Fade Into You

“Fade Into You” - A Kannon Falls Tale

She walked past the hippie toward the payphone in the parking lot of the Pink&Black alone in her own little world and thoughts, old acoustic guitar hanging from her back the zippo in her left hand snapping it open and closed. If she could pinpoint in time that moment that she could call perfect, Naomi Sadler would would say: Eight in the morning, June fourth, 1999. the morning that the sun came through the old window blind and curtains causing everything to dance with angels of dust and vanilla yellow light as they emptied out the old house on Charleston street, her mom wept into her hands standing barefoot on the wooden flooring.

The sickness had progressed as had the treatments leaving Mrs. Sadler as bald as a new born. And, Naomi found this moment, this mere second in time... beautiful. Eight weeks later, it would be one of the last lovely memories she'd have of the woman who raised her.

Naomi and Dean Sadler moved on, as they had to. Her father had wanted to shut the world in on himself, to lock it all away and to live in the pretend idea that his wife was alive and she was simply elsewhere. But he couldn't. He was alive, and Naomi were still alive.

And they did live. Slowly at first. After Mrs. Sadler's heart had stopped they lived one minute to one minute. Then hour to hour, day to day, then week to week, finally month to month when they got a good handle enough on the pain to make it through. There were great times, and sad times and all those wonderful times people live in.

Naomi grew. She made friends, she made enemies. But the world would open up to her one day and no matter how hard she tried to shut it out, it would seep through the cracks and come for her. She had to be ready.

The first sight of it was a rainy Friday night over at Jackson's house killing time like they always did, goofing around and having fun celebrating the dying of the school year and the coming of university and the real start of their real lives. She'd started a large bowl of popcorn in the microwave when Lil' Joey finished rigging up the old VCR. Somewhere one of the boys had come across a tape of some 'haunted childrens show'., it was probably Thomas. He had some weird obsession about those ever since he found out that Power Rangers had been made in Japan. Him and Jackson were yelling and tackling one another on the sofa killing time before Naomi finished with the snacks.

“TK,” She called out to the living room for Thomas Keen, everyone called him TK since the other Thomas was a part of the group before him. “Hey TK I need you in the kitchen.” This caused the other boys to hoot and holler about her needing him in the kitchen, and she just shook her head. They maybe her best friends but they were still immature for her taste. Especially Other Thomas, he'd been getting weirder as of late. When TK showed up, that all disappeared and light was brought back to her as she looked into his eyes.

“Hey.” He spoke the general greeting for their generation.

Naomi felt the heat in her cheeks and the warmth in her stomach, “Hey.” She said back leaning some to look up into his hazel eyes. “I just wanted, you know, a minute or two alone with you before we go back out to the jackasses.” She giggled, she wasn't a giggler, but something odd and wonderful happened when she was with him. It wasn't a crush, she had those before, it was something terrible and more. It was great, and she hated it at the same time.

TK just leaned forward and put his forehead to hers and they stood there looking into each others eyes. Her pulse rose, she took her fingertips and put them against his hand and their fingers interlocked. And in this moment, it was beautiful.

“Hey, yous guys comin'?” Cut the voice of Lil' Joey bringing them back to then and there. They made it to the door of the kitchen leading into the living room of the ranch style house before they let go and took their places on the old sofa, the cushions scattered about and the blanket that was supposed to be draped across the back pushed down somewhere firmly in the crack between the cushions and the back of the sofa.

She took up the position near the right arm, bringing her knees up in front of her and her feet digging down into the fabric and braced herself for an assault on good television. The children's program in question was 'Candle Cove' or something like that, poorly done show about a little girl and her 'pirate' pals. Naomi was sure that if everyone in the group turned out their pockets right now they'd produce more money then the budget of this show had.

A smile crept on her face as TK put his arm around her and she nuzzled in closing her eyes as the terrible puppets acted terrible to a terrible story.

Naomi slept.

Opening her eyes, she was in the Beautiful Moment. Her mother in the middle of the room hands over her eyes, the light warm against her skin and the room filled with the smell of the old house and still air in Summertime. But it wasn't the same. It was only this room, and the light came in from the creases in the walls and the door behind here that should have lead into the long hallway into the kitchen. And more then anything, Naomi wanted to stay here.

“You can't.” Spoke Mrs. Sadler, not removing her hands from her face. “You can't stay here no more then I can come to you where you're at. But we are always together baby girl.”

“Why are you crying then?”

“I'm not crying because I'm sad...” There was a soft little laugh as Mrs. Sadler removed her hands, there were light lines of tears rolling down the curve of her face.. “I'm happy, happier then I'd ever been Naomi. Yes, there's sadness in this because I know I'm going to die soon, but I'm getting to spend whatever time I have left with my wonderful husband and precious daughter. The two most important people in the world to me.” She walked over to her daughter and pulled her tight against her frame.

It was at this, Naomi had realized how frail her mother had become but she was happy, breathing deep there was the warm welcomed smell she hadn't realized was missing. The smell of her mother's perfume and faint hint of something like ginger.

