Spooktober 2024 - Short Story: The Fall of Derethe

Derethe wasn't a very large town, nor the prettiest. Different districts were huddled together, from dirt roads to cobblestone streets, and yet, something kept me here, something that stopped me from moving on to better places.   Perhaps it was the history, knowing that my father clawed his way out of a shared housing alongside strangers, the sick, and tramps, to his own house.   Or maybe it was sheer stubbornness, knowing that out of five sons, I was one of the three who reached adulthood, the only one who left that district, who stepped on the cobblestone streets and prayed for the Archangel's blessing in the Cathedral of Our Pious Lady. That I alone have seen the Lord Bishop of this city, and I alone was commissioned to draw him.   Or maybe it was the nostalgia—the nostalgia of hearing my mother calling me every night as I played with my friends: "Nethan, Nethan, come inside. Supper is ready." Her sweet voice is still fresh in my mind. Or perhaps the nostalgia from when I first sat down on a wooden barrel to draw my home for the first time—the same drawing I signed with so much pride.   tThat drawing—the one that caught the attention of influential people, people important enough to hire tutors for me, employ my brothers, and give me a thriving career as an artist—well, as thriving as you can be here in Derethe.   It feels like that was ages ago. Now... now I haven't felt that pride in a long time, even when I sit by the window of my apartment, where I can clearly see the Cathedral of Our Pious Lady. The hymns and choir should inspire me, should fill me with awe, but instead, I feel nothing.   All I can produce are these lifeless portraits—no audacity, no passion.   Perhaps it truly is time to move on, to find a new place. Maybe find a patron who would reward me handsomely for my story and art. Perhaps settle down with some woman from high society, finance my own endeavors. Maybe Calveros should be my new home.   I don’t remember when the fog came, not really. It’s strange—something like that should stand out, like the first frost of winter or the scent of an approaching storm. But it didn’t. One morning, it was simply there, heavy and thick, curling through the streets of Derethe like a living thing. I remember the feeling, though—the unease. Even then, I could hear the whispers from the villagers, but I ignored them.   The fog... it shouldn't have been so thick. But we dismissed it as an early autumn chill, something harmless, something fleeting. Harmless... fleeting.   By the Archangel, how wrong I was.   The day it came was the day I started to draw. Not by choice, though. I had no say in the matter. My hands... my hands moved on their own, compelled by something that had lodged itself deep in my mind. It wasn’t just fog; it was something more. Something alive, crawling beneath the mist, twisting at the edges of my vision like a shadow that vanished the moment you turned to face it.     I started with something harmless—the view from my window: the Cathedral bathed in fog, the cobblestone streets illuminated by the fire of the street lanterns. It was so peaceful, so quiet.   But with each passing day, the fog pressed in—not just against the streets of Derethe, but against my mind. It clung to the stone walls, heavy and cold, and soon it was all anyone could talk about. People whispered about how the light from the Cathedral didn’t seem to reach as far as it used to, how the bells sounded muffled, how the world felt just a little quieter.   I tried to step away from my canvas and my books, but I couldn’t. Something compelled me to draw—shapes, rough outlines. Hooded figures—tall, towering, draped in long, tattered robes. My fingers wouldn’t stop. Each stroke of charcoal seemed to bring the figures closer, as if they were crawling out of the page itself. There were three of them. Always three. But I could never get the details right. Their faces... I couldn’t draw their faces. Every time I tried, my hand would seize up, and the pencil would snap under the pressure.   Still, I kept drawing. It was as if I had no other choice.   Then, the dreams started.   It was always the same—standing at the edge of the square, the fog rolling in thick as the sea. The three hooded figures moved through the mist, their faces shrouded, their forms long and draped in robes that seemed to flow like water. They never spoke. They never moved closer. But I felt them watching. Always watching.   I would wake up drenched in sweat, my heart racing, my hands shaking. I told myself it was nothing. Just a dream, nothing more. But each night, the dream came back—clearer, sharper.   Days passed—maybe weeks. I couldn’t tell anymore. The fog crept deeper into Derethe, and the streets began to empty. I heard whispers of disappearances, of people vanishing into the mist, but I never left my studio to see for myself. The city could have burned down around me, and I wouldn’t have noticed. I had to finish it. I had to get the image right. Something inside me screamed for it, begged for it.   Then came the day when I saw them.   I was sitting by the window, sketching aimlessly—more out of habit than anything else—when I looked up and saw them standing at the edge of the square. The same three figures from my dreams, their forms blurred by the fog, but unmistakable.   I dropped the pencil.   