Toby Boy's Blog: Prince of Middlemass - Posts Tagged "stranger-things"

Festival by Toby Boy
Breakfast at the Cottage

The morning light filtered through lace curtains, casting soft, shifting patterns across the wooden floor of the cottage’s kitchen. It was a picturesque little home, tucked neatly between the wilder corners of Middlemass and the sprawling, orderly fields of the homesteader family next door. The space smelled faintly of cinnamon, coffee and tobacco, broken by the occasional sharp sizzle of bacon in the cast-iron skillet on the stove.

Annette sat at the small breakfast table, its surface lovingly scuffed from years of meals and quiet conversations. She wore a cardigan that hung loosely off her shoulder. Her gaze was focused on a fashion magazine, not so much reading as glancing over the illustrations, her mouth tugged into a small, thoughtful frown.

Emily, dressed in an apron stood at the stove, turning the bacon with a practiced flick of her wrist. She was humming softly, a tune that felt both familiar and unplaceable. The sound was comforting in its casualness, the kind of thing that made the space feel more like home. Her mother, seated across the kitchen table was smoking something indeterminate, her nails clacking absently against her bracelets.

“Do you ever think about how mornings like these are numbered?” Annette asked suddenly.

Emily turned, one eyebrow raised, spatula in hand. “Numbered? That’s morbid for breakfast, don’t you think?”

Annette shrugged, folding the magazine neatly and setting it aside. “It’s just… we don’t stay in these moments forever. They slip away when you aren’t looking. That’s all.”

Emily smirked, setting a plate of bacon on the table. “Well, that’s a cheery thought for the day. Would you like your coffee extra-bitter to match the mood?”

Annette rolled her eyes. She reached for a slice of bacon as Emily returned to the stove.

Before she could bite into it, a sharp knock at the door interrupted them. All three women froze briefly, exchanging curious glances. It wasn’t often they received visitors who knocked. Annette sighed, placing the bacon on her plate. “I’ll get it.”

She crossed the room and opened the door to find a young delivery boy standing awkwardly on the stoop. He held a small, ornate envelope in his hands, its edges gilded and the paper so pristine it looked out of place against the boy’s ink-smudged fingers.

“For Miss Annette and… Mr. Rivers?” the boy said hesitantly, squinting at the names written in elegant script.

Annette’s brow furrowed. “Mr. Rivers?”

“Yes, ma’am. It says so right here,” the boy replied, thrusting the envelope toward her.

Emily turned from the stove, now openly curious. “Who’s sending you both something so fancy?”

Annette ignored the question, taking the envelope carefully. The weight of it was surprising, the paper thick and expensive beneath her fingers. She turned it over, revealing a deep red wax seal embossed with a design she couldn’t immediately place—some kind of stylized sunburst or crown.

“Thank you,” she said, closing the door before the boy could offer anything else. She held the envelope up, examining it in the light.

“Well?” Emily prompted, stepping closer. “Aren’t you going to open it?”

Annette slid a nail beneath the seal, breaking it cleanly. The envelope gave way with a soft crackle, and she pulled out a single folded sheet of heavy parchment. As she unfolded it, an invitation revealed its elaborate calligraphy:

You are hereby invited to attend Festival at Solstice Court

An Evening of Tradition, Celebration, and Prestige

Honoring Promising Couples of Middlemass

Held under the Midsummer Moon

There was more, but Annette’s eyes stopped there, her breath catching slightly. She read it again, her expression tightening.

Emily leaned in warmly, reading over her shoulder. “Promising couples?” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice. “And who figured out that you and Rivers are a couple?”

Annette snapped the invitation shut. “It’s ridiculous. A mistake. Someone’s idea of a joke.”

Her mother, sidelining a cigarillo in favor of playing with her lighter, chuckled softly. “Oh, it’s no mistake, dear. Festival’s been around forever. My own Auntie attended. Very prestigious.”

Annette turned to her, incredulous. “Prestigious? It sounds ridiculous.”

“It’s tradition, Annette. I won’t need to remind you how important that is to us.”

Emily grinned, clearly enjoying her sister’s discomfort. “Well, Rivers will be thrilled, I’m sure. Nothing says romance like an archaic pagan ball.”

Annette raised her chin in indignation, sinking back into her chair. She slapped the invitation loosely across her lap, staring at it as though it might burst into flames.

Emily returned to the stove, her laughter soft and teasing. “You’d better tell him soon. Something tells me he’d want to know.”

