The One In The Mist

📅 Published on April 26, 2022

“The One In The Mist”

Written by Jeffrey Ebright
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed, adapted to film, television or audio mediums, republished in a print or electronic book, reposted on any other website, blog, or online platform, or otherwise monetized without the express written consent of its author(s).

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available


Rating: 4.00/10. From 3 votes.
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Have you ever woken up from a dead sleep in the middle of the night with a crushing obligation sitting on your chest like a bull elephant?  No?  Me neither.  My sleep is never clouded with vivid dreams or horrific nightmares.  To me, it is simply a function of resting. Nothing more.  And that was the problem with my entire life.

One morning, I awoke to the dismally cloudy sun pushing dull light through my window, feeling as if the entirety of my life only existed in wasted moments.  I looked out the window of my tiny Wiltshire boarding house room and stared blankly at the tall, thin, shoulder-to-shoulder cracker-box houses nestling along the narrow street like people crowding together to watch a parade.  The expressions of the buildings mirrored the people who moved across the pavement: slow, passive, and blank like prisoners of war after capture.

In the boredom, I began to wonder: What had I done with my life?  Where were my shining achievements?  I’m not saying I had to find a cure for cancer, but I hadn’t done anything even close to a legacy.  It’s like waking from a coma after decades had passed, and everything had just gone about its business without any regard to me.  Yet my hands aren’t completely clean in this whole non-involvement with living.  In the words of the immortal philosopher Jimi Hendrix: It’s such a shame to spend the time away like this; existing.  That was me in a very uncomfortable nutshell.

Since I had no family left, the ties to Wiltshire could easily be severed.  There was literally no reason for me to stay here.  With the blur of my life stuck in my head like Excalibur in the stone, I gave notice to my shitty job, pawned off some family heirlooms – I didn’t have anyone to pass them down to, so I might as well let these old relics work for me – for a tidy sum (I did keep a few things for sentimental and financial emergencies), packed my essentials into my trusty rucksack, and bid my village a fond goodbye while waving hello to a new adventure.

That was three years ago.

In keeping with my previous boring existence, I did nothing remarkable.  (At least I don’t remember doing anything remarkable; my brain never seemed too keen about memory retention.) I traveled the width and breadth of the United Kingdom, from Britain to Scotland to Wales (and a short jaunt over to Ireland).  I walked the isle like Kane in that old Kung Fu TV show from America.  I saw some tourist spots, had a few rows, and had a few more pints (which might explain the reason for getting into a few rows in the first place).  When I wasn’t getting some sleep in a smelly hostel, I camped under the stars.  Unfortunately, the journey wasn’t without the lovely English rain that followed me through most of my trek.

Compared to the industrial grime of the bigger cities, I really enjoyed the small towns and villages.  It was like stepping back a hundred years into the past.  No hustle, no bustle, no motorways choked with cars.  You could call it the simple life.  But the stories I collected in the colorful taverns and pubs along the way were priceless to me.

I made my way to a little village in Cornwall so close to the coast you could hear the ocean waves lap the shore.  In the distance, I could see what looked like a dilapidated stone structure perched on a cliff side overlooking the Channel.  Possibly a tower to a once-majestic castle, it now stood neglected and abandoned in the receding rays of vivid orange sunlight.  Thick, surly vines climbed the walls as if nature had challenged and won against the castle stones.  I can’t say if it was the setting sun or my partial exhaustion from traveling, but for the briefest of moments, I thought I saw a figure standing by the ruined castle tower.  Unfortunately, I was too far away for any real details; all I could make out was a long grey cloak – or possibly a gown – that seemed to flow with the ocean breeze.  I shielded my eyes against the warm sun and tried refocusing.  The figure had vanished.

I shrugged it off and made a mental note to see what that was all about in the morning.  Since the sun was rapidly dipping behind the rolling countryside, I opened the creaking door to Archie’s Tavern. Hopefully, food and lodgings would be found in short order.

The tavern was standard fare: a small bar guarded the shelves of liquor on the back wall. Pipe and cigarette smoke mingled in the air with a faint smell of fryer grease.  Decorations, yellowed by time and nicotine, clung to the walls depicting various village happenings throughout the years.  More from boredom than anything else, the patrons’ eyes followed me to the bar and tried acting as if they weren’t interested in this stranger.  Only the swaying man at the fruit machine didn’t offer me a glance.