“I really wish I could be there for you baby girl, but things are going to change soon. They're going to change in ways you won't understand.” Mrs. Sadler moved her hands up and cupped her daughters face, the thin fingers pushing softly into her hair line. “But be who you are, smart and strong. Be that woman and you can succeed over anything baby girl.” Her mother drew her back into a hug and there was a pause. “I am so sorry for what has to happen next, but it has to happen for a reason. I pray to god there was another way, but...” The hug was broken and a kiss placed on Naomi's forehead, the way her mother did it when she was four years old. The way that let her know that everything was going to be alright and that the world has some reason for the things it did.

“I wish I could stay here forever mama.”

“I know you do. I know. But you can't. There's a whole big world out there for you. To live, to laugh, to fall in love.” Her voice was a soft whisper, barely to be heard over the natural sound of the world, and with that she let go of her daughter and stepped back, bringing her hands up to her face and turning away.

Naomi put her hands up in the air, and in that moment she was a small child dancing around once again in the bright Summertime world of the past and memory.

Slowly waking she was alone in the living room. Naomi got to her feet and looked around, the night had turned darker and the storm taken a much bitter turn. The sounds of the others outside on the covered patio brought her attention to the waking world. The beauty of that time in the Summer years ago gone now, her left hand rubbing her eyes as she stretched and blinked.

“Hey I cut the paper doll. Ya' gotta' bleed for it.” It was Other Thomas' voice speaking to Jackson it sounded like. Jackson's normally low voice couldn't be made out through the storm windows, it was only by the fact that Other Thomas' voice was shrill that it traveled as well as it did. She knew he was a friend now but in college they'd go their different ways. The same was probably going to happen with all the others with the exception of her and TK, Naomi could she her and him together for a long time. The others, unless something life bonding happened in the next five weeks – were just going to be a half remembered person who she spent time with during her 'awkward youth'.

In the months after the fire and the thing from Hell coming to life, whenever she'd catch the scent of fire, or see it, there was a cold terrified response somewhere in the lizard part of her brain that screamed for her to run, to run hard and to run fast. Something that had lasted less then one hour had made her phobic of one of the primal forces of the world.

Her fingers dug the change out of her pocket as she walked past the hippie. Guitar on her back swaying wit her movements. Naomi leaned in, resting against the cool metal of the machine and dropped the change in and dialed. “Ross Mueller?” She asked and tensed up. TK had told her that his grandmother had dealings with this freak show in the past and there was something about him that was damaged mentally on a fundamental level and showed up at the Pink&Black almost weekly.

The voice wasn't what she expected. It reminded her of one of those generic voice actors from a kids cartoon back in the '80s. “Who is this? How'd you get this number?”

“I'm Jessica Keen's granddaughter.” A simple enough life to start out the fabric misdirection. “I heard you're the man to talk to about things most people don't want to talk about, things that people can't believe in. Listen. I'm going to be frank. I know a lot of what you're saying is made up crazy talk so you can get info out of people they don't realize they're giving you. But I need you to cut the bull and talk straight with me. Ok? Do you understand?”

“You were sent by the UFO people and the Illuminati...”

“I said cut the bull and talk straight with me.” There was a firmness in her voice that she wouldn't have been able to call up a few months ago.

“Alright. Alright. I'll drop the act.” He muttered into the phone, his breathing rasping against the receiver as he held it too close to his mouth. “What are you wanting to know? What do you need to know?”

There was a faint disgust at the sound inside of Naomi for a second but she moved back to business. “I need to know.. everything about around here. Every note, scrap of info, everything. Got it? Because if you hold back anything it'll probably cost me my life. In one weeks time, meet me at Ellen's Cafe off one-oh-five. Got it?” She slammed the phone down on the plastic hook and the entire rig shook.

Naomi quelled her anger. There was more at stake then just her life. A lot more. The general anger she now felt at the world didn't help anything, in fact it got in the way now she needed to be calm and collected, to listen to things, every little thing, every drop of rain, every ray of sunshine. It was still six hours to day up and her meeting with the other members of the new Midnight Society.

Barefoot she walked the two miles to the Red Falls town square, the moon big and beautiful overhead, guitar moved into her lap as she sat down under the clock post and started to strum something. She didn't have the keen music skills of Lil' Joey, but with the six strings she could make a pleasing sound, the same series of chords played over and over again.

Pretty In Pink

"Pretty In Pink” - A Kannon Falls Tale

“It’s Friday, and I’m in love.” Mojave, twenty minutes before the worst day of his life.

Mojave lay dead, dreaming.

Like all his kind he didn’t dream as a normal dream, it was memories. Ideas and games of ‘what if’.  In this dream he could smell the fresh air coming in from the cracks and breaks of the farm house. Rebel Yell dancing around and his other children playing guitar to the local radio. Then, only fire and the birth of a near endless rage.

“Wake up Suck-head.” Came the harsh and overly angry voice of a young man. It cut through the fog of the remembrance and brought him fully into the waking world. He could feel his body snap out of the rigid lock that held his bones and muscles tight as he opened his eyes. It was the same dingy god forsaken back room that had been converted into a bathroom he’d entered his sleep in, part of him had hoped to awaken somewhere slightly better or not at all.