Daydream

The grounds were an ode to opulence, a sunken garden with a Grecian flourish. Marble statues posed in the artful decay of antiquity, their smooth limbs casting long shadows on hedgerows sculpted with geometric precision. Pathways wove through the gardens, leading visitors past fountains, their sprays catching the late afternoon light. Beyond the gardens stretched the vast, emerald sprawl of an American lawn, its perfection punctuated by the looming silhouette of the manor house.

Rivers moved with easy confidence, his white-on-white attire making him look like he had stepped out of a Gatsby daydream. His shirt was perfectly pressed, the faintest shadow of suspenders visible through the fabric, and his crisp trousers ended just above polished shoes that crunched happily. He casually carried both his suitcase and Annette’s, one in each hand. His dark hair retained a rebellious edge, a wayward curl brushing his temple.

Annette walked beside him, her own white ensemble a study in understated sophistication. The skirt clicked just so, and the sleeveless sweater accentuated her angelic quality. Her hair was swept back, revealing the clean line of her jaw. She wore the kind of jewelry that whispered instead of shouting. Her chin slightly raised as if the world were presenting itself for her approval. She spared only the briefest of glances for the other couples, also clad in white, who passed by with careful smiles and murmured greetings.

Older figures stood apart, their clothing more formal, their presence more regular. They were spectators of tradition, their sharp gazes cataloging every movement and exchange. Rivers and Annette were not immune to their scrutiny, though Annette’s composed expression suggested she had decided long ago not to care.

Coming down the lane in the opposite direction were the players. A lion with a mane of thick, looped yarn lumbered past, its golden eyes fixed on some distant horizon. A Titania followed, her gown glittering as though strung with starlight. Rivers shifted the weight of the suitcases in his hands without breaking stride, the effort invisible to all but Annette, who raised a single eyebrow as a Frog Prince doffed his cap and bowed deeply in her direction.

She did not return the gesture, nor did she speak, her gaze fixed ahead on the grand double-doors that stood open to welcome them. The portal was enormous, the rich wood gleaming under an arch carved with images of fauna. Inside, the cavernous welcome hall yawned with space and grandeur.

“It’s all more handsome than I expected,” Rivers ventured, his voice low but pleasant, as though they were simply commenting on the weather.

Annette did not look at him, her tone neutral but not unkind. “I am prepared to be impressed.”

“I hear the feasts are exemplary,” Rivers added, his voice dropping to a near whisper as they stepped across the threshold.

High Table

Now dressed in black ties or strapless gowns, the honored couples sat at the high table. The table's arrangement, however, held small peculiarities. Among the pairs of young men and women, there sat a solitary figure—the family heir. He was an angular young man. Skin pale, eyes deep as though they held secrets far older than his years. His posture—leaning slightly forward with his elbows resting on the table—suggested a weariness that no grooming could mask. Unlike the other honorees, he had no date. The empty chair beside him, a silent invitation that none had dared to fill.

To his left sat a hopeful young man. The hopeful was broad-shouldered and square-jawed, with a farmhand's build softened by the veneer of his formalwear. His thick, warm sun-bleached hair had been cropped for the occasion. His eyes swept over the high table with eager intensity. Though he sat beside a radiant young woman in a midnight-blue gown— he appeared more interested in the evening’s social pageantry.

The high table was a place of distinction but it was equally a display. Upon that pedestal, everyone dining on the floor below could look up and gaze at them; every gesture framed in the soft glow of chandeliers that dangled like gilded stalactites from the high ceilings. The couples themselves had been carefully curated, their polished appearances and poised manners forming the centerpiece of the evening’s spectacle.

But they had competition. Across the grand dining hall, a stage rose on the opposite side, slightly elevated above the sea of polished tables and bustling caterers. Upon that stage, a simply smashing rendition of Egyptian Passion had reached a crescendo. Osiris, his headdress gleaming under the stage lights, knelt before a painted backdrop depicting a hillside tower in the hazy distance. The painted strokes were bold and deliberate, their artistry suggestive of ancient truths barely veiled.

Then the Host appeared again.

Rivers, seated further down the table, crossed his arms. His gaze narrowed onto the robed and veiled figure who stepped onto the stage with an air of practiced mystery. The Host’s arrival unsettled the delicate balance of the performance, an interruption that Rivers could only categorize as offensive.

