The Dark Yule

by R. M. Callahan

  At last I craned my head to look at Cinnamon, held securely in the night-gaunt’s other paw. “How did you do that?” I asked frankly. “How did you know?”

  She hesitated, looking at me sideways through slitted eyes. “Don’t tell the others?”

  I purred in assent, though it took an effort, for the night-gaunt’s tight grip squeezed me.

  She looked away, out upon the ocean. “I think…I’m beginning to remember…that I wasn’t always a cat.”

  My ears twitched in surprise, but there was no time to inquire further. A second night-gaunt had just soared upwards from the white spire of the church below. Our night-gaunt drifted in its direction, and the two began to circle one another other, high above the town. In the second night-gaunt’s grasp were Dot and Libby, who dangled limply from its long-fingered, monkey-like paws. I was irrationally pleased that both looked as profoundly uncomfortable as I felt.

  “Now what?” Dot called, once they were close enough.

  “We’re still not home!” Libby complained.

  I looked. Indeed, we weren’t. The roofs below sported antiquated shingles, and there was not a single street-lamp in sight. Indeed, there was not a single light in the town. All the lit windows had been extinguished, and all the lanterns were, apparently, still well below ground.

  What was this place? I wondered. Was it really just the Kingsport of the past? That might explain the aged houses, perhaps, but not the lack of footprints, or of sound, or of any life beyond that awful parody of humanity, disguised in cloaks and wax masks. Was this some other realm altogether? Or was it a sort of splinter off the material world, neither its own dimension, nor quite fully ours? And if so, had it been discovered, or created? And if created, then for what purpose? I would have plenty of questions for Solar, the next time I encountered the former wizard’s familiar—but this reminded me that I hadn’t yet answered Dot.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “Do you think they saw us leave?”

  Light blossomed below, startling us all. It poured from the windows of the church, casting great yellow patches onto the glittering snow. Once again, I heard the flap-flap of many night-gaunts’ wings, and was not unduly surprised when one of the devilish beasts soared from between the great red doors, carrying on its back a cloaked rider, who bore in turn a golden lantern. Another followed, and another, and another. The great black silhouettes spiraled higher into the moonless sky, coming ever nearer. Mere darkness would not conceal us for long.

  “Yeah,” said Dot grimly. “I’m pretty sure they did.”

  At that moment, by the grace of the great stars whose fiery deaths birthed our world, I was struck by heavenly inspiration.

  “Get this thing to fly over the town,” I ordered Cinnamon. Cinnamon blinked at me, clearly taken aback.

  “It’s my turn to save the day,” I said.

  She made that peculiar, unfeline sound again, and our night-gaunt dove forward, causing my stomach to surge as well as reigniting my terror—despite knowing better, my paws flailed and my claws unsheathed, irrationally seeking traction in empty space. The second night-gaunt, carrying Dot and Libby, fell in behind us.

  In the corner of my eye, I saw a pursuing night-gaunt alter its wheeling, searching course, and glide smoothly toward us. We’d been spotted. A second swooped in our direction, then a third, then a fourth. Caught in the night-gaunt’s grasp, I couldn’t look behind me, but I could hear the wings of our pursuers beating closer and closer, faceless monsters bearing their faceless masters upon their backs. How many were behind us now? Time for me to make good on my word, and save the day, indeed.

  The talisman still clicked between my teeth: it was pure good fortune that it hadn’t slipped from my mouth during my semi-faint. As we soared over the town, as the flapping of our pursuers swelled to an uproar, I bit the disgusting, urine-soaked charm tighter, and focused.

  Open the door.

  Then I prayed, to any god or saint or spirit that would listen, that the talisman was truly so simple to use. I’d thought it must be easy, when I’d seen Cinnamon open the path to the island; since then, though, I’d had to drastically revise my opinion on the subject of Cinnamon’s intelligence. I could only hope that I’d been more accurate in my assessment of the key.

  A slit appeared in the air just ahead of us, a thin band of different-colored sky: not clear and dark like the sky of Old Kingsport, but cloudy with snow and glowing with the light pollution of a thoroughly modern town.

  I’d done it!