The barman looked me up and down as he shuffled beer mats for no particular reason.  He placed a relatively clean beer mat in front of me and set the remaining stack under the bar.

“What can I do you for?” His voice was authoritarian but friendly.  There were the obvious signs he enjoyed tossing a few back by the reddish nose and ear lobes.  He was stout, more poly than roly and he kept himself decently groomed with a clean-shaven face and graying black hair.  His green eyes had the look of a man who enjoyed the victories of life instead of allowing the dimness of defeat to creep in.  Then again, it might have been unlimited access to bitters.

“Well, I’m looking for a bit of food and spirits and then a reasonable B&B for the night.” “That I can help with, lad.”  The barman smiled and knocked on the pitted bar top.  “To answer your last question first, Mrs. Penrose is three doors down.  She’ll rent you a nice little flat for £15 a night.” “She’ll give ya a discount if ya let ‘er snuggle for a tick!” someone slurred from one of the tables.  Most of the patrons gave the comment a modest chuckle.

“We got fresh fishcakes and chips.”


“Well, it’s hard to bollocks up chips.”  The barman shrugged.  “The fish cakes are made by my wife every morning.  They’re not horrible.”

“Until the next day when you can’t get off the toilet!” called another patron.  This response elicited peals of belly laughs.

“Shut it, ya plonker!” the barman growled back, “or that tab of yours will be due in full at the end of the night.”

“I’ll try an order.”

In my travels, I’d like to think I’ve already had the worst of the worst.  I had developed an almost morbid fascination with anything labeled the worst.  To date, I still had not discovered anything so brutal that I could confidently categorize it as a true culinary bio-hazard.  Well, except for a particularly ghastly blood sausage I ate in London, which laid me up in hospital for five days.

“I’ll get to it directly, but first…” He snatched up a glass from the shelf.  “Are you a fan of bitters, or would you prefer some made-right-here-on-the-premises cider?” He thrust a hand toward me.  I shook it.  “Archie’s my name, and brewing’s my game!”  His smile got wider. “And for three pound-ten, it’s a proper deal.”

“Finally, something truthful came out his mouth!” shot one of the patrons.  The others shared another chuckle.

“I think I would fancy some cider.”  I put a ten-pound note on a bar top that had seen better days.

He continued to grin as he slid the pint glass under one of the pub’s two taps.  With a brief gurgle and lurch, a dark amber liquid slowly filled the glass.  I could tell he was more used to pouring bitters as he kept the glass at an angle to the mouth of the tap, but there was very little foam to be seen.  “So, where do you usually hang your hat?”

“Wiltshire.  But, I’ve been traveling for a while.”

“On holiday?”

“You could say that.”  I didn’t want to be stand-offish, but a traveler on their own becomes a target in some places.  “Got a couple days before it’s back to the salt mines.”

“They mine salt in Wiltshire?”  An eavesdropping patron asked.

“Keep your ears to yourself, Owen!” Archie barked at him before presenting me with slightly overfull glass of cider.  “Let’s see if this helps round out the journey.  I call it The Banshee’s Brew.”

I took one drink.  Then a second.  And a third before I spoke again.  Archie the barman and the whole pub waited breathless for my verdict: “That is outstanding!  What’s your secret?”

“It sure ain’t his technique,” taunted a patron.

Archie offered a scowl at the patron, then turned back to me with a restored smile.  “The Banshee’s Brew isn’t your normal cider.  No, sir.  It’s made with special apples.  Some might even say magical apples.”

“Really?”  I tried not to sound unimpressed and failed.

“As sure as you’re sitting there.  Have you never heard the legend of young Lord Penswick?” “I can’t say as I have.”  I finished the pint.  Archie quickly refilled the glass.

“You saw the old ruins on the cliff shore?” I nodded.  “That’s where the Lord Penswick built his castle after the Crusades.  It’s one of the oldest structures ‘round these parts.  Legend says he was a wizard in King Richard’s army and used what magics he learned from Merlin’s very own spell book to erect it in one day.”

“A wizard?”

“Aye.  Legend says Merlin’s book found young Penswick in the wretched streets of London, a destitute street urchin.  Richard the Lion-Hearted knew those Saracen devils were winning the war with dark magics.  So, he took the boy in and set him to the task of learning the arcane arts.  The King figured he wasn’t about to ignore any possible advantage.”

