Wolves and the Blackwood
An umbra-verse story
By Crowley Nelson
Dripping fibers, rotten meat.
A black shape stood beyond the clearing, towering and horrible. Its head held three protrusions—two stretched out at the top of the head, and one long and sharp frlom the front. It had nothing to see with, no teeth, and yet the carcass beneath it sloughed and tore when it tipped its head to the grass. There wasn't anything identifiable left on the meat, flayed from the stomach down: twisted, ground up, and crumpled like it'd been crushed by the thumb of a giant. Torn skin stained the inky surface with mottled clumps of red. It looked like a gouge in the world.
One of its limbs tilted forward, adjusting its churning mass. The back ones reared up to an animal crouch. A sloping neck lolled out long and heavy, swiveling the head to scan the clearing. None of it ever touched the ground.
Margaret was certain it saw her.
Every part of her seized up at once. A sudden, perfect clarity hit her body.
Oh.
It made sense. That something like this would happen, anyway. She knew where she was, where she lived. The stories people told. She liked those stories even. To wander out even slightly into the Blackwood at night was a phenomenally stupid thing to do. She’d been panicking but—she knew better, really. She did. And . . . yeah. There it was. Something was here, and it ate people, and it had seen her.
She was going to die.
Margaret Finch awoke a bundle of tangled sheets, vague discomfort pulling her from dreams half forgotten. The threadbare mattress grumbled slightly as she shifted her weight, pooling sweat, palms clasped against the bed. An arc of pain shot through the knot in her back, trailing down her spine to the callused tissue beneath the bandages on her bad leg. Rain pattered on the thin roof above.
There was no sense sleeping now. She could already tell that wasn't going to happen. A dull ache thrummed in the back of her head as she stared groggily out the window. Smears of coherent shape stuck half formed out of the fog. Bits of the wire chicken coop, the creaky wooden steps, the tiny fence line where weeds gave way to the treeline. Beyond it lies the Blackwood, the hunting paths, the rest of the world.
For a little while she was content to linger in the quiet. It was early, she was sore, and work would be on soon. But eventually boredom got the better of her. There weren’t many moments she got to herself like this. It just wouldn’t do to waste this one just because her bones were mad at her. When Margaret was sure she was truly alone, she reached a hand under the bed and groped blindly. In the small gap in the corner of the wall was something she’d tucked away. She’d hidden it for her little moments of calm, moments like this, where she could afford to sit down and think about things. With an uncomfortable little movement, she fished it out.
Contained within the little cloth bag were her belongings. There were plenty of things she had for her job, lent to her by Marcus, but these things were hers. A razor, some old gauze, leftover bits of jerky and salt-bread . . . not what she was looking for. There was something else at the bottom. That something—the book—was a little paperback with a faded green cover. “LOST IN PINES” was printed in yellow bolded letters.
It was a precautionary tale about a young boy getting trapped in a Fae Wood, as apparently happens to boys. He goes on a great wandering quest through strange and wonderful places and loses himself completely to the laws of his new home. The creatures he meets belittle and antagonize him. It ends with him getting eaten by harpies. But the harpies are drawn in a way that made her wonder things about the author. It was her favorite book. She had reread the thing more times than she could count. Not so much for its message as much as the places it described. She’d never seen anything that gripped her like that before. She picked one of the dog-ears at random. What was she feeling . . . hmmm. Fuck it, she was simple. She reread the harpy scene again, and then a few more times.
But, eventually . . . personal time was over. The sun was rising. She had to get ready soon. The book was carefully slid back in place under the floorboard. Margaret reached down to the small pile of fabric and pulled out another uniform to wear for the day. A small comb did its best on her frizzy red hair. She tried her damnedest to shape it back to something normal-ish before tying it back. Then, cautiously, she picked up the cane lying beside her bed and propped herself up to standing. The cold hit her first, then the arc of pain from the bad ankle. She caught herself against the wall.
There weren't many things Margaret Finch was responsible for, as oft she was reminded, but one of them was the morning prep for the bar. Things had to be clean before anyone got up. This had to be done quietly to avoid waking up any guests. Or Marcus. If she did it fast, she could turn in for a few minutes before he woke up. With one uneasy hand, she inched the door open. It gave out a low growl. Margaret winced. A part of her immediately wanted to bolt. Her breaths felt heavy and uneven in the hall. She pressed an ear against the door. A few seconds passed.
He’d be out for a while, Margaret reminded herself. He’d been drinking the night before. There wasn’t anything to worry about if she got this done and wasn’t stupid. And besides, it hadn’t even been that bad last night.
Stains littered every surface in the barroom. The air smelled like something sticky and dead. Glasses lay strewn haphazardly over the tables, papers and wooden darts all covered in congealed sweat and garbage. She stared blankly at the scene.
That . . . had been the noises she heard last night, then. They’d stayed over past closing time. This happened from time to time, of course—but. She’d asked if they were going to before she turned in early. Marcus had said no. That was stupid, he said. Why would he do that? She had nodded and said of course sir, thank you for understanding, sir, and had then gone to bed. Because the weather was making her joints act up. Because she thought her work was mostly done for the next morning. And it was! And yet.
And yet.
Margaret sighed.