  At the last moment, I wondered whether our night-gaunts might try to avoid the narrow corridor through reality, seeing it as an obstacle rather than an entrance. However, either the night-gaunt was too stupid to think much about it, or it was clever enough to perceive an opportunity. Either way, in the mere twitch of a tail, we’d soared through the talisman’s door—and, unbelievably, we were flying over Kingsport. Our Kingsport.

  Street-lamps marked out the wide, paved roads that criss-crossed below. Heavy clouds tossed the city’s light back upon itself, surrounding us in a soft, warm glow nearly as bright as the missing moonlight. There were multi-colored Christmas lights pegged to the roofs, and the red brake lights of cars, and the sounds of honking and people and stupid barking dogs. We were home.

  With a great effort, I twisted round, and finally managed to sneak a peek over my shoulder. I saw no gap in the sky behind us, and no hideous wings beat the air save for those that carried us. Whether the door had sealed itself against the cloaked ones, or they had simply refrained from pursuing us further, would remain forever unclear. I couldn’t give a damn.

  We were home.

  I heaved a sigh of profound relief—and the key slipped from between my teeth. It fell, a rapidly diminishing black speck, to the earth far below. Disoriented from the flight, I could identify no landmarks, and thus had no idea where it might have landed.

  To hell with it, I thought, and sighed again. We were home.

  13

  Mortal

  It was the witching hour, which all real witches know is the darkest time before the dawn. The night-gaunts deposited us in an empty lot just outside the city, near the new housing development. There they were dismissed by Cinnamon, to return to their rightful home in the dreamlands. One moment, the four-winged, faceless creatures were as real and solid as we; the next, they were gone, we knew not where. I doubted any of us particularly cared.

  Good-byes were exchanged in the form of long cheek swipes and short grooming sessions; I believe we were still confirming that we’d all emerged alive. I know I was astonished to discover that such was the case. At last assured of our continued mortal existence, we finally went our separate ways, and wended our solitary paths, as all good cats ought to. Slipping behind towering snow-drifts, and avoiding the overbright street lights, I finally turned my nose toward home.

  Bug the kitten had promised daylight would dissipate the Dark Yule; that night I discovered she’d been wrong. Long before the first ray of dawn, when I looked to See That Which Cannot Be Seen, I could perceive no shadows, no spirits, no ghosts, no time-slips, no fluttering fragments of the past, and certainly—thank the stars—no more night-gaunts. Morwen might hope for a happy Christmas yet.

  Of course, there were other kinds of encounters to be had: this was Kingsport, after all. I hissed at the vampire from Burying Hill as she drifted past, her cheeks rosy with some unlucky soul’s life-force; she snickered at me, but moved on anyway. Near a patch of trees I caught a whiff of something charnel, and wondered whether the ghouls weren’t already returning to their extensive network of tunnels. But this was all quite normal and expected, for a cat upon her nightly rounds. If anything unusual was out that night, it was me: tailless, half-drowned, stumbling with exhaustion, and bearing a golden collar fit for a fairytale feline queen.

  I admit that I was beyond weary when I approached our old, rickety farmhouse. I almost went around the back, to use the cat flap, but belatedly remembered that it had been naile
d shut. I’d probably have to paw at the front door and cry until Morwen came to let me in, and wouldn’t she be in a mood then. Moping, the gold bracelet sitting heavy upon me, I dragged myself up the snow-laden steps of the porch.

  The door slammed open, making me startle. I froze, fully prepared to flee, but all that emerged from the house was Morwen, wrapped in Her Husband’s ancient brown robe and wearing his down-at-heel moccasins.

  Pumpkin Spice! she exclaimed. With an effort she bent down and picked me up. I purred feebly as she carried me over to the porch swing and, heedless of the dusting of snow, sat down heavily upon it.

  Spice, you had me so worried. What happened? And then—Your tail!

  I sighed and let my head fall to her lap, mewing pitifully at her. She rubbed my jaw and my back and every bit of me that she could reach. In response, I closed my eyes and purred like I meant it.

