shadows and stones - an original fiction series of gothic, horror, dark fantasy

In the dusty back room of a cheap boarding house, a man lay dying. He wasn't particularly old, although he wasn't particularly young, either; he had, however, made one too many mistakes in his life. The last mistake put him here, bleeding out his soul onto a filthy mattress. A small bit of comfort came to him from the fact that he was, at least, not dying alone. Next to his deathbed sat his woman. She'd been beautiful once, but his mistakes had taken their toll on her as well. Now, she wept without shame, wishing she could do more than just hold his hand.

Both of them started when the door suddenly opened. Fearing it was someone coming to harm him further, the woman put herself before him, as a shield. That he was already dying didn't matter, she wouldn't let them hurt him again. When her eyes settled on the intruder, however, her fear changed to confusion. An emaciated figure, draped like some sort of Hindu priest, stood in the doorway, a simple cloth bag gripped in one hand.

"Who are you?" The words barely passed her dry lips.

It was as though she had never spoken. The stranger walked over in a few graceful steps, gently pushing her aside, before kneeling next to the dying man's bed. Setting the sack near its knee, the figure then allowed its draping fabric to slip down around its waist. Now, the woman could see it was a man - a horribly bony man.

"You are dying." It was not a question, but the bleeding man made a small nod of assent. "Have you confessed?"

"Not papist." The man's voice was barely a whisper and it gurgled slightly from the blood in his lung.

"Leave him be!" At the sound of her lover's voice, the woman found herself able to move once more. Protectively, she moved to his head, encircling his shoulders with her arms. "Leave him die in peace."

"That is what I am here for." The stranger's voice had an odd, musical quality to it. She knew it was an accent of some sort, yet could not identify precisely which. Meanwhile, the stranger turned his attention back to the dying man.

"The Lord does not care which of the world's faiths you follow, it is that which is within your heart that He hears. What have you done in your life, that is worthy of the forgiveness of God?"

"He ain't never killed no one." The woman spoke, hoping to save her man's strength. The stranger shook his head.

"Lack of action is not action. What have you done that is worthy?"

Religion had never held much import in the man's life. Even when he knew he was dying, he thought more of things undone, than what would happen to him next. Somehow, though, this bizarre stranger made him feel as though nothing else was important. Struggling to remain conscious, he tried to think of something he had done to make up for all his sins.

"I fed a starving dog once." It had been the week before, when they'd had enough money to get take-out Chinese. The dog had been so pitiful, while they had had so much extra food.

"And?"

"Your Mum?" The woman prompted.

"Yea, Mum. I didn't let'm take her away. I always put food on her plate, an' made sure she died in her home."

"And?"

To the dying man it was growing colder in the room. Shuddering made the knife wound hurt, but it reminded him of the previous winter too. "I give my old clothes to a bum on the street." The bum had frozen to death anyway a week later, but at least he had tried.

"And?"

"He's dying, he can't take all this talking," the woman screamed in anger at the stranger. He ignored her, his face expressionless and unreadable. "Don't answer no more, luv, you've done your best, God knows you have."

"Does He?"

"Yes, you bastard, He does. When I was nothin' more'n a slut on the street, he gave me a roof to sleep under. No matter how poor we been he's always got me clothes to wear an' food to eat. I ain't never wanted for nothin' since I been with him, an' he ain't never hurt me." Tears flowing freely from her eyes, the woman buried her face in the dying man's thinning hair.

"He's loved me," she whispered through her tears.

"Then he shall be forgiven." The stranger opened his bag, removing a worn wooden cross, a stained piece of cloth, and a long sharp knife.

At the sight of the blade, the woman gasped, clutching at her lover's shoulders, only to relax her grip as the stranger set the knife onto the floor. Taking up the wooden cross, he laid it upon the dying man's chest and placed the man's hand upon it. Then he laid one of his own hands upon the bleeding wound. Suddenly, the dying man sighed, while the stranger visibly winced.

"In the name of Jesus, I take your pain, that you may die at ease. Now, I call upon you to tell me your sins, that I may take them upon myself as well. Repent of each as you speak it, and bear it no more."

"I've robbed a lot of people," the man murmured.

In horror, the woman watched as the stranger took the knife from the floor, driving it through the palm of his left hand. Blood poured from the wound, as the knife withdrew.

"Forgive this man, Lord, and forgive me as well as I bear his pain."