“Magic, you say?”

“If I’m lying, I’m dying.  And the boy took to it like a duck to water.  Penswick became the greatest white magic practitioner and swayed many battles with his power.  With the crown victorious in the Holy Land once again, Richard returned to England and left the task of routing the dark-skinned savages to Penswick and his regiment.”

“And that’s where the ghost in the ruins comes from?” “I’m getting there,” Archie grumbled, and drew me another cider.  “The impatience of youth.” “Get to it, Archie.”

“Sod off, Reg!  This is my story to tell, if you will all keep your mouths closed.” “You were saying?”  I tried to get him back to the topic.

“Where was I?”  He tapped the bar top for a moment.  “Oh, yeah.  It was at the end of the campaign, and Penswick – no older than yourself, mind you – was given the task to clear the countrysides of the Holy Land of any Saracen resistance.  One particular night, his army came across a group of warriors led by a wise old Saracen chieftain.  Penswick found them bloody and beaten and refused to put them to the sword.  For the mercy he showed, the chieftain gifted Penswick with his most cherished possession: his daughter, Bahja. Legend says she was a woman of unrivaled beauty, and both immediately fell in love.”

“I wouldn’t think a Saracen wife or practicing witchcraft sat too well with the Church.” “And it didn’t get over with Penswick’s betrothed, Esther, either.  King Richard’s awarding of a title and lands to Lord Penswick threw Esther into an unspeakable rage.  She vowed revenge upon Lord Penswick and his bride.  So it was many years passed while Lord Penswick and Lady Bahja made a bountiful life for themselves and those who lived upon his lands.  Some say he used his magics to keep he and his wife disease and age-free and maintained the prosperity of the lands.  I believe that to be true.  Where the ground was once poison to farmers, crops found purchase in the soil.  What they didn’t know was Esther had been quietly planning a hideous revenge with the help of dark and forbidden necromancy.” “Hold up.”  I thought the cider was catching up to me.  “Necromancy?  Like the undead?” “Of a sort.  It is dark magic that allows communion with all manner of things foul and corrupted for the necromancer’s bidding.  And Esther’s heart had grown as black as pitch and cruel as the devil.”  Archie paused to let the weight of his words sink in.  “Lord Penswick was away on business when Esther finally unleashed her fury.  It’s said that she pried open the very gates of Hell to exact her revenge.  She commanded legions of the dead and damned to lay waste to the lands and spare no soul her wrath.  The only person not spared a quick death was poor Bahja. Esther took her time torturing Penswick’s true love in ways I cannot even begin to imagine.  But Esther was not done as she rained fire from the heavens upon Penswick castle, reducing it to rubble.  Witnesses to this night of destruction said the clouds themselves could be seen burning with an unholy fire as far away as Wales.  Which was where Lord Penswick had been attending to his business.” “I’m still not making the connection with the cider’s secret ingredient.”  The cider was definitely kicking in.

“I said I was getting there, and I bloody well am!”  Archie huffed and regained his composure. “Lord Penswick demanded the fastest horse available, and he and his guards galloped through the dark night at a dangerous pace.  At that point, he did not care what was the cause; Lord Penswick knew he’d put an end to it right quick and proper-like.  A journey that should have taken four full days was accomplished in less than two.  The sun had greeted him back to the lands with a carnage he’d only seen during the Crusades.  From the moment he crossed into the village proper, the bodies of his serfs littered the lands in bloody, twisted shells of their former selves.  Not even the animals were spared. Crops and buildings were sacked and burned with such thorough ruthlessness.  He fought through the stench of burnt flesh and freshly spilled blood clogging his nose as he made his way to Penswick castle.”

“I hate this part,” said Reg.

“I should think the heavens themselves shook that day under the weight of Lord Penswick’s crushing sorrow as he held the tortured and violated body of his dark-skinned love.  Bahja had not just been tortured; she had been reduced to a pile of burnt flesh and pulped bone. Although, Esther had sought fit to keep Bahja’s wedding ring intact so Lord Penswick would have no doubt Bahja had met a most brutal, tormented death.  Penswick wept as he looked at Bahja’s tormented face and knew the unspeakable indignities she had suffered.  He had no doubt it was Esther; only she could have dished out such a cruel death to his beloved.  Lord Penswick swore an oath that very moment that his magic would see to justice for his beloved.”