“Good morning Henrich.” He forced himself to sit up, the draining of his life started, the body feeding on the blood inside itself to sustain. “You’re overly enraged today. Fleas?” He smirked and climbed to his feet from the tub and the cold bothered him a bit. ‘No,’ he mentally corrected himself, ‘The idea it was cold bothers you, to the actual weather you’re indifferent.’ “What is it?” He finally asked, annoyance slowly building in his frame.

Mojave looked good for his age. A man who should be about seventy looking like a thirty year old hippie and dressed like one. Leather vest with padded inside, countless types of necklaces he’d gathered around places and so on and blue jeans that had last been washed with the Dead dropped their last album.

“Lecroix is dead.”

There was a beat pause. A shimmer of hope told him that this night might not be a total waste but reality quickly pushed that aside. “Cool. And?” Mojave asked moving over to what could on a good day be considered a sink and took out the straight razor and applied it to the curve of his face. In his day he was ruggedly good looking, but today he was slightly out of place with the more feminine concept of male beauty.

“I think it was what the Standing Stones Sept had become, that had the hit issued and carried it out.”

And with that, today, and probably very many days in the weeks to come Mojave felt his days go not only down the drain but washed out toward the shores of Singapore. “So the werewolves had a hand in it huh? This is bad. Really bad. Woodstock Brown Acid bad. As much as I hated Lecroix he kept things in balance, in check. Yeah, he was a total Jesus freak but still he didn’t enroll in a death cult and then bring his own  Kool-Aide for Mr. Jones. Unlike others lurking around the corners here.”  There was a beat, “You have no idea what the hell I’m talking about do you?” There was a clink as he just let go of the straight blade and let it roll a bit around the curves of the sink.

Henrich let it go as he leaned against the exposed sheetrock that served as the western wall. “What can we do? The king…”

“Prince.” Mojave corrected as he focused on his reflection in the mirror. The strange distortion slowly curled and turned into a normal reflection of his face.

“Yeah ok, this Prince… was your areas Alpha right? Well, who takes charge now he’s dead? Probably Those Witches you told me about right? They’re … good guys, I mean they believe in Gaia and her love and they’re second most powerful group of leeches around yes?”

“Not that simple. Whenever a Prince steps down there’s strife for awhile, when one is - and let’s be frank about this - assassinated in office, everything will go to hell in a hand basket for a long time. Our political structure just became as ‘bout as stable as the Berlin wall in ‘92.” He picked up the blade and started to shave again.

“So this means?”

“This means that whatever help your side worked out and you’d expected from Lecroix and his men… Don’t. Even the ones who were most loyal to him are going to be fighting, clawing, and other things… to get a position of power, its in our nature. His death is the first shot in a civil war that’s going to take some months.. Maybe even years to settle down. For the time being none of our kind are friends with each other, not till things settle down and there’s a new ruling Prince who’s strong enough to fight off vultures and harpies.”

There was a soar of frustration inside the young man, “What about you and your group? You guys still going to help us?”

‘’Fraid not kiddo. It was us that brokered the peace between your kind and our kind. That puts us on a very bad hot plate. People are going to say we did it on purpose to take out Lecroix and out of fear they’re going to start blaming us for everything and trying to force the hand of any leech that’ll listen to step up against us. Any resources we had to lend, are now in short supply.” He moved the blade across the curve of his left side of his face slowly preening away whiskers.

“Well what about this Hierophant or whatever the leader of your Witches calls himself, that guy?” Stress adding to Henrich’s voice as everything that had been worked out so very carefully was starting to come undone. “Do you think he’ll help us?’

“Honestly Henrich,” He moved onto moving the razor over the right side of his face. “I don’t know. But if he does the price for it is going to be way more then what you’re willing to pay. Yeah, on the outside they pay lip service to what you guys believe in but it’s a dark twisted version of it. Black magic, sinister power, human sacrifice. If Lecroix was taken out to cripple the North alliance between the lupines and the kindred and so The Witches for some reason could form one with the South… this is a bad scene. Like Hell’s Angels providing security for a Rolling Stones concert level bad scene.”

“But there was a deal.” The sound of anger leaking thickly into Henrich’s voice. Mojave knew he wouldn’t be sleeping here again come the daylight. Maybe in a few days or so, but not tomorrow.

“That was with Lecroix. Like I said, every leech in Washington and upper Oregon are going to be fighting for power, territory, and feeding rights. This’ll cause old alliances to die on the vine, and new ones to spring up out of necessity. So yeah, again: whatever he was giving you guys, money access to foreign markets or even just good ol’ jackbooted thugs… not going to happen now.” He finished with the razor and let it drop into the sink where it slide around again against faux-porcelain. “And pray, pray that your leaders don’t go to the Hierophant. I swear that’ll just make things worse, but  I --”

“It’s not fair.” There was a flash of anger so hot Mojave could feel it burn through his body. “We worked so hard for those peace accords, hell it took…”

“I wasn’t finished yet.” The old hippie felt his own temper set in, “As I was saying I don’t think it’s right. And it reeks of someone passing on inside information on our end. Or someone who can look into things and not be caught messing up what we’d worked hard for. Hell, I’m probably already on several people’s hit lists. So you know what Fur-bag… I’m going to toss my hat in with ya’lls. Work what connections I have to get things done. It’s not going to be as impressive as The Prince’s were, but it’s better then being square. Anyway, who wants to live forever?”
They were both silent for a good solid minute and without saying another word the young man reached into the beaten high school jacket he still wore and handed Mojave a small envelope.

