Chapter 7

Should Have Gone to Church

In the dead of the night, Duskwood was quieter than the coldest grave. The decrepit, cobbled paths were devoid of activity, abandoned in fear of the creatures that walked when the sun fell. Their fears were not misplaced; few things lay silent in Duskwood, including the dead. And when the restless dead began to stir, doors were bolted and windows were shuttered.

Apart from the eerie silence, the only sound present was the clip and clop of a single horse. Atop his mount, Stefan scanned the tree line. So far, he had been lucky enough to have no run-ins with the Undead. The trip had been unsettlingly quiet, like every other journey he made that had passed through the dark forests of Duskwood. He hated every one of them.

He looked to his left, spotting the familiar grounds of an abandoned farm, one of the many that littered Duskwood. He was getting close. As he turned to look at the road ahead, he caught a movement on the edge of his vision.

Moments later, a figure masked by the darkness, leapt out onto the road. Judging by the jerky movements and smell of rotting flesh, Stefan concluded that an Undead creature had just stumbled into his path. But it turned out that was all it would do, as Stefan’s horse did not stop, but instead it plowed right through the shambling monster. A staccato of sickening crunches denoted the creature’s demise, if not its permanent immobility. Stefan craned his neck about, but was unable to discern anything in the gloom.

Minutes later, he arrived at Raven Hill Cemetery. From past experiences, he knew that evil would always and forever lay dormant within its crypts. The horse must have known this also, because it whinnied in protest. Stefan tried to calm the steed as he roped it to a bar. From a pouch on the saddle, he drew forth a wooden stick, a dirty rag, and a vial filled with glowing liquid. It was warm to the touch.

He wrapped the rag in a tight ball at one end of the stick, then carefully opened the vial and poured the fluid over the rag. From a small bag on his belt, he grabbed a pinch of powder and sprinkled it onto wet rag. In a burst of brilliant light it ignited, illuminating the perpetual darkness that surrounded him.

Ahead, the cemetery gates, long since rusted-over and fallen to disrepair, beckoned to him. Beyond, a thick haze covered the grounds. Looking closer, he could see the faint movement of concealed figures.

“Right about now, I wish I had gone to church like mother had said.”

He started forward, stopping as a skeleton limped past, taking no notice of him.

“Well, can’t blame her for this one. Damn you, Stefan.”

He walked on, disappearing into the thickening fog.