“Revenge!” Owen yelled.

“Bloody right!” Reg added.

“Lord Penswick didn’t have to wait long.  Under the light of the next full moon, Esther the hag returned.  She believed the darkness of night would give her power over the grieving Lord. What followed was a battle of epic proportions.  Lord Penswick had created artifacts that laid low her evil forces, leaving only their personal magics to win the day.  Once more she rained unholy fire from the skies, swallowing him whole.  Her folly was being unable to resist seeing her handiwork up close. When she was close enough to touch, Lord Penswick summoned his waning strength and wrapped a righteous hand around her throat.  He unloosed his most powerful curse and cast her into the ocean for all of eternity.  Before Lord Penswick wandered off to die from his wounds, he used the last of his magic to bless Bahja’s garden as a reminder to all that love can never truly be extinguished.”

“And you make your cider from the apples grown in Bahja’s garden, right?” “Exactly!” Archie slapped the bar top.


“What?”  He was genuinely astonished by my words.

“Hags?  Banshees?  Demons?  Undead?  Seriously, you’d need a jimmy bar to fit any more cliches into a story.  This has to be the most creatively unoriginal way to present a fictional back story.  And for what?  To sell a few pints of cider to people on holiday?  Do I need to mention that hags are German in origin?  How about Banshees coming from Irish mythology? And the whole magical fruit-bearing tree? That comes out of – take your pick – Greek or Persian lore.  Even the Christians could make a case for that one.  At least demons are myth-neutral creatures.  Maybe you put them in for the benefit of Swiss vacationers.  Oh, but let’s get the Americans involved with their zombie fascination.  Honestly, I’d have no idea this was a British folktale if you hadn’t wedged in the Crusades and Merlin.  You really have covered your bases for all travelers, haven’t you?  I know times are tough, but do you really need to invent an outlandish story around mystical apples to make a pound?  By any chance, do you have some magic beans lying around in back for purchase too?  Pure nonsense.”

I could see the barkeep’s face getting redder and redder the more I talked.  He picked the ten-pound note off the bar, walked to the register, rang up my purchases and slapped my change down in front of me.  “Kitchen’s closed.  Mrs. Penrose is three doors that way.  Now kindly piss off.”

I lifted myself from the bar stool and found the cider had more effect on me than I thought.  I straightened myself, picked up my pack, and headed out the door.  I took small consolation that I didn’t get into a fist fight as I staggered toward the B&B.  A light fog had begun to filter into the cobbled streets, with the flickering gas lamps giving an eerie sway to the buildings and vehicles.  I marked it up to the influence of spirits (and stories about spirits) and continued onward.

My temporary sleeping quarters were, to be generous, rustic.  It was more of a glorified hostel single suite complete with a mirrored washstand to make up for the fact that a common toilet was located at the opposite end of the hall.  I couldn’t care less about my surroundings as I flopped on the creaky bed. Hopefully, I would get the energy to get out of my clothes soon.  I didn’t.

Unlike the majority of my life, I didn’t drop into a dreamless sleep.  For the first time I could remember, my unconscious visions were bloody and horrific.  Mortally wounded knights sputtered cries of help, and I could do nothing to ease their suffering.  Viscera littered the ground around me like trash from an upturned waste bin.  I stood before the advancing horde, uttering arcane words that caused the dark-skinned aggressors to begin shaking.  They halted, then began pulling at their terrified faces that erupted into pus-filled boils.  The enemy fell to their knees, wailing and cursing in a language I could not understand as they died in quivering mounds of torment.

The scene abruptly changed; I was ocean side, surrounded on all sides by abyssal creatures with twisted horns and pulsing red flesh.  They advanced, mocking me with maws that spewed volcanic spittle as they roared in voices arcane and unholy.  In their midst, a hideous woman wore an expression filled with insane hate as she screeched at the demons to advance and lay waste to every living thing.  I pulled a gilded horn from my cloak and put it to my lips.  In a single thunderclap note from the horn, a devastating burst set upon them, reducing them to lifeless husks.  I looked up in time to see the skies above had begun to pulse with dark magic.  Through the night’s blackness, large, fiery rocks belched from the swirling grey clouds.  The hag pointed at me as if directing the flaming hail.  I quickly pulled my cloak around me and dropped to one knee.  I could feel the hellfire raging outside the cloak as the weight of the stones pushed me to the ground.  I lay motionless and heard the hag’s demented cries of joy moving closer and closer.  By the time she realized her victory was a ruse, my hand was upon her neck.  She showed neither fear nor surrender as I uttered arcane words.  The ocean waves rose up as hundreds of clear, shimmering tentacles quickly immobilized the raging hag.  I dismissed her with a wave of my hand, and the aquatic tentacles complied by dragging her from the shore.  Her vengeful screams continued as she sank into the deepest, darkest part of the ocean.