A whole lot of scrubbing and washing cups and mopping ensued. Margaret’s hands shook habitually, which was annoying when you were handling glass. Her fingers didn’t want to grip the glass right. They curled and bent in ways she didn’t want them to. It made it hard to use a hand for her cane, which meant she either had to hunch weirdly against the barstool or risk getting glass all over the place for her to sweep up. She’d been made aware that she looked rather funny when she did this.
When the work was passably finished, Margaret took a second to collapse on one of the barstools. Her breath caught raggedly in her throat. The place was never nice. But right now, it was clean. It was easier to breathe behind the counter when it was clean. She could enjoy that for a little while, at least until the next morning. Thinking about that made her feel exceptionally tired. Then, of course, she felt stupid for thinking that, and ungrateful.
Margaret needed some air. With a shaking hand, she opened the back door and felt the cool sunrise air wash over her. Her eyes drifted down to the forest's edge.
The rustling of its branches made it seem as if it sat waiting just outside to swallow her whole. And of course it kind of was, she knew that, living where they did. The Blackwood was Faery land. Their little railway town had been one of the few successful attempts in the Celian march west to claim land untouched by mortal folk. “Successful” here means that time was consistent, and the earth wouldn’t rise up to swallow anyone. The number of men it had cost seemed to change every time she’d heard the story. They’d driven great iron stakes into the ground, excising from the town the magical forces controlling the place. That is to say, there was a very real chance that something horrible and arcane was watching her from beyond the treeline. The thought was actually quite flattering.
That's how she felt as a kid, at least. Maybe it was a desire to see something beyond her home, or just the thought of being paid that kind of attention. Or that some sort of magic remained here in Grenfel, somewhere. Even if it was scary. She’d always felt vaguely bad about harboring such a want, even as a kid. It’d gotten more distant in adulthood. Most things had.
As time had passed and no wild magical phenomena had thrust her into a life of adventure, Margaret had come to accept certain things. Spirits aren't real, magic was for people in a different stratum than her, fair folk had no interest in broken down podunk towns where everything natural had died, and this was going to be how it was. This was it. It was just her, and Marcus, and the inn. That was enough. She was, she reminded herself, quite lucky. And she was happy. Of course she was.
Still, though, she sat here. Quiet each morning, same routine since age six.
Not for nothing, though. There was a lot to see at the treeline if you wanted to look. Foxes, crows, crickets and fireflies, spiders and rabbits and ants . . . plenty of interesting stuff. Plus, sometimes something would pass by that she couldn't recognize. Those were fun because she got to make something up. Imagine some bizarre, horrible monster. Freak herself out and then go back inside because she had freaked herself out. It was something to do at least. A small black shape moved along the step near Margaret’s leg as she thought about these things.
A spider? It scuttled by, and she got the faintest glimpse of a few rail thin legs. Yes, definitely a spider. She lowered her hand cautiously to inspect it up close. It was one of the peach-colored ones with the long legs. She scooched a little closer. These were her favorite. There was this weird sort of grace they made as they crawled around her, fascinating her.
“Who are you, little guy?” she asked the spider.
The spider, being a spider, did not respond. Margaret laughed to herself.
Against her better judgment, Margaret lowered her hand even closer to it. It scuttled off as the door slammed open behind her. A broad, cold shadow filled the backyard.
“What are you doing?”
A thick hand clasped Margaret’s shoulders. She felt her ankle catch painfully as he pulled away from the doorway. A shepherding hand caught her when her bad leg buckled from the impact, clasping her tight against his chest. Marcus stood before her. He was a squat man with waxy skin and a sunken, dissatisfied smile. Always appraising something.
"I was, uh . . . I was, just . . . just getting ready. Sir. Bar’s clean,” muttered Margaret. Her tone was unsteady, unfirm, and she could tell he had heard that. She desperately hoped he wouldn't decide she was hiding something again.
"You’re letting cold in, is what you're doing. I told you not to let heat out, right? We need it to stay warm inside.” He stressed the last part with a disappointed lilt in his voice. The kind you'd use on a particularly poorly behaved dog.
“I’m sorry, I was just trying to keep busy before we opened. Like you said, right? Stay out of the way after the morning cleaning. The, uh, morning cleaning’s done, by the way! Bars all set—”
His fingers dug a little tighter into the loose skin around her shoulder blades. She felt his breath, hot on her neck.
“Just yesterday I told you to keep quiet. Remember? You can't be out here making a mess where everyone can see you! People don't want to see that when they come here. It upsets them. And I need extra to take care of you as is. Y'know I'm fucking sick of telling you this, right. You get that? You NEED to make an effort around here if you want me to keep propping you up. You’re almost as old as I am, for fuck’s sake.”
Margaret looked down at the wooden stairs. The air stung cold on her face and she felt exceptionally small.
“Sorry, Dad . . . ”
“What?”
“Isaidsorrysir—”
Marcus shoved forward. His nails pressed ever so slightly harder. Not enough to bruise. Never enough to bruise. “You’re mumbling again,” he said. “We practiced this. Say it right.”
Margaret swallowed something heavy in her throat. “I'm sorry, sir.”
“Sure you are.”
Marcus set her down on the steps and slammed the door. Without support, she fell flat on her ass and her bad leg folded under her. She jolted at the sudden noise and felt stupid for that. Stupid for making a mess, stupid for being clumsy. Stupid and impotent and lazy. Stupid little crippled piece of shit.