“What’s this?” Mojave took it and started to peel the scotch tape back open and look at the rough hand written information on it.

“It’s what you asked for. Your payment in full for all the stuff you’ve done for us.” With that, the werewolf turned and left the converted room. Mojave’s eyes scanned over it, the handwriting was rough, done on an irregular surface and quickly wrote but it was all there clear as day. Thinking about it, no… he wouldn’t return here again at all. On the way out he lit the hurricane lamp that was in the main room and set it resting on the corner of the table, mostly hanging off. With a quick pace he left the room and Mojave slammed the door behind him, not even a second later followed by the sound of breaking glass and a gentle whoosh of heat. The cheep furnishings and paper posters on the wall would spread the fire evenly and destroy any evidence of him having been there.

The walk was forty-five minutes by foot into the more suburban area of Red Falls. He drew up his ability to be unseen as he watched the people come and go. He saw his first target, watching the old porcine woman work her fingers to the bone, unaware of him being not even five foot away. He wondered if the others had such awful things happen to them, the starving sensation for revenge in his gut quelled and soured - the woman he once knew had turned into this and this was crueler then anything he could have done. Without a sound he left out into the parking lot heading to the southeast corner where the payphones were. He would still seek revenge but not in the cold blooded way he originally intended to. A blood debt was drawn and must be paid still.

For a brief second, his eyes caught the full moon in its beauty and wonder and his mind drifted back twenty plus years, when the nights were filled with laughter, music and family and the moon shone down like a loving face on them. How beautiful his Rebel Yell looked in her pink dress, dancing and laughing and loving. That was pushed away. He didn’t have time for that right now.  Mojave pulled a quarter from the inside pocket of his vest and pushed it into the slot.

There was brief ringing and then a pick up followed by silence. “ You’re right. There are spies in your camp. I’ll leave the information at the normal drop off.” No more to be said he hung the phone up and walked off into the endless night.

"It's My Life"

“It’s My Life” - A Kannon Falls Tale

“That day changed everyone, everything. And I hate to say it, but for the better.” - Robert McAlister, Local Priest.


The Midnight Society climbed their way through the thick over grown grass that had sprung up around the farmhouse. Aunt Jess made her way through the best she could, this was so much easier twenty years ago when her body was lighter and her frame wasn’t wracked by morning arthritis. Of course if it were twenty years earlier she’d be in upstate New York attending the worlds most awesome live music concert with her future husband… but that wasn’t important at this time.  “Mota, McAlister… put some effort in it, ya‘ hear? I‘m the same damn age as both of you put together and I‘m blazing the trail. Now ‘git!” She barked over her shoulder as her right hand pushed a bushel of grass the same height as her aside as her eyes scanned outward into the night bathed landscape. They wouldn’t light up the old oil lantern till they got closer to the main building, out this far they were still close enough to the new highway for passersby to see the light, and that would bring unwanted attention to what they wanted to do.

Jessica Keen was as common as they come. A women from a lower income farming background, but unlike even the most trained scholar her mind had a natural knack for understanding thaumaturgy and mystical principle like few before her, just by instinct she could understand principles of the art that took so called master magi years and years of working to do. She was the first to cross over the property line to the Jackson Farmstead in the outer part of Prichard, and the second her foot pressed into the soil she could feel it, the dark mystical energies.

Eyes locked straight head, she pushed her heavy hand into the leather carrying bag and brought out the zip lock baggie of ground crystal and herbs that even in the low light was a neon purple color. Her eyes never removing themselves from the path in front of them she felt Mota and McAlister stop at her sides as she undid the clasp of the bag and whipped the contents around them in a circle in the air. The dust carrying out on the movements self created wind spread out and lightly coated everything. Linda closed her eyes so the crystal dust wouldn’t sting them but the other two kept their eyes open having gotten used to this sometime ago.

“Say some words holy man..” Aunt Jess whispered as the floating dust started to sparkle under the moon and star light, growing slowly brighter.

The young priest  nodded. “Psalm 23, ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death… I fear no evil…” The priest continued the prayer of comfort from memory and Linda kissed the shiny silver cross she wore around her neck as a comfort reflex. Aunt Jess envied them as she just stood there knee deep in fresh grass, their belief in a higher power. If god did exist she figured, that it would be more a shamanistic force of nature - not good or evil, but a part of both. Not indifferent but not able to act in someone’s life without a conduit. It was a belief that had come to her after a hard road life.

Once the prayer was done it was Linda Mota that spoke first, “H-h-how many a-a-are there?” Her whisper stuttered barely above the natural sound of the night, her fingers still tight around the silver cross. Tonight she forsook the normal blue and white checkered habit she wore for a sleek navy sweater and navy sweat pants. Pure black would stand out against the cool veil of the night and wouldn‘t let them blend to the background. It was similar in color to the dark farm hand style clothing that the other two wore.