For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. They stood there, unmoving, their faces hidden beneath their hoods, as though waiting for something. For me.   I should have left. I should have gathered my things and run. But instead, I reached for my sketchpad. My hand moved before I could stop it, the pencil gliding across the page, tracing their shapes, their robes, the shadows that clung to them like a second skin.   By the time I finished, the sun had set, and they were gone.   But the drawing… the drawing stayed. It was perfect. Too perfect. Every line, every shadow, captured with a precision I hadn’t felt in years.     All three in their glory. Oh, how I laughed and smiled, cheered up at the prospect of finally having something I was proud of.   That night, the dream was different.   I began dreaming of it, too. It always started the same way. The yellowed figure, the Weaver, stood at the edge of the fog, silent, watching. The three hooded figures flanked it like sentinels. They never moved, but their presence—it crushed me, suffocated me. I could feel them in my head, whispering without words, beckoning without movement. And behind them... behind them was something worse.   Skaldyr.   I don’t know how I knew its name. It just appeared one night, whispering in the dark recesses of my mind, a soundless call that throbbed and pulsed inside my skull. I could feel its presence, like a thousand hands pressing against the inside of my skin, writhing, tearing. I tried to scream in the dream, but no sound came. There was never any sound.   When I woke, I rushed to my easel, feverish, my fingers trembling as I sketched with a wildness I didn’t recognize in myself. The Weaver—I had to finish it, had to see it clearly. But each time I tried to complete its face, my hand faltered, as though it refused to reveal the truth. But it was there, waiting, lurking just beyond the veil of my thoughts.   Then the disappearances started happening more frequently. Whole families gone. Their doors left wide open, their fires still smoldering in the hearths. I... I should have cared, but I didn’t. I only cared about the drawing. I could feel it. I was close.   The fog pressed against the windows of my studio like a tide, black and thick. Some nights, I swear I saw shapes moving in it, just beyond my reach. Other nights, I heard footsteps... soft, deliberate. But when I looked, there was nothing.   The dreams grew worse. Skaldyr—I saw it now, clearer than before, the darkness coiled behind the Envoy like a storm waiting to break. But it wasn’t the size of it that terrified me—it was the way it bent the world around it, warping reality, making everything... wrong. I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t even fully comprehend it. But I felt it, like an itch beneath my skin, crawling, festering.   I stopped sleeping. I stopped eating. Every hour was spent at my easel, smudging the lines, reworking the shadows, trying—desperately trying—to capture the face beneath the yellow hood. But I was always so close, and yet so far.   Out of my window, I could see it. Derethe was beautiful. Majestic. Oh, how glorious it is, my dear Derethe—my city.     And then... they were all gone.   I found doors open, fog curling into the hallways. I don’t even know when they all left. Had it been a day? A week? I don’t remember. It didn’t matter.   But that day... the day I was left alone, I finally understood. The fog wasn’t just mist. It was alive. It was him. Skaldyr. And the Envoy had come for me.   Come to bless me with another visit... another chance to offer them my services. Just one more drawing.   I left the studio, my drawings still unfinished, and stumbled into the street. The city was dead. Silent. Only the thick fog remained, pressing into every corner, every crack in the stone. But I saw them—the three hooded figures. They were here. Real, not just in my dreams. Standing at the edge of the square, motionless. Waiting.   I felt the Envoy before I saw it. It stepped out of the mist, towering over the hooded figures, its cloak stained with something dark and wet. Its form shifted and morphed, creatures clawing at it, begging for attention, for its grace.   I couldn’t see its face—no one ever could. But I knew it was there, watching me, pulling me closer, calling me.   I reached for the paper in my coat. My hands shook, barely able to hold the charcoal as I scratched frantic lines across the page. I had to finish it. I had to.   Skaldyr waited. The figure in the fog. My hands moved faster, erratic, desperate. The sound of charcoal on paper was the only sound in the world.   I could feel Skaldyr now, standing behind the Envoy, its presence pressing against my mind, warping the air, twisting the ground beneath my feet. It was overwhelming—a comfort and a blessing.   My vision blurred, my breath ragged, but still I sketched.   I sketched perfection—the one drawing that mattered, the one drawing that would fill me with pride. And when I finished... the colors. Oh, the colors... they were glorious. They were perfection materialized.     And then, as I looked up from the paper, I saw it.   Skaldyr’s face, staring back at me—dark and endless.   I pray for the fog to swallow me whole.   I pray for Skaldyr to bless me with just one more gift.   Even now, as my vision blurs and I feel the ichor seeping from my blackened eyes, I know that I am blessed.