“I shall return!” the hag shrieked.

I bolted upright in my rented bed, soaked in sweat, breathing as if I had run a marathon.  The partial moon peeked through the window, and silence was the only thing sharing the tiny room with me.  I kicked my feet off the bed, pushed my damp hair from my face, and grabbed a hand towel from the nightstand.  I walked to the washstand to clear the sweat.

I soaked the cloth in the wash basin and stared into the mirror.  I looked like Hell warmed over.  The cold washcloth on my face was a vacation for my mind as it seemed to wipe off the horror that had invaded my dreams.  However, these visions were so vivid as if they were made of memory and not created by cider and the barman’s story crafting.  In all my travels, no village folklore had ever burrowed into my brain like Lord Penswick’s tale.  I knew that had to be the cause.

That is, until I saw her in the mirror.

I spun around to meet the female figure behind me and immediately noticed she wasn’t standing: she was floating.  She was wrapped in a swirling, tattered grey gown that looked like it was made of smoke.  Her face was obscured in the way an old photograph fades after decades, leaving only a memory of shape without definition.  A faint light pulsed from her eye sockets while her dark hair tumbled and pitched as if by an unseen breeze.  The creature tilted her head, almost like she was considering what to make of the sweaty bloke next to the washstand.  I didn’t move.  Not because fear had rooted me to the spot, but because I thought it better to let whatever this thing was make the first move.  When faced with the unknown, it is better to react than act.  And when she opened her mouth, the most unnerving shriek poured forth, shattering the mirror and showering me with shards.  Ears ringing and head pounding,  the sonic wail gave me the opportunity I was looking for.

I snatched up my rucksack and rushed out the door.  I didn’t bother to look back as I barreled down the B&B’s steps and into the street.  The fog had taken advantage of the night and spread about the village in a blanket of obscurity.  I didn’t know which way to go, and honestly, I didn’t care.  Anywhere but here was the plan as my hiking boots echoed quickly across the cobblestones.

By the time the adrenaline had run its course, I found myself outside the town by the ocean side.  It seemed the fog hadn’t dared linger around the shore as I put my hands on my knees and tried to regain my breath.  On the cliff above me, I could see the ruins of Penswick Castle bathed in weak moonlight. Now that I knew where I was, I could get in a quick breather and make my way.  This haunted place would soon become a distant memory.

I watched the water lap against the beach, and that’s when a stench hit me.  I’d been around many fishing villages; this was not the familiar smell of expired sea life.  When I was in Belfast, a man had taken his life at the B&B where I was staying.  In the summer heat, he baked and bloated until authorities answered complaints about the smell coming from his flat. This was the smell I now encountered: the fetid stench of rotting human flesh.

They rose up from the ocean waves; a shambling mass of undead in various states of decomposition. In the moonlight, I could see some dressed in ruined bearskins, some wearing tattered World War uniforms, and some fresher corpses decked in diving gear. Behind the line of decaying figures, a robed figure hovered.  Mostly obscured by the dark night, the creature cackled and allowed the advance.

“I have returned!” the floating figure cried out.  It pointed a thin, crooked finger at me.  “And your soul shall be mine!”

As it moved forward, the moonlight revealed the creature to me.  It was the face of a woman, but stripped of all femininity by something unspeakable.  Wet silver hair clung around her gaunt face as if submerged in the darkest depths for centuries.  A soaked robe hung loosely on her frame, mottled with so much seaweed and silt that it dripped from her body like saliva from the teeth of a hungry wolf.  And her eyes – those damned eyes – glowed with untold rage.

Now I began full-on panic.  The run from town had left me winded (not to mention the cider was still pumping through my system).  Even though this army of the undead moved like they were relearning how to walk, there was no way I could outrun them.  So, I didn’t try.