“Our source says a brood of at least three. Maybe four if they’ve spawned.” It was McAlister who spoke this time, “Why are we hunting them?” He turned to ask Aunt Jess. “This is… isn’t why I joined. We’re supposed to watch them.  We’re supposed to watch the Witch-Breeds and…”

“And do what?” Aunt Jess barked at McAlister. “Let them murder? Fill their gut on the innocent and good, feed and feed and feed till their brood explodes out across the landscape? Did you forget about that little incident in Ashton? Did you Robert? I can tell you boy that a hell of a lot of families there won‘… I know as sure as Hell exists I won‘.” She didn’t even break stride or her gaze from the landscape as she pushed forward knowing she had silenced him for now. There would be questions afterward. There always was. But she didn’t have time for that now. If they did have someone with them, either as a hostage, potential recruit or whatever she hoped to save them. Aunt Jess couldn’t let… something that horrible happen again.

“W-w-we need t-t-to remember they’re just as much victims as monsters.. Jessica… Robert. D-d-do you hear me?” Again Linda Mota’s voice was gentle and soft against the night, almost crushed out by the sounds of feet pushing through grass. “We n-n-need to forgive but also stop them.” McAlister nodded and understood and on a level inside Aunt Jess did too, but loving and forgiving them would have to come later. Right now they were animals to be put down.

“Knives out.” Was the last words to pass Aunt Jess’s lips till they came to the abandon farmhouse. As The Midnight Society grew closer they could hear music from the local radio station through a broken out portion of a window, the glass sharp and jagged like teeth. Someone near by was strumming along in an attempt to follow the song on an acoustic guitar and inside there were dozens of flash lights stacked on their end giving off light into the pitch black room. Human forms laughing and dancing to the music.  People laughing, people loving.

Aunt Jess felt sick about it, but it had to be done. And if it was affecting her like this she knows that the other two must be horrified and beside themselves. Looking around she found the right target.

Drawing in her inner focus, she could feel it, the sudden spark and warmth spring forth from nothing. Snapping her fingers and a small gout of flame consuming dry old paper. In most ordinary circumstances this would be counted and used as a parlor trick at best but if applied right even the most trivial thing can be devastating she learned early on. The small pin point roared into a large flame in seconds, paper and warm room air fueling it.

Then came the screaming as the guitar stopped and the radio continued on with the song, a world away seemingly and unawares of what was going on here. Now that there was more light cast by the flames she could see them. Four of them in total, all four going mad from the quickly growing fire. Whatever change happened what ever made them creatures and stopped them from being children of man, it also took with them the understanding and mastery of fire. It made them as afraid of it as any animal was.

Fellowship which the brood had quickly was dropped in a mass of screaming and snarling. Aunt Jess guided the flames to flank them and force them toward the door. The harsh march and drawing on mystical powers was exhausting but Aunt Jess pushed forward becoming keenly aware of the almost painful beating of her heart. Magic was costly and painful.

McAlister and Linda Mota were ready by the front door. The first of the brood broke through screaming and hissing like a serpent, it appeared to be a young man, barely younger then the priest. Twenty at the most. Aunt Jess knew that the holy man was pushing aside his fear and to a small degree his vows and was proud of him for that. This needed to be done.

There was a simple movement of air as the blade struck  quickly and without mercy against the monster. The sharp traveled through neck muscle and bone, honed beyond sharp to do so. It wasn’t like in popular fiction where blood would explode everywhere, or the body would turn to dust in the wind. The blade took the head from the body and every joint went out of it tumbling without grace into a pile on the ground and the fatal wound produced a smell of rot and rancid bile into the air. It was starting rot already but not instantly.

The second to charge out the door had seen what had happened to the first and stopped. Wild fire and other screaming brood-mates behind it, and a hunter dedicated to removing its head before it.  “Why? Why are you doing this?” This one screamed. It had the look of a young woman in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties dressed like a hippie from twenty years earlier. She crossed her arms as McAlister slashed again but she was read, the blade caught into her flesh but stopped. Blood poured from the wounds for a brief second before but stopped as they began to heal.

Aunt Jess refocused herself dropping the rolling fire in her mind. She no longer had the strength to pick up the horror and toss it into the flames but that wasn’t what was needed. A push, a hard enough push to the face. She gripped her hand driving her nails into her palm and then pushed outward, across the yard, through the grass the force struck the monster and sent her backward into the fire. The member of the brood collapsed into it and started to scream as within one-tenth of a heartbeat’s time the flames bit into her flesh and started to consume it, as if she were made out of dried drift wood and not flesh and bone. There was no smell of flesh burning or cooking, but something akin to that of thick pulped paper.

Dull, slow, thudding pain increased in her chest and vision swam as the world felt odd for a second. Looking down at her hand she could see black lines pushing out from where her nails had dug into her hand veins collapsed under stress, black lines of dying artery damage traveling down her arm to her elbow. The strength now gone from her as she was forced to lay down in the thick grass. With new limited perspective on the world her gaze saw McAlister take the battle of the monsters, kicking past the door and the now burning pile of ash.