Morning light filtered through the treeline. A spider wove its web between the gaps in the rotten wood stairs. Something small and soft ran out from under it, darting into the woods beyond sight
Later that morning, Margaret stood behind the bar counter. This was, categorically, the easiest place to find her. This day started like all the rest. Business was as dead as always. A handful of regulars were scattered about the place, Marcus milling about between them. Most of them were friends of his from last night.
People don’t really show up to Grenfel often, let alone the Evergreen. Most days it was a tavern for six and an inn for precisely two. She poured a flagon of booze and placed it down on a raggedy old table. A hand pulled it back. She moved to the next task. It was all autopilot, the motions of this job all etched into her mind from years of repetition.
Her mind wandered to an argument being had nearby. She listened in, eyes down at the counter she was wiping.
". . . and I'm telling you, Al, there's no good reason it's still broken. If they haven't now, they niver doin it," spouted the shorter man, red in the face.
The man beside him just grunted at that. "And ain’t no one wants to be here anyways."
Margaret finished swabbing the counter.
"Well, maybe if they could get here, DAN, they good and goddamn might!”
Al just sort of huffed at that and took a swig of his booze. Margaret was quietly relieved that she didn't have to break up another fight. Al and Dan had always been angry drunks, and that railroad was the motherload of sore subjects nowadays. They’d had this conversation so many times now, in any number of tempers, and it still came back to the fucking railroad.
That thing was older than she was by a few years. Whole town had sprung up around it. Everyone talked about it like it was some gift from God. And yeah, when she was a little kid, it had seemed like this amazing thing. Taking people away, bringing back new ones. Margaret filled up another glass and another man took it. She could remember kids daring each other to run past the tracks when it first shut down. Couldn't get in on that, really, but the stories were fun! There was this nasty creature called the "Railway Man" who would lurk on rainy days and—
"Are you just gonna sit there?” Marcus shot her a withering glare.
Oh. Right.
She apologized with a stiff smile and poured the man his drink.
Ultimately, she knew she was a hypocrite about this. Could complain all she wanted about the constant old man stories, but truth be told, she missed it, too. Missed what things had been like in her head back then, mostly.
There had been a time once when people in Grenfel were never the same. Human and Beastfolk and Sthraxi of all kinds. Always with something new. She missed how Marcus used to be, gentle and quick to flights of fancy. She had vague impressions of her mother's voice from those years. Mostly her laugh.
Margaret was about ten when the people stopped coming in. She hadn’t known what it meant at the time, but she could see the fear. There was talk with adult words like “Protest” and “Contract” and “Foreman.” The company had picked the railway clean in just a few months. There was a safer route, they had said. New town set up around it and everything. Marcus had wanted to go, but The Evergreen was already built. Loan taken out and all. And also . . . there was Margaret. Who needed things that were expensive as is, and couldn't handle heavy travel. He'd stayed for her sake. For her.
Thunk.
Ah. She hadn’t been paying attention again. Dropped a glass right out of her hand. Now there was beer on her uniform and Dan and Al were laughing.
It was some time later when the front door came open. A draft of cold air swept through the bathroom, sending a few autumn leaves fluttering into the musty wooden floors. Margaret gave one of her stock customer greeting lines as she squinted to get a better look at the figure.
The woman in the doorway had stringy black hair and a heavy huntsman's jacket a few sizes too large. A small leather sheath sat on her hip. Her jaw was sharp, and her eyes held a vague sense of perpetual discomfort. One hand tapped rhythmically against one of her buttons as she confusedly returned the gaze of the regulars looking over her. Margaret was elated.
She was here!
The woman, Bo, walked up beside her, waving her hands apologetically when she half-tripped onto the counter. Margaret didn’t address her, not here, but the two shared a brief look.
"I would like a room, please." Bo placed the coins down on the table. It was the exact amount needed, same as all the other times they'd done this. Rote memorization of social techniques Bo didn’t really get, but knew One Did In These Circumstances. She waved a hand to Marcus, who didn’t return the gesture.
"Aha—certainly!” said Margaret. “Rooms are on the door to the left. Feel free to take your pick, ah, ma’am.“
Bo stifled a smile. With a discrete nod, she walked stiffly through the door. A gloved hand trailed along the counter, brushing against hers for just a moment.
From behind, Margaret could see how her coat had been frayed through in several places from the back. Had something happened? The temptation rose to ask. She buried it immediately. Plenty of time after closing. Excitement alone carried her through the rest of the dull shift, finally petering out when the sun began to set in the sky and Marcus opened the door to usher out the drunks.
She did the quickest, dirtiest closing she could manage. Bar was prepped for the morning, Marcus had stomped off to go retire for the night a few minutes ago. Everything should be good? Night had just fallen, so she should have plenty of time. She took another quick look around, seeing only the empty barroom. A slow exhale loosened the tightness in her chest. Margaret took a moment to gather her things before proceeding.
She knew the room, of course.
“Psst.”
"Who is this?" Margaret gave another knock on the door. “Psst. It's me.”
“Dunno who ‘me' is,” said Bo. “You'll have to elaborate.”
Margaret sighed. Another part of the process. She could never just let her into the room. Always had to be something attached. She looked around, leaning in conspiratorially.
“You know who I am!” she yell-whispered. “It’s me. Margaret. I’m here to trade stuff! Where the hell have you been?”
The woman behind the door hung her head dramatically. “Whaaaat, the barmaid? What are you doing out at night? I thought this was a respectable business.”
