until the day came when she was able enough to kill them all. The West tells a story of an older Maiden, one in late adolescence, who travels the land with her twin sister, living off the hospitality of others and forcing them to murder one another out of lust and jealousy. Even the artic regions of the world have their tales, which speak of a pale woman in rags who walks upon the snow, kidnapping the sleeping and forcing them to endure cruel experiments on their bodies.
Of late, there is little said of the Maiden; the air is heavy with sounds of machinery, of progress, and humanity’s cry for help; few have time to concern themselves with the supernatural. If there is a reward to be reaped for actions taken against her, it is overshadowed by the nightmares and bouts of insanity one receives should they survive the encounter. Ignorance has no effect on her, nor will it make the final moments of pain any easier should she darken one’s doorstep. No, it is from awareness the Maiden recoils. As the collective conscious becomes increasingly aware and anticipates her violent arrival, she is left with no choice but to wait in the Void until she is again forgotten, so that she may carry on once more, cloaked in secrecy and panic. Let this passage be the first blow against her, a sign that her reign of terror has reached its end.
Should one wish to seek out the Maiden, they need only consult the newspaper or the local tavern. Become invisible, hidden in the shadows, and listen to the trembling rumors told in sharp whispers. Scour the written word for evidence of the macabre and follow its sordid trail, however illogical or impossible the case may seem. Deformities are her signature and irrational behavior her entertainment. Make known your cause, so that when you find the hole the Maiden has curled up in, you are not alone, nor are you compromised by fear. In our world, she is vulnerable. There are no other options.
Dagmar
Vrana took a breath, set the book aside, and picked up the other, turning to the page bookmarked by Aeson.
189X
Day One
I’ve arrived at—, a small town in the foothills of the — mountains. There seem to be no less than one hundred lakes and ponds in the surrounding area, which I find bewildering, as it does not appear this part of the world has seen rain in quite some time. The ground is hard and dusty, and faint streaks of purple and green can be seen on the soil when the brittle grass bends back. I’ve no complaints about the air, however—these city lungs have never breathed so freely.
The driver could tell me little of this place along the way, and he turned his back to the town as soon as we arrived. If I should die here, I hope it weighs heavily on that rude man’s conscience. I had no intention of mocking the driver’s beliefs; I only wished to be prepared for them should they come my way.
The people seem nice enough, but so did the people of the marsh before they tried to cut my heart out. Still, I’ll give them the benefit of the doubt (sorry, Herbert, I won’t let my heart, in peril though it was, turn to ice like yours). For the duration of my stay the local inn shall be home, and if it were not for the lingering dampness, I’d dare say I prefer it to my own.
There is much more to be written, but the hand grows heavy with exhaustion. Before bed, I think I shall go pester the lovely lady next door, whom I caught staring at me as I carried my bags down the hall. When she’s had her fill of my humor and charm, which I’m told does not take long, and chases me off like some sort of persistent animal too sad to realize its own feebleness, I will return to my room, tail tucked between my legs, and sleep the sleep of defeat.
Day Two
The lady next door was very lovely indeed; however, the alcohol she poured for me was anything but. I will thank her for the migraine and bad dreams the next time we meet, which, if my memory is correct, should be tonight at nine fifteen. You thought you had me, Herbert, when you agreed to Europe, but I expect you’re doing anything but meeting lovely women as you mosey about that frozen cemetery, minding the body parts as you go.
I began with my patrons at the inn, who expressed a wish to be referred to and shall be known henceforth as Eva and Vaughn. They started the interview by asking me about my familiarity with the Witch, to which I responded with wide eyes and a dash of ignorance. The wife, Eva, looked at her husband, Vaughn, and together held a conversation between each other without saying a word; then, they turned to me and spoke, the words they said like razors to their throats.
Two weeks ago, in the dense fog for which the foothills are known, one by one, the children of the town awoke, not in their beds but at the many lakes and ponds. It was not until the children began to cry, sounding their sorrow all across the landscape, did their parents realize something was amiss. A desperate search and rescue ensued, and all of the children were recovered. When asked what had happened, most of the children could present no explanation, only tears; but of the few who could recall the details of the episode, the story was always the same: A woman had come into their rooms, sat on the edge of their beds, told them their mother and father had died, and if they wanted to be taken care of, they would have to follow her without complaint.
Eva and Vaughn refused to continue at that point, and seeing as I was their guest, it was not in my best interest to harass them any further. Of course, I already knew the story and all its permutations from colleagues and crumpled magazines. Word of the tucked away town and its sleepwalking children had spread like wildfire (almost too fast, if you ask me).
I tried to leave Eva and Vaughn in a better state than they had been following the telling of the tale. Once I saw the warmth return to their faces, I smiled and tipped my hat and left with a skip in my step, a skip put there not by me or them but by the thought of the lovely lady in the room next door.
I followed the old streets for quite some time, ducking into alleyways occasionally, hoping to catch some supernatural entity off guard (looking foolish and insane, as I often do to those who don’t know me). I saw four children as I perused the stores. Never had I seen such solemn children. I could not blame them—I, too, would court sadness after such a trauma—but the issue did not appear entirely affective; rather, from looking at their hollow faces, it appeared as though something were missing, taken from them, or replaced with something that had not been there before. Does that make sense, readers?