Screams rung out through the night, Linda Mota’s voice pitched the highest over the din. Closing her eyes and feeling drool run down the side of her chin and neck, she was forced into rest.

Time moves forward as it does and slowly reality of the waking world returned to her. ‘A stroke. I had a stroke.’ her mind muttered to itself. Above her was the slight yellowed white paint of her bedroom’s ceiling, warm colored daylight passed through the window blinds and particles of dust danced. ‘Please Christ, don’t tell me I’ve had a stroke and there are people in my dirty house.’

Linda Mota was by her bedside for days tending to her the best way the nun knew how and McAlister made the rounds to friends and family. The story was that during a visit to the church she’d went weak and fallen down. Simple, easy and elegant enough not to be questioned. Aunt Jess was old enough to have this happen, and had neglected her health long enough so it seemed plausible.

She was no longer Aunt Jess now, no right now from this point forward she was just Mrs. Keen. She had given everything she had to fight back the darkness.. To learn its secrets, her family, her wishes, her hopes and now finally her health. No. Right now there was only Mrs. Keen.

"Sweet Dreams"

“Sweet Dreams” - A Kannon Falls Tale
“Manner konnen gottes zu werden und das ist die schreklischste sache.” - Henrich The Woodcutter.

A new but cold wind blew as Ghost strode along the ramparts of the recently liberated house. No, Kenneth reminded himself, it wasn’t Ghost anymore, this person was everything - all the horrible things inside of his beloved Avery -  purified and amplified up to some maddening level. No, he wasn’t Avery or Ghost anymore. He was the Marquis De Geisthiem. Keeper of The Ghost House. A Keeper wholly unique but ultimately like every other.  And maybe the only chance to rescue those who were dear to him and Avery.

“Beloved children! I have struck the death knell to The Midnight Librarian.” He spoke in a smooth practiced voice, a political leader speaking to a crowd of sycophants. His great coat nearly dragging the broken wood of the rampart support, “That’s right, she is dead… and a new generation of liberation and freedom has dawned up on us! Great tidings of hope and joy!” and with that everyone that had been listening and still understood spoken language clapped and erupted into a mad cacophony of cheering.

“When can we return home Herr Geisthiem? Can we return now?” Called a voice from the throng of the crowd. The accent old Germen Kenneth placed it, very old German. Henrich The Wood Cutter, the one who had made it possible for him and Avery to escape the first time and eventually make it back undetected.

There was a pause, a great pregnant pause in the speech, enough for silence to rush over the crowd like a cold ocean tide coming in. “My loves…” he started as he turned to face the crowd properly now. Kenneth felt his insides drop. Dear God…

“I can’t let you go. Please, please try to understand that. There are far too many powerful Gentry near here. Ones that our Keeper was in constant battle with, ones who wouldn’t hesitate to sweep in now that she lays dead and enscroll us all into their mad pursuits.”  His voice was kind, or at least took that tone. Kenneth recognized it, the same tone that he took when explaining to one of his students back in their mortal days why they had failed a class. Sympathetic sounding but hold no sympathy. “I only ask a little more time. Please, most of you had been here for generations, and I must ask you this: Would you not expand your good fortune to those past our bounds? Would you not lend aid to me to free them from their Keepers? I know not about you, but I perused the one who would become my Keeper for a chance to rescue distant kin I found imprisoned in such hellish realms and I long to see them free.”

There was a low mutter going out among the individuals of the crowd, the flower of hope was starting to wilt in those who had been kept for ages but the younger still believed that freedom would come. It was at this time Kenneth knew better.

“Tonight. Tonight we celebrate the death of our Keeper and then tomorrow at first moon up, we get ready to make war. The Machinist lays just past the bounds of the maze, we will strike quick and with brutality and free more of our brothers and sisters.” His voice reached a pitch which rallied most of the other Changelings behind him. Henrich looked over to Kenneth and shook his head.

“This will only end in tears for you.” The old man whispered before disappearing into the dozens of people gathered, heading off to whatever dark place the bug eyed wood goblin spent his time. Kenneth wanted to sink into the darkness as well, but by his very nature he couldn’t. The fae blood that now burned through his veins made him bright as the sun in the realm. But he managed to turn his back to the rally and went into the remains of the old house that soon would bare Geisthiem’s standard.

In the morning the war drummers pounded their drums with such force it was like Hell’s beating heart as they made their way to the edge of their new, yet unproclaimed, master’s realm. The Changelings of The Machinists realm were caught unawares and decimated, the Hedge Beasts charged through the front lines breaking any sort of defense they could mount with ease. The message was clear, kill any and all who would oppose him with a level of viciousness that took Kenneth back. By afternoon and unbreakable foothold was established into The Machinist’s realm.

The cruelty shown was like nothing Kenneth had seen from Ghost before, yes by nature Ghost was a cruel man but nothing to this level. Another nodding to the former author that his love was further away then ever before.  Per haps even totally gone.

A small war went on for a week or so but ultimately enough ground was gained by The Keeper of the Ghost House’s forces to where he was able to usurp the realm. The defeat of the other Keeper reminded Kenneth of some years shortly before they were taken when both him and Avery witnessed the falling of The Wall between The East and The West. They had celebrated and partied that night with family that Avery had not seen since he was a small child.