Margret snorted, covering her mouth so she wouldn’t laugh. “Who on earth told you that? Let me in, c’mon. I look deranged.”
After watching her squirm for just a few seconds longer, Bo gingerly opened the door.
Inside the room, Bo’s belongings were splayed out all across the bed. Her jacket was draped over a small wooden chair. She swept an armful of clutter off the bed so Margaret could actually sit down. A brief flare of pain shot up her leg as she lowered herself onto the bed. Bo unceremoniously flopped down beside her, scattering piles of her own stuff.
The two lay in silence for a moment. Margaret could feel Bo’s heavy breaths, feel the warmth radiating from her. She was quite stockier than Margaret, and without the jacket, it really showed. Her arms were thick and worn with scars. A hand played along the curls of Margaret's hair, tugging slightly, and she swatted it aside.
“So what did you want to show me?”
"Well. It’s a long story, but—I found something a while ag,” Margaret said. “A few months back, I think? Didn’t have it last time, so that’s got to be right. Uh, anyways! Yes, it’s something quite special. Someone had just left it there on the street."
Bo crossed her legs and propped herself up on an elbow. “You’re really talking this up. This another weird old book?”
“Yeah well, shut up! It’s good, really. Trust me. All the pages are intact, save the cover. It's really good! You should read it . . . if you have something good to trade, I mean." Margaret smiled mischievously and leaned in. "I don't think you can, though. I'm pretty great at this."
Bo clasped her hands together and turned sharply to face her.
"Oh, but I do. You're not ready to see what I've got, Finch."
Margaret did her best approximation of a quiet gasp. "Oh, you wound me!"
Bo stifled a laugh as Margaret handed her the book. Gently she flipped it over to read the front page. As she did, she tapped at the bag with her other hand.
“Hounds of Frostpoint. Huh,” muttered Bo.
"Yeah! It’s by, uh, one of the guys who fought in the war during the magic leak. Y'know, with all the monsters? It's really really good, especially the part with the mountain where— Oh, I shouldn't spoil it. I've never heard of the author before, either, and I want you to see if you can find anything else by them if you stop by a library somewhere and—," Margaret caught herself mid-ramble. She tried to focus on watching Bo's reactions. As she did, she saw Bo turn the book over a few more times in her hands. She was frowning.
That didn't sit right with her. Was it something she’d said? Was it the book? Bo was, to her knowledge, the least picky person on the planet. She would come to Margaret with dry instructionals and old storybooks alike, and she would pour over them with the same curiosity. Well, curiosity or indulgence. Margret wasn't sure which. She usually played along, though! What else was she to do?
It had been the rambling, hadn’t it? Oh god, it probably was. She really shouldn’t even be in here anyways. Marcus was right that she couldn’t go five minutes without fucking something up. Bo was probably exhausted anyway, and—
"Are you okay over there?” Bo asked. “You look pale. I was going to give you my big dramatic appraisal thing, but if you're sick we can, uh, skip that part if you want."
Margaret shook her head and tried to play it off, but Bo’s concern seemed to stay.
"Are things, uh— Well , anyway, this is a pretty good find. Certainly worth some jerky, at least. Can't say I haven't noticed a theme, though," Bo said. She flipped through the book absentmindedly, catching a rather gruesome illustration and making a face.
Margaret laughed, and Bo punched her on the arm.
"I'm sorry, fuck, ow! What do you mean?”
Bo gestured back to the picture, eyebrow raised. “All this murder, historical accounts, monster shit . . . You've really got a fixation, there. What's that about?” A wry smile crept up at Margaret, hiding her face. “Does somebody have some baggage?”
“I do not!” squeaked Margaret, raising a hand indignantly. This did little to quell the laughing. “I just like a good mystery. And besides. Don't you all live out in the Blackwood? This stuff shouldn't be scary for you either.”
She expected a laugh. Bo didn’t. Instead, she went quiet, and Margaret crawled into herself and died a little. The woman tapped a foot against the floorboards. One hand played with the collar of her shirt. Tracing mottled purple along the neckline.
“Not how it works,” said Bo. “Don’t be stupid. We go through it sometimes, for hunting stuff, but we don’t stick around. People die out there. It’s not fun.” That last part came out harsh, pointed. The room felt cold for a moment. Unable to stomach the tension, Margaret shuffled back. Embarrassment hit immediately. The blistering fear of fucking up this good thing they had made her want to tear herself open.
Her voice was low and shaky as she spoke. “I didn't, ah, mean it like that. I'm sorry, that was stupid. I, uh—is everything alright?”
Bo sighed.
“Yeah. Sorry. Yeah. Things are just . . . weird right now. I've been traveling all day. Don't even get to stay in town for more than tonight. I'm all behind on the trade route and I gotta catch up with everyone else at camp before they move on, or it's my ass. And people are counting on me not to fuck it up. We do this whole thing every month and I’m just—” Bo palmed the air aggressively with one hand. “I'm tired.”
“Yeah,” said Margret. “I'm tired too.”
The two sat once more in silence. There was an understanding there: neither had it in them to talk. Instead, they just lay there and felt the tension gradually disperse.
Margaret offered a hand, and Bo took it.
“Weeeell, hey. I only got the next few hours to bother my favorite waitress. We’ve gotta get a move on with that. Right?”