“I know, darling,” Annette said smoothly, breaking his train of thought as if reading his mind. Her tone was light but held an edge of amusement. She snapped up her fork, pierced a particularly large piece of charred, sizzling chicken, and deposited it onto his plate with the precision of a diplomat brokering a ceasefire. “Have some of this. It’ll take your mind off it.”

The Host raised his arms wide, the gesture commanded silence. His voice carried through the hall. “Does Osiris see the tower,” he intoned, “or was it destroyed, as had long been foretold to him?”

For a moment, the hall held its breath, the weight of the audience participation pressing down on every table. Then the hopeful young man at the high table rose. His movements were deliberate, as though he had been forewarned. He spoke with clarity and conviction. “Though the tower was struck by thunder, it stands eternal.”

The response was greeted with an eruption of applause, a wave of relieved approval rippling across the room. Rivers caught Annette’s eye.

The young man’s chosen reply was one of the responses known to steer the play away from its most tragic ending.

From the stage, the Host inclined his veiled head slightly, his expression inscrutable. Beside the hopeful man, the heir’s lips quirked into a faint smile—one so fleeting it -

Double-Up

The suite was classy without the insecurities of ostentation. The queen-sized bed, draped in immaculate white linens, sat atop a polished wooden dais that gave it a stage-like prominence. An adjacent sunken sitting area, with its tufted leather armchairs and a low marble coffee table, invited long conversations. The room was washed in a soft golden glow from sconces mounted on the pale, textured walls, their light diffused by artful shades.

Rivers stood near the bed, dressed in a plain cotton nightshirt and matching pants. His suitcase lay open on the bed—clothes folded with sharp creases, toiletries tucked into compartments, and a small shaving kit. He unzipped the kit, revealing not aftershave but a large beige walkie-talkie, its surface slightly scuffed from use.

He pressed the button on the side, his voice low and deliberate. “Engineer, Engineer, this is Handsome1, over.”

The walkie crackled, the static buzzing faintly before fading. Rivers frowned, crossing his arms, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his bicep. He moved to press the button again, but before he could, a voice broke through.

“You are lucky I put up with your shenanigans, Mr. Rivers. But you were right—there were unsettling distortions in your signal soon after you arrived.”

The door to the suite rattled faintly. Rivers snapped his head toward it, his body taut with anticipation. Without a word, he pressed the walkie’s button again, his tone clipped. “Call me back.” He let go of the button and quickly zipped the shaving kit. Without missing a beat, Rivers snapped the suitcase shut and swiped it off the bed.

The door opened, and Annette swept into the room with the grace of someone who knew exactly how much attention she commanded. She wore a black camisole that stopped just shy of the top of her thighs, her bare legs catching the ambient light as she turned to close the door behind her. Her movements were languid, as though the maze-like corridors of Solstice Court hadn’t worn on her in the least.

“This place is like a maze,” she remarked, spinning to face him with a faintly amused expression. “Awfully bold of them to assign the couples to the same room.”

Rivers leaned against the bedpost. “I have written a letter in protest,” he said, “but I haven’t had a chance to send it yet.”

Annette crossed the room with deliberate ease, her bare feet silent against the plush carpet. She waved a hand toward the bed, a gesture that clearly meant he should get in.

Rivers complied, pulling back the covers and settling himself against the crisp pillows. Annette climbed onto the bed beside him. She adjusted the sheets, pulling them over both of them. Her arm draped over his chest, her fingers splayed lightly against the fabric of his shirt. Her knee found its place over his thigh, her body fitting against his as though this were the most natural arrangement in the world.

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured as a reminder.

Overheard

The guest wing of the manor was a labyrinth, the disorienting architecture seemed willfully deceptive. It was simple enough to enter—one turn, then another—but as soon as a guest looked back, the entrance would have blended seamlessly into the stone walls, vanishing behind them. False doors lined the hallways, promising egress only to deliver dead ends. Secret panels whispered open and shut, and the halls, impossibly, could lead one in circles without ever betraying the trick.

The young heir moved through the wing. His steps were careful but quick, his eyes darting from door to door, searching for some forgotten corner where he might hide. He just wanted an unoccupied bed. Anywhere he could close his eyes and escape the looming conclusion of Festival for a few hours. He turned a corner, his hand brushing lightly against the cold stone wall for balance, when a flicker of movement caught his eye. He stopped abruptly.

Behind him, the veiled figure of the Host emerged from the dim candlelight. The ornate mask shimmered faintly, its edges catching the soft glow. The thick robes swayed as he stepped forward, their rich fabric whispering against the stone. The light from the candelabras played tricks with the shadows, casting unnervingly human shapes across the walls.