Oblivious to what had occurred, the dying man continued confessing, "I shagged around a couple of times too. I'm sorry, luv," he said to the woman. She patted him reassuringly. She'd known of the infidelities, but so long as he returned to her, she had never cared.

The stranger pushed the knife through his palm again. "Forgive this man, Lord, and forgive me as well as I bear his pain."

"I cheated at cards a lot."

"Forgive this man, Lord, and forgive me as well as I bear his pain." This time the knife pierced higher on the arm. Blood sprayed onto the woman's dress.

For a seeming eternity, the scene continued as the dying man listed each of his sins, both petty and major, while the stranger tore apart his own arm with the knife, repeating his litany to God. Through it all, the woman held her man's hand.

Gradually the dying man's voice grew weaker, his confessions faltered. The pauses between phrases lengthened, but the stranger waited patiently. Finally, the man looked up to his woman, who had stayed beside him for so many long years.

"I luv you," he whispered. One last gargled breath passed from his lungs, and he lay silent.

Collapsed upon him, she wept out her despair at losing the one constancy in her live. Meanwhile, the stranger placed the wooden cross and the bloodied knife back into his sack. Only then, did he wrap the wounded mess of his arm in the filthy cloth he had brought with him. Rising, he placed his hand upon the crying woman's head.

"Be at peace. He is."

She didn't see him leave, she didn't hear him close the door. When the police, called by someone who saw a strange bloodied man leave the room, arrived, she was still trying to understand that her lover was gone. The police knew him; they knew her. They understood, he had finally gotten the end he had deserved.

A hundred, or so, miles away from the room of the dying man, while he was still alive and beginning to gasp out his sins, Rath and Eva were returning from a day trip to London. Rath was doing the driving, which meant Eva was already keyed up and nervous. Knowing you can't be killed by an auto accident doesn't mean you would enjoy experiencing one. In an attempt to distract herself from his driving, she studied some approaching rain clouds, looking for interesting patterns.

The sudden lurch of the vehicle to the opposite lane, almost sent Eva's head through the side window. Before she could recover, they were off the road, the car jolting violently before coming to a stop in a field. Turning to give Rath a piece of her mind, Eva was surprised to find he was no longer in the car. The driver's door hung open and she could just see him crouching in the grass.

Concerned, Eva climbed out through the driver's door, reaching Rath's side just in time to hear him stifling a gasp of pain. He was clutching his left arm to his body, sweat poured from his face.

"What the hell happened? Rath?"

When he didn't respond, Eva moved closer, kneeling by his side and trying to pull his arm out so she could see if there was any blood. Unfortunately, Rath was far stronger than she. All Eva was able to determine was that he wasn't bleeding; however, he continued grimacing and breathing heavily, as though experiencing extreme pain.

Twenty minutes passed before Rath's breathing slowed, and he opened his eyes again. Coming out of the crouch he'd seemed frozen in, he slipped to the ground and lay in the grass. Eva touched him gently on the shoulder in concern.

"Rath?"

"Grief."

"What?"

"Grief is in England. Somewhere. He's too close. He..." Rath paused. Eva could tell he was searching for the right words. "I can feel pain from him, intense stabbing pain. It's too close to shut out."

"Shit." Though Eva knew Rath was sensitive to the others of their kind, she had never witnessed how severely it could affect him. Normally she was the cause of his troubles. That the pain was coming from Grief did nothing to soothe her, however; nothing good ever came from that brother.

"Is he coming for you again?"

"I don't know."

"Can you tell exactly where he is?"

"No. It's stopped now."

Perhaps it had, but Eva could tell Rath was still feeling the effects.

"Does he know how strongly you feel us?"

"I don't think so. I don't know. Can you drive us home, Eva?"

"Of course." Eva helped Rath to rise, surprised at how shaken he was. He always seemed so invulnerable. As she maneuvered the car back onto the road, Eva chewed her lip in worry. Silently she prayed their strange brother, Grief, would stay far, far away.

episode i: journey into darkness - episode ii: tea party - episode iii: awakening
episode iv: the book of grief - episode v: paterfamilias - episode vi: breaking points
episode vii: the dark of the mind - episode viii: decisions
episode ix: momentary distractions - episode x: exorcising demons i
episode xi: porcelain visions - episode xii: the nature of jackals
episode xiii: exorcising demons ii - episode xiv: the invitation
episode xv: body & soul - episode xvi: mothering sunday
episode xvii: imbalance of power - episode xviii: interlude
episode xix: between life and death

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