She laughed. This time she couldn't suppress it. Bo pulled her forward by the hand, yanking her up onto the larger woman's stomach. This close, Margaret couldn't help but catch the smell of her hair. Like fresh air, the forest, sweat. It was an embarrassing thing to be caught doing. Bo squeezed Margaret into the crook of her neck and it immediately it got ten times worse.
“Of course, how foolish of me,” said Margret, struggling to play it off. “Here I thought you wanted to trade for my book here. Do you . . . uh . . . want something else?”
“Like what?”
“We have board games.”
The two of them laughed. Neither of them were particularly good at this. It was a good night, warm and full of each other's company.
The next morning, Margret awoke at Bo’s side. Birdsong filtered in from outside the little room. The sun played strangely on the odds and ends lying about the floor. Both of them still wore their clothes from the previous night, albeit considerably more disheveled. Bo was snoring pretty hard.
Margaret took a moment to stretch. The boundaries of what they had together were . . . unclear, especially to them. There were a lot of things they didn't do, for reasons of noise and their personal safety if caught. But . . . well. Things had certainly happened. It was the kind of thing Bo didn't care much to categorize, and Margret didn't have the wherewithal to force a conversation in the precious few times Bo was in town. Just seemed like a waste of effort.
Speaking of time, shit—it was morning! Daylight had come more quickly than she'd thought. It was immediately clear she'd overslept. There was the normal morning bar cleanup, obviously, but she couldn't wear these clothes anymore, either. That was precious extra time lost in and of itself.
Margret hoisted herself onto her feet. The cane pressed against the creaky hardwood and she almost yelped at the noise. In the bed, Bo stirred, and Margaret leaned in to plant a small kiss on her neck.
“Mmwhuh,” muttered Bo, tossing gently in the blankets.
“Psst. Hey. It's morning. I gotta go get ready. Come say hi before you go.”
“What?”
“It's . . . morning?”
Suddenly Bo was wide awake. Margaret stumbled back as Bo jolted put of bed. Her eyes were wide and frantic.
"FUCK. God dammit! I was supposed to leave at dawn! Fuck fuck fuck fuck—!"
While Bo hoisted her bag over her shoulder, Margaret departed to creep into her own room. The door to Marcus's room loomed in her periphery.
Shakily, Margaret stuffed her things into her hiding spot. By the time she came back out into the barroom, Bo was already halfway out the door.
"...So, uh? Will I see you again soon?" Margaret asked, wiping off the table in an attempt to look busy.
"Dunno. I gotta get going. I really shouldn't have— Fuck. Shit. Uh—don't be dead, okay? Goodbye."
"Oh! Okay. Well, uh . . . " Margaret tried to think of something meaningful or funny or heartfelt to say before her friend took off. Instead, she just sort of gave a half-smile and a nod. Bo returned the gesture before opening the door, then she took off in a run. The shuffling footsteps behind Margaret drew near as she watched Bo tear off down the street.
“Margaret.”
Margaret felt the night they had just had settle into her chest. She’d hold it there for as long as she could, here in the tavern, and let it carry her forward for a little bit. The lingering threads of what she could’ve done differently rose up behind. It was frustrating to worry about someone so much beyond your ability to help them. Already she would start counting days, trying to think up topics to bring up the next time they spoke. It was something to kill time at least.
Marcus placed a hand on her head, forcing her attention forward. Margaret's breath caught in her throat at the touch, and she struggled to keep balance against the counter.
“Can you hear me now? Margaret? Hello? Is this getting through?”
Margaret nodded, which made him smile a little. She couldn’t immediately tell if he was mad at her or if this was him in a joking mood. The two emotional states tended to oscillate randomly and without warning. Best to be careful, always.
“You CAN hear me? Your ears still work?”
Again Margaret nodded her head. Again he seemed to half-smile. She still didn’t know how bad to expect this one to get.
“Okay. So what did I JUST tell you? About what you shouldn’t be doing? Take your time.”
He hadn’t heard them last night. That would be way worse than this. He’d probably beat the shit out of her if he had heard them, right? So this had to be something else. So it was fine. She was fine! Stop freaking out. Be normal.
“Uh . . . ,” Margret trailed off. “Did I forget something? I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t, uh, realize.”
Marcus clapped a few times. It reverberated throughout the empty bar.
“You did! Good job. And what did I say about standing around?”
“Oh. Sorry, sir. The bar was just empty, so I didn’t, ah, realize.”
Marcus gave a long sigh. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t worry about anything. Just keep doing whatever it is you do. I’ll do all the real work.”
Margaret nodded again, and again, and some more, and that was the rest of her day.
Come nightfall, Margaret was again alone in the bar. A harsh wind tore through the trees, sending leaves cascading down past the window. She walked into the hall, and then into her room, and then collapsed. She didn't even take off her clothes, just flopped down onto the mattress and passed out sprawled on top of the blankets. Her last moments of consciousness before sleep were spent listening to the sounds of the forest out back. They blanketed her, and she fell deeply asleep.
She woke up to the sound of something screaming. Hoarse, painful enough to raise hair on her neck. Frantically, she looked around the room. All was still.
Margaret looked out the window. Nothing. All she could see were the winged silhouettes of crows on trees and the moon looming above. Nothing jumped out from the shadows, or barrelled through the window, or splayed itself against the door. Whatever weird remnants of dreaming she’d just heard had faded away.