The heir froze, his breath shallow, his body trembling. He clenched his fists at his sides, his knuckles white as he fought the primal urge to run.

“You seem lost,” the Host said, his voice—something that bordered on pity.

“I… I can’t do this,” the heir stammered, his voice barely a whisper. He tried to straighten his posture, but his legs felt like water beneath him. “I thought I could. I thought I understood. But I can’t give up my life.”

The Host tilted his head. He took another step forward, the hem of his robe brushing against the stone. “You knew the tradition,” he said, his tone measured, even soothing. “The honor it carried. You knew what would be asked of you.”

The heir’s breath hitched. Tears welled in his eyes, and he blinked them away furiously. “I didn’t think it was real,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Not like this. Please… don’t make me do this.”

The Host remained silent for a long moment, his veiled face unreadable. Then he sighed—a soft, almost human sound. “You are my favorite,” he said simply. “You always were. I’ve watched over you. If it is your fear alone that holds you back, then let it be assuaged. I will spare you the honors.”

The heir’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “You will?”

“I will,” the Host repeated, his tone carrying a faint note of sadness. “But you must help me find another. Festival must have its offering.”

The heir’s shoulders sagged with relief, the tension in his body releasing all at once. “Thank you,” he breathed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll help. I’ll help you.”

The Host inclined his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, before stepping back into the shadows. His voice lingered, low and final: “Go now. The night grows long.”

The heir nodded, swallowing hard, and turned away. He didn’t notice the figure concealed in the dark alcove behind him—a young hopeful clutching a towel and a bar of soap, his expression frozen in shock. Face pale, breathing shallow, as he pressed himself against the back wall.

The heir walked away, his footsteps receding down the endless hallway. Hopeful stayed where he was, his heart pounding in his chest. He had heard everything. And though his mind screamed at him, his stone legs refused to obey.

Second Day

Brunch at the high table was a tableau of culinary extravagance designed to distract even the most vigilant of guests. Platters of quivering aspic towers glistened under soft morning light, their jewel-like contents preserved in impossible suspension. Saffron-dusted quail eggs nested atop buttery croissants, while pale, artfully sliced peaches lay draped over delicate crepes as if they had been positioned by a painter rather than a chef. The centerpiece—a glistening crystal bowl of chilled watermelon balls, each as flawless and pink as a pearl—radiated coolness into the air.

Despite the lavish spread, the mood at the high table was uneven, the absence of the young heir cast a faint shadow over the affair. The other couples, scattered across the dais, maintained politeness, but tension rippled. The sea of tables from the previous night were now rolled to the sides, a quiet reminder of the evening’s coming festivities.

From the couples in attendance, a low but pointed exchange broke the surface of conversation. The Hopeful’s date leaned close. “Leave? You were the one who convinced me of how important this event was. There are still two more days left. What will we tell my family if we return early?”

The Hopeful grimaced, his hands gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles paled. He turned away, his jaw tight, unable to articulate his unease. How could he explain the dread that clawed at him, the whispered warnings his mind insisted on repeating? How could he confess, here in public, that he felt himself slipping into some unseen trap?

Across the table, Annette caught the moment, her arched brow a silent inquiry directed at Rivers. Without breaking his stride, Rivers returned her gaze and popped one of the chilled watermelon balls into his mouth. He chewed, his expression the picture of deliberate nonchalance.

The sudden clamor of a curtain rising silenced all murmurs, drawing every gaze to the stage at the far end of the hall. The spotlight slammed on, its stark beam illuminating not actors but a strange, makeshift hut at the center of the stage. The structure was crude but unsettling, its jagged edges and darkened entrance suggestive of something primal. From the hut’s blackened doorway, two puppets lurched forward into the light.

The first was immediately recognizable—a Punch puppet, with its hooked red nose and iconic tricorner hat. The second, however, was a bizarre creation: a spotted horse puppet with unnervingly fearful eyes, its painted expression frozen somewhere between panic and absurdity.

“Oh ho!” Punch howled, his exaggerated falsetto filling the hall. “You have been listening at doorways and peeping through keyholes!”

The horse jerked its head wildly, its dopey, drawling voice protesting in exaggerated panic. “Not me, not me, you see, you see. I’m just a horse as deaf and dumb as I can be!”

The creature’s crude movements elicited a nervous reaction that rippled through the room.

Punch, however, was not swayed. He produced a beater-stick from thin air, brandishing it with theatrical menace.