  What’s this? I understood her to say. Her fingers plucked at the bracelet around my neck, until the exquisite piece unhinged and came away in her hand. I shook my ruff with some relief—it had been heavy—and opened my eyes just a slit, to enjoy her astonished expression. Spice, where did you get this?

  “From the Deep Ones,” I told her, knowing she wouldn’t understand. “The Deep Ones presented it to me, for defeating the mad, maggoty wizards, and preventing them from escaping their timeless prison.” I wasn’t really sure about the ‘timeless prison’ part, but it sounded good. And besides, she didn’t—

  Deep Ones?

  I opened my eyes fully, and stared directly into hers.

  Had she understood me?

  Morwen glanced back at the bracelet, and frowned. Setting it aside, she turned her attention to what was left of my tail. I winced, but continued bravely to purr, as she very gently touched the bloodied stump.

  Hold still, Pumpkin Spice.

  I closed my eyes once more and submitted to her ministrations. Quietly, Morwen murmured—a spell, a prayer, a shopping list, I couldn’t say. The area around my tail began to warm, and to tingle in a pins-and-needles fashion. At first it was pleasant, and then it became uncomfortable. At last it was actively painful, and my purr deepened into an unhappy growl, which ended on a lengthy warning hiss. Damn it, what was she doing back there?

  Morwen lifted her hand, with murmured apologies, and at once I twisted around to look at my tail. The fur was still bloody, but the tip of my mauled appendage bore a fresh, ugly scab—a scab it shouldn’t have formed for a half-day or more to come.

  Contrite, I licked Morwen’s hand, and emitted the loudest purr I’d ever managed. Morwen smiled and scratched my chin, in just the same place as the Deep One.

  Things are going to be different now, Spice, she said. I could hear the suppressed excitement bubbling under her words. You’ll see.

  Tucking the bracelet deep into the pocket of her robe, she picked me up and carried me inside, up the carpeted stairs, where I was permitted to check on my sleeping baby…

  …before Morwen gave me a bath.

  14

  From the Author

  I hope you enjoyed The Dark Yule, the first installment in the Pumpkin Spice Tales. If you did, and you have a minute to spare, please leave a review—customer reviews are the single best way for any book to find new readers. Your help would be very much appreciated!

  If you’d like to learn more about the Pumpkin Spice Tales, the other stories of New Kingsport, or the loathsome, twisted minds that created them, you can read more (if you dare) at https://www.flockhall.com. Or, sign up here to become a member of the Flock and get access to free bonus scenes, character interviews, book-related art, discounts, giveaways, leeches and more.

  Have an unspeakable day!

  15

  The Dead Witch

  Book Two of the Pumpkin Spice Tales

  Continue reading for a sneak peek of Spice’s next adventure.

  Chapter 1: Obsidian

  In a distant land of dream, at the center of a crumbling temple, was a black pool of divination. I’d brought an offering to the pool and to the unseen spirits who guarded it: a fat, juicy, headless mouse. It was the last of many such little presents, for I owed these forgotten gods a great debt.

  Carefully I nosed the mouse over the edge, and let it fall into the sacred pool with a muffled little plop. The tiny body floated for a moment, spinning slowly in the still waters, before slipping below the surface. I could see its silhouette drifting down, down, down. Then it was gone, and nothing disturbed the pool’s obsidian depths.

  The pool was surrounded by a wide, tiled ledge; the broken tiles, perhaps once blue, were now as gray as the clouds visible through the temple’s shattered roof. Curiously enough, the black waters of the pool did not reflect the gloomy sky above. They remained ebony, save for the occasional faint twinkle far below, come and gone so fast you could hardly swear you’d seen it.

  I sat on the ledge in proper meditative fashion: paws together, with my lovely plumed tail curled around them, and my eyes fixed upon my own reflection, which blinked back at me with uncanny clarity.

  “Spirits of the temple and of prophecy,” I said. “I command you, by the One and the Many, and by the barbarous names of old. By the gods and the spirits of the worlds of dream and of being, by the white light and the red, I conjure you to obey me. Nor will you find my words without value, my promises unkept, or my offerings unworthy of your great and particular powers—as you should know by now.”