A knock at my door.
Until tomorrow, then.
Day Three
A little old woman who I will call Misha was standing outside my room when I opened the door to leave today. She had a scarf around her mouth and above her eyes, a dress down to her feet, and gloves covering her hands. She looked like a mummy wrapped in hand-me-downs. I asked if she had leprosy, to break the ice. She shook her head, sneezed without moving an inch, and told me she was ready to talk. I said “sure” and followed her down the hall to a couch beside a lamp and a large window that overlooked the courtyard.
My head hurt. It still does.
After the little old woman finished telling me some irrelevant story concerning her daughter’s eye patch, I lifted myself from the couch and told her she was very helpful, instrumental, to my work. I vacated the hotel, and once outside, I found an overcast sky and the overly anxious eyes that awaited me, my presence now known to all. I made harmless queries and petted passing kitties to show I was no beast, but it did little to open their closed minds. I announced loudly, to no one in particular, that I’d be willing to exchange coin for information; then took a stroll down the hillside, into the trees, and finally to one of the many lakes.
On the rocky shore, a fisherman stood, securing a line and bait to his makeshift pole. The mountains in the distance looked
like ghosts, floating ever so slightly above the mist. The man heard my approach but not the offer I made earlier, so when we were through, I was all the wiser and none the poorer.
I think I’ll have a nap. My writing suffers when my head does.
Day Three—continued
The man was a bleak sort; one who had seen the world and retired from it, for the pain of living in it was too great to endure any longer. Dennis, as I shall call him, said he lost a son two months ago.
“He drowned,” Dennis said, eyes puffing. His boy had been the strongest swimmer in the entire town. “But I know who did it,” he continued, launching a worm into the placid waters.
“Who?” I hooted like an owl.
“The woman at the inn.”
I bit my tongue, and the taste of blood overwhelmed me.
Day Seven
Letting the townsfolk know I’d compensate them for their time was a mistake for two reasons: People are liars, and I had no money. It was a terribly amateurish act on my part, but truth be told, this entire operation has felt unprofessional; it was thrown together at the last minute because of cockiness. The lovely lady next door is of no help either, and now that I know the town thinks her to be the culprit behind the crimes, I understand why they toy with me and cast looks of disdain. I have not slept well (damn you, dampness), nor have I had much of an appetite.
All in all, it would be a fairly typical investigation, if not for the niggling feeling that I am in no way prepared for what’s to come, should it come. I will go at it for a few more days, and then I shall bid these strange folk farewell forever.
Day Eight
Annabel: “I can’t be long.”
Me: “No, I expect not. When you’re ready, child.”
Annabel: “I was playing hide and seek on the old mountain trail with my brother, Jack. We go up there a lot. We like to watch the birds. Don’t know where they come from or what they’re called, but what colors. Sorry.”
Me: “No, it’s quite all right. Please, continue.”
Annabel: “Well, Jack always ends up hiding in the cave up there. Every time. He thinks it’s funny, because it scares me, but I always tell him he’ll be sorry the next time he goes in there and finds a hungry bear waiting for him.”
Me: “What happened when Jack went in the cave this time?”
Annabel: “He, uh, screamed and came running out white as a sheet. Said I had to see It, and I saw It, and It was awful, mister.”
Me: “What did you see, Annabel?”
Annabel: “Bodies, strung across the pool like a net, all skinny and… like a spider had got to them. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I don’t know if I can keep on. My mother is expecting me.”
Me: “We’re almost done. You’ve done so well. Just tell me what else you saw in that cave.”
Annabel: “A woman. I saw a woman. She was naked, I think, and was sitting on top of the bodies. She… she had… I thought it was a stick, but now I’m certain it had to have been a bone. She was banging it on the backs of the bodies, and the water was splashing up through the gaps between them, and I think she was laughing, but there was nothing coming out of her mouth… I can’t…”
Me: “It’s okay, Annabel. You did so well. Take this, for your troubles.”
Day Nine
A pattern is emerging: water.
Day Eleven
We discussed literature and our previous partners—what went wrong, what made it difficult to say goodbye, and so on. She’s a scientist, conducting a research assignment on hysteria. I’m not supposed to know this as it may weaken her results, but I can be very persuasive should the need arise. She’s leaving in a few days, and I lied and told her that I was leaving, too. I am certain she knows this is not true, but if she’s maddened by it, her lips tell me otherwise.
I couldn’t write a decent sentence to save a life right now, let alone my own, which is what will truly be at stake if this investigation goes nowhere. This is serious. I need to be serious.
Nightmare One
Flailing wildly, I tumble through the biting air like a circus performer, reaching for the sky as an infant would its blanket. Black, buzzing clouds meander above me. I hear a piercing wail, followed by a deafening drone that persists throughout the entirety of my stay. I soil myself and feel the hair fall from my head.