“Neigh! Neigh, I say,” the horse pleaded, bobbing frantically. “Put that stick away!”

In a sudden subversion, Punch cast the stick aside. It clattered loudly onto the stage, the sound punctuated by a few polite scoffs from the high table. Next Punch lunged at the horse, grabbing it by the neck. The horse puppet flailed wildly, its panicked motions crossing the line from comedic to unsettling.

Punch began to spin with the horse, in a dance macabre. “Let me inside. Inside your mind. Your mind, your mind, your mind is mine…”

The moment stretched, lewd and jarring, as the puppets’ interplay became uncomfortably intimate. Punch’s words echoed, their rhythm invasive, as if they were burrowing into the collective consciousness of the room.

The Hopeful’s date looked around for a consensus, her carefully composed expression faltering. Finally, she delivered her assessment with forced lightness. “Well, that was different.”

But the Hopeful was beyond politeness. With a sharp, deliberate movement, he threw his napkin onto the table. He pushed his chair back roughly, the sound reverberating, and leapt down from the dais without using the stairs. He marched across the floor, his determined strides cutting through the sea of arriving attendees like a blade. The crowd’s murmurs swelled in his wake, their curiosity tinged with unease.

Annette had seen enough. Her gaze, sharp and calculating, flicked to Rivers. “Stay or leave, Riv?”

Rivers, ever the strategist, nodded in thought, his brow furrowed. Then he offered an idea. “Tell you what, let’s stick together at all times until we’re free and clear. We’ll call it the buddy system.”

Annette pursed her lips in approval. She reached for a champagne stem, raising it with a deliberate grace. “And who is this ‘Buddy’?” she asked.

Rivers leaned in conspiratorially. “Why, the horse, of course. The horse’s name is Buddy.”

Annette deftly covered her mouth with her hand, ensuring the champagne stayed in as she let out a soft laugh. Then, with an expression that was both rare and wickedly feminine, she gave Rivers a pointed sneer. “He did sound like a Buddy, didn’t he?”

Their moment of levity cut through the growing tension. But as the puppets spun back into the darkness of the hut and as the curtain fell and the spotlight dimmed, a sense of unease lingered, like the last note of a song that rang on forever, refusing to abate.

Hopeful’s Flight

The hopeful, sick with the unbearable evidence of his eyes and ears, ran through the labyrinthine halls of Solstice Court, his steps sure. Yet–the twisting staircases, the narrow, unmarked corridors—it was as though the building itself was alive, its architecture shifting subtly to guide him toward its dark center.

He found himself in a long, dimly lit hallway, the flickering sconces casting uneasy shadows that leapt and twisted with every step. His pulse thundered in his ears, a frantic counterpoint to the footsteps growing louder behind him. Panic surged as he turned his head, only to see figures emerge from the gloom—the Host and the heir. They moved with a predatory elegance, the flickering candelabra in the Host’s hand threw distorted shadows against the stone walls. The Host’s veiled figure loomed, inscrutable and all the more terrifying for it, while the heir’s pale face betrayed no emotion, his steps mechanical.

The hopeful’s breath quickened as a strange, invasive pressure settled over his mind. His thoughts became sluggish, fraying at the edges, as if unseen fingers were unspooling the threads of his will. His limbs felt heavy, his panic useless against the suffocating weight.

Desperation flared. He reached blindly for the nearest object—a heavy brass candlestick resting on a side table. With trembling hands, he swung it in a wide, frantic arc. The weapon connected with the heir’s temple in a sickening collision of metal and bone. The sound reverberated through the hall, sharp and final. The heir’s body crumpled, lifeless, folding unnaturally to the floor.

For a moment, time held its breath.

Then, the Host let out a roar, a sound both human and otherworldly, raw with rage and grief. It echoed through the corridor, shaking the very air, and the hopeful froze, his body seizing in terror. The Host moved with impossible speed, his robes a blur of shadow and wrath. Before the hopeful could raise the candlestick again, the Host was upon him, his veiled face an abyss of fury.

The hopeful’s last moments were brief and violent. The candlestick clattered to the ground, its weight meaningless. Moments later, his lifeless body lay sprawled beside the heir’s. The flickering light from the candelabra cast long shadows over the scene, translating the remaining figure into myriad, grotesque, dancing shapes.