Poor Changelings of the other side thought they were being released from bondage, but soon found themselves inducted into a growing force as Giesthiem laid siege on another near by Keeper and so on, and so forth. Eight campaigns in total which lead him to becoming the most powerful Gentry in the region only blocked by The Lord of Snow and Ice to the North, the self-Proclaimed God Xipetotec to the south, The Warder of No Man’s Land to the East, and the Jade Keeper Personage to the West.

“Something has to be done.” Muttered Henrich The Woodcutter as the group of his motley huddled around a fire somewhere deep in the hedge maze near the châteaux. “He broke his promise Herr Habber. He broke his promise, and how he‘s become just as mad as any other Gentry. His war will never cease until he and all that he has to throw at the others are dead. I saw this with the men who went against Charlemagne.” The wood goblin poked the fire with a stick that he’d snapped off his thigh a moment ago. L’cardee, or as the Ogre’s simple tongue could pronounce ‘Lo- Car’, just nodded and hugged The Tiny Dancer tighter to his body. His natural warmth fighting off the chill of the darker part of night.

Both of them belonged to the third Gentry that Avery had slain. The Maestro, a Gentry that took all its changelings and used them perform beautiful but endlessly cruel theatrical productions. The Tiny Dancer and L’Cardee were designed to fall in love. So they had. And inside her life grew.

“I know Woodcutter.” Kenneth muttered watching the flames dance. “He thinks that he’s doing something for the greater good, but …”

“I’m sorry.” Tiny Dancer burst out in her thick Slavic accent. “I’m so sorry Woolworth’s does not have a card for ‘Oh your Boyfriend has turned into a Mad God But Thinks He’s a Good Guy’.” Her mood grew more and more sour as the time for the birth grew near. And the time of her to grant new life into the world was near indeed.  She could see the fate of her child if he stayed here. Trapped forever and ever not knowing the real world or the beauty of the real moon and real earth mother under his feet.

Anger. A spike of anger. “He did this to save all of us damn you.” Kenneth spat out. “We’re the closest thing he has to family.” The group grew silent again and watched the flames. L’Cardee just gruffed once more and adjusted his shoulder to bare the weight of the pregnant woman on his arm more comfortably as Tiny Dancer’s eyes narrowed and bit back with words.

“He’s not Avery anymore. Not in any shape or form. He’s become a Keeper. No different then any of the others. Yes, I he thinks he’s doing what is right, but so did Stalin and countless other monsters. And I will be damned if I see my child be born into this existence. There are marks in his soul, marks I know that have power and I will see fulfilled even if it costs me every drop of life in my wretched puppet body.”

“This fighting is not getting us anywhere Annika, Herr Habber….” The Woodcutter cast his eyes around studying the two. “We must face what is before us before we can make any long term plans yes? You..” He pointed to Tiny Dancer with a long spindly finger. “You are to give birth to your pup soon yes? The blood inside you is what drew your Keeper to you yes?” He asks the rhetorical question.  “It is why it took special interest in us. Each of us were special before we were taken and changed. Some different, others hidden in plain sight, yes?”

“I… know of a place … where Avery’s control is limited and his awareness is almost non-existent.” Kenneth muttered brushing his fingertips on the length of his pea coat. Sparks of light flickered from his fingertips as he did so. He managed to suppress most of his Brightest nature but to do so to all of it was impossible. “But it is dangerous. It’s near the Master’s quarters.” He mutters, “But if we can get there then there’s a way to slip into the mortal world. At least once for one person.”

The Motley looked among each other and knew in an instant who would go, and no words about it were spoken.

Weeks later the time had come upon them and the new life that grew inside Tiny Dancer was starting to break forth. The group made their way through the darkest and coldest part of the hedge maze toward their goal. Cloth gripped into Tiny Dancer’s teeth as she would scream in pain from the contractions, L’Cardee carrying her like a small doll in his arms. The Woodcutter slicing and slashing the holly in their way as they cut a direct path to their goal, Kenneth prayed to whatever God may exist that none of the hedge beasts were about. Even with his mostly muted senses he could smell the blood coming off the female member of their group as she prepared to give birth.  The Woodcutter brought with him the white cloak and his axe, tools that would be used to go back and forth.

Strange green sky was over head now and lightening broke somewhere in the distance as the group traveled toward the crypt. Like everything else it had that touch of Napoleonic architecture to it and thick never ceasing hedge maze around it, but here this place was neglected. Untouched. Geisthiem didn’t wish to acknowledge it. Kenneth knew it was for good reason.

“So this is where…” L’Cardee finally spoke. Words coming past the Ogre’s mouth had become so infrequent in the passing months that it nearly was a blow out of nowhere.

Kenneth just nodded and spoke, “Yes.” The word was bitter in his mouth like ash. “When Giesthiem was Avery, he said it made him feel better to have Anton near him. Even in death the only person he had pure love for was his brother.” His palm against the heavy door he pushed inside the crypt and chilled air pushed past the gap. “I don’t fault him for it, when we were… mortals we had our issues like everyone does. But Anton died too young for him to really have anything come between them. They both were young children when Anton passed by accident.” His nervous habit of brushing his pea coat showed itself. There was a thinner spot on the cuff then anywhere else on the garment.