Or, well, no. There it was again. What’s going on?
The sound had the unmistakable cadence of a scream, but from what, Margaret couldn’t tell. It was a hoarse and wheezing sort of sound—the kind that would be painful if someone were to make it with their throat. It had this horrible piercing quality to it that curdled her stomach. Cold sweat dripped across her face. Her immediate instinct was to wait it out, but it didn’t stop. Bursts of the noise again and again like gunfire. Didn’t sound that far away, either. One hand groped blindly for her cane. “Holy shit,“ she muttered to herself. Was someone dying out there?
Nothing seemed to make sense. Margaret knew she had to do something, but the what of it wasn’t materializing as fast as her reactions were. Something was happening. Something was happening. She had to move.
Opening the back door with trembling hands, Margaret let cold air wash over her. Suddenly more awake, she wondered if this was a profoundly bad idea. But she was already going down the steps, cane clasped tightly, following the noise from beyond the treeline.
The night was rich and deep. Moss clung to the base of blackened, winding trees that spiraled up beyond view. The soil was wet and scattered with rocks. It was upon stepping past one that Margaret realized, numbly, that she was barefoot. She could smell something rotten and coppery around her. The horrible sound reverberated from deeper in the woods.
As seconds ticked by Margaret felt less and less like an active participant in what was happening and more and more an observer. None of this quite lined up with the things she did, generally speaking, so she felt out of place. As if she were wading through some dream. Black shapes in the trees watched her amble past mushrooms poking out through the dirt.
She passed a small creek and moved into a loamy place where the grass felt wet. The moss was soft under her feet. She drew closer to the terrible echoing howl, and then she found herself standing in a clearing. It sat silent and beautiful beneath the light of the moon. Her cane struck a divot in the ground. Fresh footprints.
Someone was here. This meant that someone was screaming, out there. She had to—well, she couldn't carry anyone back, could she? But something had to be done. She could get help, head back to The Evergreen. She had some spare gauze and . . . someone had to know something about medicine around here. She knew vaguely of a doctor who'd lived somewhere in town and—fuck. She was wasting time. Being stupid, wasting time, never helping anyone. Seconds were ticking by and here she was, laying around like a fucking idiot while someone was bleeding out somewhere in the woods. She hadn't heard the sound in about a minute now, which could mean—fuck. Shit. No no no no no no . . .
Margaret cupped her hands and shouted into the clearing. She didn't want to waste time walking down the wrong path. She wouldn't have enough energy to get back in time. Her voice reverberated through the empty air.
“Hello???? Are you still out there? I can hear you!! I'm coming! Where are you? I'm moving as fast as I can, I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry! Please just say something so I know where you are!”
Silence all around her.
“Please. I . . .”
Silence fell.
From beyond the clearing, she could hear something wet. She could smell something, too. Something was moving behind the treeline. Crushing tall dead grass.
Dripping fibers, rotten meat.
Her back felt cold and wet.
Margaret could feel the dirt on her hair sticking to her face. Grains of it gathered in her mouth, spattered down the ground, mingling with her blood at the base of the tree she was pressed against.
Everything seemed to come in pieces. Shards of her splintered cane littered the grass beside her. Her throat tried to vomit, but she'd already thrown everything up earlier. The acid pooled bitter in the back of her mouth. Morning air pressed cool and sharp on her back. Her eyelids flicked shut.
She was . . . where was she? How had she gotten here?
Things came back, slowly. She was . . . in the woods. Yeah. And she wasn't dead. The sky was overcast above, thick with fog, but it wasn't dark enough to be night still. Birds were chirping somewhere above her. Margret couldn't tell where she was from where she was laying face down on the ground, but moving her head felt like something she needed to work up to. Everything was sore. She'd lost a lot of blood.
It'd seen her. Margaret remembered that. This vast blackened thing, faceless and terrible, slowly striding through the clearing—had stopped dead in its tracks and looked down at her. There was this terrible sense of appraisal to it. The look of something evaluating the worthwhileness of consuming you. Oh god, she'd thought to herself. How did it even eat?
She couldn't run, so she’d taken to walking to try to get away from it. Easing slowly back with her cane in one shaking hand. Her eyes never left the shape of the creature. It'd watched her, resting on canid haunches. Perfectly stock still. She'd waited for it to turn its flesh-caked muzzle back to the carcass before ducking behind a tree. That's when it leapt at her.
From there, it was hazy. A single bounding motion. A black streak. Her head had hit the forest floor, hard, and something sharp had raked across her back as she tumbled. Everything rang and the world went white for a few seconds, and then it was on her. Pushing her down against the grass. Straddling her.
It had pinned her entire body with just its front limbs and chest. It smelled of fresh butchered meat. From so close, Margaret had realized what it looked like. Those protrusions, featureless approximations of ears, the limbs. Its wet mass, almost fur. It even had a tail! It was a dog. A big, terrible puppy. That'd brought her some sort of delirious laughter, laying there waiting for it to kill her. And it would kill her, she'd realized. That’s what was going to happen.