I scrambled up some defensible rocks and reached into my rucksack.  I happened upon one of my heirlooms – a long, curved knife I had used many times on the road for cutting tinder when I camped outside.  Supposedly, it had been forged in the Dark Ages, but it was as sharp as any knife I had ever owned.  Also, it seemed rather fitting this blade came from the Dark Ages because I didn’t think my life could get any darker.

The undead clawed desperately at me with their wet, rotted fingers as their teeth chattered like starving animals.  My knife turned grasping hands into stumps in short order, but I knew I couldn’t keep this up forever.  It was only a matter of time before the foul-smelling horde overwhelmed me.

Sure enough, one of the undead creatures hooked my pant leg, and my balance on the rocks was lost.  I tumbled into the crowd.  Their grotesque flesh and muscle felt like an old pudding that had been left out too long.  My fingers easily sank into the fetid flesh with little effort.  Had I not been in full-on panic mode, I would have emptied my stomach.  Luck allowed me to keep hold of the knife, but the rotting fingers would eventually tear me to pieces.

“He is mine!” called their mistress.  “Only I shall take his life!”  Her words did nothing to reassure me as I continued to swipe at the decomposing masses.

Suddenly, I heard the call of a hunting horn, followed immediately by a blast of concussive force that sent the uncoordinated legion hurtling away from me.  The force of the blast was so powerful that it literally caused some of the undead to fly apart.  I gained my feet and wiped away the sludgy undead viscera from my face.  Apparently, I had been at the center of the blast yet suffered no damage.  For a moment, I was awestruck at the rotted body parts that littered the entire beach.

“Foreign whore!”  The hag lifted her hand skyward.  As she pulled it down, a bolt of amber lightning struck Penswick Castle.  For a brief instant, I saw a figure standing atop the rubble. After the devastating flash, the figure had vanished; everything had now become crystal clear to me.  Everything.

“Oy! Forget about me?”  I smiled and turned my hand to hide the knife.

The hag dropped all pretense and was instantly upon me, her cold breath reeking of ancient decomposition.  She hovered close enough for me to see her skin was almost translucent, as if time had drained all color.  Beneath the skin, unknown small creatures squirmed freely between the greyed strands of muscle.  Her thin hand was stronger than it looked as she lifted me off the sand by my neck.

“No, I have not forgotten about you.”  She licked her lips with a discolored tongue.

“Only one mistake was made last time, hag.”  My face shone a confident smile in the pale light of the moon.

“Wait.  That face.  I – “

Plunging the blade under her chin abruptly stopped the hag’s words.  Her expression of discovery was quickly replaced by shock as the penetration made a squelching sound like a screwdriver piercing an over-ripe cantaloupe.  The sharp edge slid effortlessly into her ancient flesh and embedded somewhere deep within her demented brain.  I twisted the knife for good measure and felt cold, black blood gushing down the handle.  Her fiery eyes registered the killing blow with a small amount of surprise and a larger portion of hate before extinguishing.  Her corpse cushioned the landing when we fell to the beach.

However, something told me this wasn’t quite done; proper care was demanded.  The blade made the job of decapitating the hag easier than I had thought.  I held her head and stared at eyes that had held an unquenchable madness for hundreds of years.  And for a moment, a brief splash of sympathy touched my heart.

For an even briefer moment, I considered who would clean this beach scattered with undead carnage. But I decided the townsfolk needed something to do other than sit around telling tales.  Besides, I had something more important to attend to.

Hiking up to the ruins of Penswick Castle, the first thing I saw in the moonlight was a lush garden thriving on the rocky ground.  Also, I noticed the lightning scorch marks on the stones. Although the castle had been razed hundreds of years prior, the foundation and main structure looked solid.  It seemed to be free of vandalism as if respected and protected by the villagers throughout the ages.

I walked through the main entrance and found the gutted interior of the main chamber lit in soft candlelight.  A figure dressed in grey robes floated softly in the center of the hall, her face now detailed and as beautiful as I had remembered it.

“M’lord.”  She held out an ancient leather-bound tome with a gilded hunting horn resting atop it.

I dropped my rucksack, letting it clatter to the stone floor and placed my hand on her cheek.

“My beloved Bahja, I am home.”

Rating: 4.00/10. From 3 votes.
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🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Jeffrey Ebright
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

🔔 More stories from author: Jeffrey Ebright

Publisher's Notes: N/A

Author's Notes: N/A

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