  My tail twitched, betraying my nerves, as I uttered my well-rehearsed question: “What will happen when Morwen’s new baby is born? And how can I best help her at that time?”

  A loud wail echoed through the temple. The hair shot up all along my spine. I braced myself upon the ledge, back arched, claws extended, ready to flee or to fight as required. Almost in the same moment, however, the less instinctual part of my mind reconsidered. Surely the cry of a healthy baby was a good sign?

  The wail repeated itself, and I hissed at the sound, which shivered right through me. That was no baby. That was the sound of a woman in terrible pain.

  My ears flattened against my head, and my tail thrashed against the stone. Nonetheless I leaned forward to study the waters, which were no longer glassy, but choppy and rough, as if responding to unseen currents below. Shadows and light gleamed here and there upon the broken surface, but they had not yet cohered into a clear vision.

  There! A face was forming in the ripples. A stark white face, with its lower jaw thrust forward, and its bottom teeth jutting above its blackened lip. Was it a muzzle? Could it be an animal? No, for the upper portion was too flat, and a few strings of human hair still clung to the rubbery scalp. The eyes that glared at me were a watery pink…

  “Bloody hell,” I spat. “That damn ghoul again?”

  My own reflection became clearer in the water as well, and the ghoul’s face loomed just above it. It appeared, to all intents and purposes, that the creature was standing behind me. But when? And where? There was no hint in the vision as to how this might occur.

  Just as I bent to examine the water more closely, my whiskers quivered in a sudden movement of air. My tail brushed something warm, something that was not stone. Legs bunching beneath me, I leaped vigorously aside.

  The ghoul standing behind me missed me by a hair.

  He whirled at once, crooked teeth bared, and lunged again. My foot slipped on the slick tiles, and I could not jump away in time. His clawed hands clamped upon me, slamming me to the floor. I yowled with fury and scratched every inch of him I could reach, but those terrible talons just crunched down harder and harder, until I shrieked with the cracking of my bones.

  Panting, I trembled, helpless, in the albino ghoul’s grasp. He stuck his terrible face down next to mine, forcing me to breathe his carrion breath, and to stare at the white, protruding fangs a paws-breadth from my face.

  “No Deep One to save you now, kitty cat,” the ghoul blubbered at me. A long string of drool stretched from his blackened lip, hovering just above
my nose. I twisted but could not escape its approach. “No other kitty friends. You’re mine.”

  “Idiot!” I said, panting all the while—I could hardly squeeze air into my lungs, and each breath sent stabbing pains racing along my ribs. I was in very bad shape. “You know I’m mortal! All I have to do is wake up!”

  The ghoul grinned at me, a ghastly sight. There was something red caught between his teeth. “So wake up,” he suggested, with an air of innocence.

  Yes, if only I could wake up, I would be quite safe. I knew that, and yet—and yet—I couldn’t. No matter how I blinked and twitched and begged the stars internally, I couldn’t wake up.

  What happened to a dreamer who died in the dreamlands? I wasn’t sure. I never had.

  The ghoul sneered at my distress. Arching his head back, he opened his mouth wide, wide, wider, until I could see nothing of him but that awful, gaping red mouth, and the double row of sharp teeth within, designed to crunch even the heartiest bones.

  The teeth descended. I closed my eyes—and felt a sharp pain in my tail. It shouldn’t have competed with the black talons buried within the muscle of my shoulder, or the broken ribs pricking along my lungs, or the first scrape of teeth as the mouth closed over my head. But it did, because it was real.

  I seized the sensation and followed it, blocking out all else, allowing the pain to pull me upwards, to the very surface of sleep. Trembling upon the verge of consciousness, I with an effort opened my eyes—my real eyes—and blinked into the bright light streaming from the window.

  Thank the stars. I was awake.

  My baby still had a good grip on my tail—or, rather, the stubby remains of my once beautiful tail, which had been cut off by a truly unspeakable creature only three months before. The little human boy looked at me, looked at his own chubby hand, and gave the stump a second good yank. I blinked lovingly at him and tapped his sticky fingers with my paw, claws well-sheathed. This did absolutely nothing to deter my baby and he naturally pulled a third time, harder than before.