Huh. That was. Scary, in a distant sense, but . . . well, she’d expected to be screaming. The thought of being dead was something Margaret knew you were supposed to be terrified of. And she didn't want to be killed, yeah, but . . . she was tired. She was tired each and every day, and sleeping didn’t help it. There were a lot of things she knew she couldn't do that she was supposed to do. Her condition made getting out of Grenfel impossible. She was bad at her job, and she’d only ever have the one. The one her dad gave her. And her dad didn’t even like her! Margaret Finch was a punchline. At least now she’d get to say she’d been part of something genuinely magical.
And it had advanced—it had done something, bending down to stare at her with blacketed eyes. It'd pushed her up with its paws and sniffed her, and pressed something wet against her shoulder. And brilliant pain had bloomed from the touch in a perfect annular lesion, pulling back skin. And glistening musculature and marbled fat, and the feeling of terrible ecstasy, and something wet sliding into her mouth, and—
Well.
Margaret wasn’t dead, she reminded herself. She was squished against a tree. So, clearly, some of what she thought she remembered was inaccurate. Something else must've happened in the interim to scare the creature off. Everything was so hazy. It hurt to think. Margret rolled away from the tree, groaning in exertion.
A hand drifted to her shoulder. Fingers armed back, expecting to meet something with the shape and texture of an ax wound, but instead of that, there was only spongey and bruised purple skin. A nasty bruise, yeah, but very distinctly not a bite mark. It was sensitive to the touch, but more in the way her bad ankle was after a day of work. Margaret blinked a few times as her brain tried to reassemble itself back into understanding any of this.
That wasn't going to happen any time soon. But it did occur to her that she was in the middle of the woods, and it was starting to rain, and she was late. And her cane was in wood splinters. So, without much else to do, the recent werewolf attack survivor elected to crawl back to work on her belly.
And work there was to do.
When Margaret had come crawling home, she'd expected to be shouted at. And she was, to be clear. Marcus had grabbed her by the shoulders and shouted in her face for what felt like hours. She had apologized, he had yelled some more, she had apologized, he had called her ungrateful, she had apologized . . . but then something weird had happened.
When he left, and she felt herself reflexively bracing for the torrents of guilt. But there just wasn’t anything there. She was simply too covered in mud and shit. There just wasn't any room for it in her that day. Maybe that was why she didn't tell him anything. He already knew what he thought she was doing.
To that end, Marcus had cleared everything from her room. All that was left in the tattered little room was the storage crate full of work uniforms. All her books were torn up—that was almost funny. Left for her to find like some house cat with a dead bird. That should've hurt a lot. It should have. Right?
Days went by in flashes. She'd found a new way to lean on the counter to be made fun of. Bruises faded from purple to pink to gray. An oversized table leg to replace the cane she lost and a soiled uniform she couldn't wear. That was the sum total of what happened to her. For the world, for The Evergreen, everything was how it'd always been in what felt like seconds. For Margaret?
Well, her stomach hurt?
She hadn't realized how little she'd been eating. She'd scarfed down as much as she could find every day. but none of it seemed to settle. People thought that was funny, too. Funny but not worth much note.
She found herself growing twitchy. Everything around her seemed louder. Slower? Drunkards spilled cups and broke into fights and Margaret found herself swiveling to attention faster then her brain was used to. She’d even caught a mug Dan had dropped the other day. For her, that was a huge deal. She never caught things! Few seemed eager to join in her revelry. So she'd drawn back, cringed a little at the intense smell of booze on their clothes. Everything seemed to smell now.
All night, every night, Margaret sat in her unfurnished room and stared out the window, every muscle pulled taught, eyes trembling and hungry. Something wet twisted inside.
Days ticked on. One week. Two.
Her dreams were of crumpled bodies on the railway.
The day it happened wasn't special. Margaret Finch awoke on her sheetless bed, vague discomfort boiling away to a terrible clarity of purpose. She staggered awake, one hand angling the table leg to help her stand. The barroom was empty. Floorboards groaned as she walked slowly out the door.
The dawn was still. Gentle orange light shone in from the clouds above. There was this vague feeling of wrongness in being out at his time. Not on the back porch, but out. Following her own footsteps back through the treeline. Something inside her stomach pulled her forward. It grew with every step.
Burgeoning pain flared up along her back, pulsing in waves from the wound in her shoulder. She wasn’t sure where she was going. She just HAD to go. Every single part of her was screaming that she was going to die if she stayed in that room. She only registered at the sight of her foggy breath that it was supposed to be cold out.
In what struck Margaret as intuitive and completely unavoidable, she found herself back in that terrible clearing. Stained gray grass rustled around her. The remains of the wolf’s carrion.
The wolf. She could feel its shadow circling somewhere in the corners of her perception. A brilliant and terrible thing, striding on moonlight. Calling outside the world. Beneath mottled skin. The thing she saw wasn’t here anymore, she knew that. But oh. Oh! It could be, muttered the desire she’d labored so long and so guiltily to bury. That’s what it seemed like to her, anyway. She wasn’t quite sure what thoughts were her own anymore.
Fuck. What was she doing? She knew something bad was about to happen to her. Was she really going to just let it happen? Listen to this thing that was telling her she could rip the walls apart with her bare hands and kill them with her teeth? She didn’t want to kill people! She liked her life, didn’t she? Marcus took care of her! Even when it was hard and he didn’t want to. Which, of course, was always. He’d always made that very clear. And yeah, maybe she’d thought about this a little when she was really young, just after her mom died. When he just started getting angry-drunk all the time instead of silly-drunk. Even as small as she was, back then . . . if she’d caught him on the stairs with enough in him, she could’ve . . .