I crash into a field, unharmed, and see that it stretches onward in every direction, unimpeded but for the broken stone walls here and there. The air tastes like pus; sweet and foul, it turns the stomach, until the stomach, my stomach, is on the ground before me.
While I’m sitting on the ground, I can feel water seep through the soil and dampen my skin. I start to think of the lovely lady next door and become dizzy with lust. I hate myself for it, for thinking of her in such a place and state, and start hitting myself. I do not stop until my arm is too heavy to lift.
Day Twenty
Why have I come here? And why can’t I…
Day Fifty-Six
Black flies follow me wherever I go. No one else can see them, and that may be true. I have not felt myself lately. The stories are really coming in now, readers. Can you believe the last two? The Maiden of Pain. What a horrible name. No wonder she’s vengeful. Water is the key, but if I should turn it, what doors will be opened?
Day Seventy
The lovely lady let me in to her room when Eva and Vaughn ejected me from mine. I want to ask her why she’s still here, but I’m afraid that she’ll leave. Forgive me, readers, I cannot….
She still blushes from time to time when we speak. I like that.
Day—
It took me awhile to clear the flies from my lungs this morning. They are worse in her room than they were in mine. She’s leaving today. I ask if I can follow her, and she says “yes.” She got on top of me, tied me down, and I fell asleep. I’m packing now. With no more crimes to report on, there is no need for me to stay. She said we’re going to the country. I said okay.
I wear the flies like a robe, and yet she doesn’t mind. A thousand tiny deaths between us every time we touch.
Note: This is all that has been recovered from Seth’s journal. There are still many pages missing. If you should believe you are in possession of said pages, please contact us for verification and payment.
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Connor Prendergast, Editor-in-chief
The segments were only parts of a much larger whole detailing all sorts of horrors, but Vrana was done. Her eyes felt too large for their sockets, and her head was spinning. It was a completely inappropriate response to what should have been a poor attempt at frightening a gullible audience, but she knew better. She ran her fingers over the ruined books, imagining what they might have looked like when they were first printed, who might have bought them and what they thought of their contents. If only they had known how right they were, she thought as she set the books aside.
“Hey,” her mother said softly, leaning into the room.
Vrana bit down on the side of her mouth, startled. A cold sweat overcame her. She started to laugh. “You’re home.”
“I have been for some time. You’ve just been asleep. The elders are ready for you.” Her mother sounded tired, liable to collapse at any moment.
“Is this really the right time?”
Blix burst past her mother and landed atop Vrana’s matted hair.
“Yes, it really is. A celebration is just what we need. Some of us might want something a little stronger than the usual offerings to get us through the night, but I don’t think you’ll find anyone complaining about that.”
Vrana smiled. She stood, picked up a comb, and ran it through her hair, wincing at every knot. “What do I say to them? The elders, I mean.”
“You say what you mean and nothing more. Honesty is important to them, and let’s face it, my girl, you’re a terrible liar.”
Blix cawed happily, hopping back and forth over the comb as it went. She looked at her mother differently now, aware that, in a few
days, she may be leaving with Deimos. “I’m going to kill this bird,” she said, choking back the tears.
After every third trial, a feast always followed to celebrate the accomplishments of the individual and to induct them fully as a member of the tribe. For this occasion, the elders open their garden and their house and invite the entire village to enjoy the great dinner with the new initiates. Food and drink of all varieties and rarities line the massive tables at the garden’s center and are refilled from a seemingly infinite stock. For the children, but mostly for their inebriated parents, games are made that have them searching the deepest parts of the garden for hidden rewards. The feast has been known to go on for days, and in some cases, one feast has followed right after the other, leading to a week of uninterrupted revelry that required a second week just to recover.
“I understand why it’s important,” Vrana said from the kitchen table as her mother ran between the rooms. “I don’t understand why it can’t wait. Sure, they may not know I know about the Witch—” She stole her mother’s cup and finished the wine inside. “But hell, they may as well. I’m going to look like a selfish, spoiled little girl.”
“You’re going to look like someone who just finished her third trial and wants to celebrate,” Adelyn shouted. She bumped into something and cursed. “Listen, this isn’t just for you. It’s for everyone.”
“Two days!” Vrana knocked the cup off the table and groaned. “It’s been two days since she killed twenty-two. I don’t even know who the fuck to apologize to.”
“Pick up that cup, you selfish, spoiled little girl.”
Vrana sighed and slouched in her chair. “This doesn’t feel right.”
Without saying a word, Adelyn returned to the kitchen, but this time she was holding something across her chest. It was an iridescent dress fashioned from black feathers that had been stitched together over dyed leather. The plumes that ran across its asymmetrical edges were especially luminous, as though careful hands had coaxed the colors from the feathers’ black grip. Tiny bones ran down the center of the bodice from neckline to waist, like grommets, like precious gems long overlooked by the privileged and pure. The shoulders were short, jagged pieces of raised feathers, their tips colored with streaks of teal. Highlighting the low neckline were ancient symbols in astral thread; visible only in moonlight, the intricate weavings related the story of the Raven’s three trials.