Inside was sparse. A  marble room with a pedestal in the center with an urn and a few hanging lights. “This is it.” Kenneth told them as they all ushered inside. The meaning was two fold as Tiny Dancer felt her child push from her body and through the gag let out a gut wrenching scream. Kenneth knew that he had to find the weak spot the place where he could push through into the mortal world, time was running out, and through his looking he’d almost over looked it. Under the stain glass window of Jesus was a crack, looking through it and smelling he could tell it wasn’t connected to Geisthiem’s realm.  The Woodcutter slashed his palm deeply and bleed into the white fabric of the cloak, watching it slowly twist and turn like fog rolling across a landscape. Whatever sleeping spirit had laid in the cloak was now awakening. He smeared the still bleeding wound of his palm across the axe.

“Herr Habber, Kenneth…” The Goblin’s tone softened. “These will see you well through the Hedge. But leave them on the other side, they will mask you and Geisthiem shall think nothing of you returning - believing you have returned from some earned he had forgotten about.” He mutters. “Two ripples are noticeable, one is not.”

Kenneth nodded, in his hand the axe had a surprising heft and was keener then he expected as he drove it into the thin crack in the marble forcing it wider. It didn’t need to be large, just enough for light to creep through. As he worked with hand and blade Tiny Dancer screamed as her son pushed from her womb. The Woodcutter moved forward and drenched his hands in her birthing blood rubbing it on the cloak speaking words of some Contract that Kenneth didn’t understand. “Blood calls to blood. With this it’ll take the child to his closest family member and assure his safety. Once used cast these things aside and look not on them as you do.”

The Brightest nodded his head and watched the scene in silence. Tiny Dancer and L’Cardee looking at their son for the first time, and perhaps the last time ever as Kenneth donned the hood and cloak properly, the garment flowing around his smaller frame like a fish in a great sea, the color solid red now. With great weeping L’Cardee handed Kenneth the child and with a nod both him and the child were gone. Riding on the stream of light into the mortal world.

There was a large flare of light, natural daylight from the sky. No sky that held only bright stars and a never changing moon. Dawn was here in the mortal realm. Reaching up he undid the clasp of the cloak and let it drift away. Babe in one arm and axe in the other he made his way forward.

“And my dearest love…where is it you think you are going?” Kenneth froze. It couldn’t be. Avery. “Yes love, it is me.” He could hear the murder in his voice.

“How did you…”

“How did I know? Please, can we forgo the normal dramatics. I’m a god. Nothing happens there I do not know about, nothing is thought of there that I am not privy too.” Soon Kenneth found elegant fingers wrapped around his throat, one hand holding him from the ground. “You, you of all people seek to take away what is mine…” Slowly they started to squeeze and take the very breath and life from his lips.

“Avery…” He gutturally called out. Weakness sweeping through his body and the axe falling to the ground, his focus remaining on holding the infant. “A-Avery..”

And, somewhere deep inside him, the part of him that was still indeed Avery and not The Marquis De Geisthiem, the part of him that was a writer, scholar, teach, and lover  and in return was loved, reinstated itself briefly. “Oh god..” His fingers went lax and Kenneth fell to the ground, child resting on his chest as he tried to take in as much as he could. “Oh god, Kenneth… I’m… I’m so sorry. Oh Christ.. What have I done.” The impassive mask that had taken the place of his face, for a second wavered and expressed sorrow at what he almost had done.

Kenneth could feel the bruising around his throat already. “It’s..” He gasped again, “It’s alright Avery. It’ll all be alright.” he muttered holding the child in a nurse hold lifting himself to his feet. “The child’s place is here. In this world, not your realm Avery. Do you understand that? The child has a destiny, it’s blood  will call to it and it has to respond.  “I know you want to protect him from being taken by others, but that won’t happen. What he is by his very nature protects him from any change. You can do anything in your realm Avery. Do you understand? I need you to do something for me.. Please, please if I had any meaning to you.  And should that fail, he‘s your kinfolk Avery… just like Annika, would you want him to suffer as her and L‘Cardee do?“

The Keeper nodded. Hazy memories of what seemed like an eternity ago came up. Laying under the stars and the harvest moon, the day they first met…

“Please when you return home… forget this happened. Forget about the opening in the crypt.”

Avery nodded dumbly once more.  “His uncle is near.” He stated. “The child can be left here and will be found within the hour. They already feel our disruption here.” His eyes looked skyward. Remembering. “They’ll give the child the name of his grandfather. I never really cared for that man Kenneth. He was cruel. Unduly cruel. Put the child down and let us go home. I’m tired and in the morning we have a battle.”

Kenneth nodded, the Avery he knew was fading away again being replaced by the Keeper Geisthiem. “Yes sir.” was all he spoke putting the child into the nestle of grass. Russian accented voices could be heard in the distance already. With the axe he cut not the fabric of reality and both men stepped through.  And true enough, within an hour the blind woman found the child.

“Ivan, there’s something here…”