It was a terrible thing to think about. And she was bad at thinking about it. She’d been cruel and ungrateful even back then, and she still was now. Cruel and selfish and stupid and lazy and ugly and mean. And she was always going to be those things, to them. And maybe they were right! Maybe they were.
Maybe she’d sleep easier in an empty house.
With nothing to do but wait and a body preparing for something she couldn’t understand, the young woman sat and rested and thought. It’d been a long time since she’d had a day to herself. Her scruples melted swiftly with the coming moon.
When the sky began to darken, she was ready. Churning pain had begun to bloom out from her stomach. Gas built and fluids congealed. Everything felt as if she were a coiled spring. It barely registered as her body pulled itself upright to lurch back to the tavern. Margaret’s hands were still as she gently opened the little wooden door to The Evergreen. Marcus was sleeping under a table. Bottles littered the ground and heavy bags laid under his eyes.
Had he looked for her? It wasn’t hard to tip a sleeping drunken man. His eyes lolled back and his breathing grew heavy. Margaret stood over him quietly. Whatever words she’d prepared for this moment had vanished in the heat of actually doing it. She didn’t have any, and they wouldn't have mattered. Not enough room anymore.
It grew darker outside.
Marcus said something. It didn’t sound like words anymore, really. He said a lot of things, singing his arms and screaming. He’d yanked at her exposed leg and seen her not crumpling to the ground. And then he’d said something else. And the moon rose.
There was a sound of tearing something wet. Her innards churned and stretched like a burst water balloon. Her head grazed the ceiling. Trembling hands grasped the screaming man's face and pulled him to the air by the neck. Marcus tried to say something else and her face turned inside out.
And then she ripped his fucking head off.
Margaret breathed in the warmth of the tattered hunting jacket. It was the first tthing she saw. The next thing was trampled wheat. Splintered fenceposts, morning birds, mutilated sheep in their paddock, a caved-in barn— Wait. Something was cradling her head. Water ran somewhere nearby. All of that shit was extraneous, though. That texture in her hands had been enough to confirm what she already knew.
“Bo?”
“Yeah,” hissed the other naked woman in the ruined farm. Both of them were covered in something sticky. Without much thought, Margaret darted out a tongue to lap some of it off.
Bo wheezed at that. “So, I know I have a lot to explain, but—wait—what the fuck is with you?! You’re being gross.”
Margaret shrugged. “Feels right. Hey, you killed me a few days back, right? That was you?”
Bo was quiet for a moment. “Yeah,” said Bo. “ Didn’t kill you, but, yeah. I did bite you and . . . shit. So all of this is on me. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Thank you.”
“I—no! I didn’t want to do that! I was supposed to be way further up the path by night. I’m not supposed to be over here when this happens. It wasn’t supposed to happen! I didn’t mean to!”
Bo grasped her by the shoulders and shook her a little. Her eyes held a faint reflective shine in the morning glare. A tapestry of new mottled scars coated her face. “Snap out of it!”
Margaret winced. “Hey, stop. Stop. It was good. I liked it. I’m sorry I bit you a lot.”
“No!” Bo repeated. “It’s bad! This is bad! I’ve ruined your life! I made you kill your dad! I . . .”
Bo held Margaret as tightly as she could. Concentrated blood and sweat trickled down both of their shoulders, cooling in the dirt. Bo let out slow, gasping breaths, eyes furrowed shut.
“You’re good,” muttered Bo. “ You’re really good, ok? I like you! I don’t want to make you live like we do. You can never settle down, and everyone wants to kill you, and, and . . . ” More tears. Without anything to wipe them, Margaret just elected to rest her head on Bo’s chest.
“I like . . . what we had. I know that’s selfish of me, but it was good to have someone who knew what they were doing . . . around. Made me feel like a person.”
The sentiment was sweet, and soon Margaret was blinking back tears too. But more than that, there was absolute confusion at that last part.
Wait. Wait wait wait wait.
“You think I know what I’m doing? What?! I— How!?” Margaret erupted into absolutely manic and stupid laughter. Bo did too, and the two vanished for a moment in the shared absurdity of their embrace.
Everything else fell away.
“I mean—I’m flattered. I figured you were the put-together one, really. I mean—big magical woods hunter lady, right? I mean, wait. Are you and your family actually hunters?”
“Some of them are. I’m not. I just move shit. And I’m not very good at it, huh?”
“Oh.”
“Well, uh, would they be . . . okay taking someone else in? I’m, I believe, homeless. And, uh, I feel like my head might be a little mixed up from all this. I don’t want to do anything stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah. That should wear off. They’ll have to take you. I mean, it’s my ass, but this does happen. Worst case scenario, both of us will be on our own.”
“I think . . . I think I’m okay with that.”
Crowley Nelson is a writer, game developer, and independent artist at SUNY Canton and is currently pursuing a degree in the Game Design and Development bachelor’s program. They are nonbinary and were born with the neuromuscular disorder Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease. Experiences that have derived from both of these characteristics inform much of Crowley’s work, which often concerns themes of queerness, horror, and disability. As an active member of SPECTRUM since Fall 2023, Crowley’s contributions to the club include time dedicated as a member of the student editorial board that screened the first round of submissions for this special issue.
More of Crowley’s work can be found online at https://ifeelodd.itch.io/.