Firepower

Rivers and Annette slipped away from the grand hall, their footsteps muffled against the plush carpeting. The corridors stretched ahead of them, promising escape, but the sprawling architecture of the manor seemed intent on betraying that promise. Where they expected the main entrance and the welcoming expanse of the green lawn, they found only more twisting hallways, each turn folding them deeper into the labyrinth. Rivers frowned, his brow knit in frustration.

“How is this even possible?” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as if the walls themselves were conspiring.

Annette, her calm unshaken, pressed ahead. “It’s just a trick of the layout,” she replied. “I can still get us through.”

He nodded. Soon, their aim shifted to returning to their suite. Both of them had surprises waiting in their suitcases—contingencies against whatever dangers lurked.

As they pressed on, an oppressive silence swallowed their tentative conversation. It was Annette who saw it first—the body sprawled across the floor at the intersection of two corridors. She stopped abruptly, and Rivers, following close behind, collided into her shoulder before freezing at the sight.

The heir’s lifeless form lay in a crumpled heap, his pallid face turned to the side, his hands slack at his sides. Rivers’s breath caught.

“He’s dead,” Annette murmured, stepping closer. Her jaw tightened with determination as she crouched to inspect the scene, her voice low but certain.

Rivers gripped her arm firmly, pulling her back. “We need to get you out of here,” he said, dread pressing on every word.

Annette raised an eyebrow, but she nodded, allowing herself to be led away.

As they navigated the maze-like corridors, they stumbled upon a room that stopped them cold—a funerary chamber, stark and ceremonial. A single slab stood at its center, the hopeful’s lifeless body laid upon it. His arms were crossed like those of an ancient king, a heavy brass candlestick clutched tightly in his hands. The sight was macabre, reverent, and wrong in a way that made Rivers’s stomach twist.

Before either of them could speak, a figure emerged from behind the heavy drapes that framed the room—the Host.

Veiled and resplendent in his ornate robes, he loomed over the corpse-slab. Rivers staggered, his knees buckling as his mind was assaulted by crushing shadow fingers. His vision blurred, and his hands shot to his temples as though to hold his skull together.

Annette moved swiftly, stepping between Rivers and the Host, her voice cutting through the suffocating tension. “Enough of this!” she snapped.

The Host turned his veiled gaze toward her, his hand rising slowly, as if preparing to unleash his malice upon her. Annette’s eyes narrowed, and with a deliberate, underhanded motion, she unclenched her fingers, summoning the inner flame.

A brilliant spark crackled from her palm, igniting a second sun which blazed into existence within the room. The fire consumed the Host, his inhuman scream piercing the air as his veiled form disintegrated into a cascade of ash and a rising wisp of smoke. The force of the flame pushed back the shadow, leaving only scorched walls and silence in their wake.

Rivers, still clutching his sore head, stumbled to his feet. “Sorry, kid,” he muttered, his voice thick with guilt and exhaustion. “Bastard took me by surprise. I shouldn’t have put you in this position. I don’t take it lightly.”

Annette glanced at him, her face impassive but her eyes betraying a hint of weariness. She said nothing, brushing ash from her skirt then steadying him with a warm shoulder.

Epilogue

As the first light of dawn broke over Solstice Court, Rivers and Annette emerged from the manor, Rivers holding the suitcases more heavily this time. The grand green lawn stretched before them, dewy and peaceful.

Rivers budged Annette heavily with his shoulder, “I mean it, you saved me back there,” he said softly.

Annette arched an eyebrow, producing an official parchment in one hand and, with the other an ornately decorated Festival coin-purse from her scorched handbag. “Let’s just agree to tell everyone that we were declared the King and Queen of Festival.”

Rivers let out a tired laugh, shaking his head. “Deal,” he said simply.

Side by side, they crossed the expansive lawn, the fresh morning air filling their lungs as they left the elegant suites of Solstice Court behind. Beyond the sunken garden, their steps grew lighter as they neared the edge of the grounds, their thoughts turning to the quiet streets of Middlemass and the promise of normalcy that awaited them there.

Hi, do you know me? I’m Toby Boy—thriller author, online presence, and unapologetic mash-up enthusiast. It’s my rare pleasure to introduce a special Halloween adventure, starring characters from our upcoming Book 4. As fate (and the calendar) would have it, there are a handful of nights each year when two brothers set aside their differences for the sake of pure imagination. Tonight is one of those nights. So please enjoy Part 1 of *All Souls Night*.

All Souls Night


Dried blue roses were suspended in resin vases in the three corners of the parlor on the first floor of the manor. There could not be a fourth vase, because there was not a fourth corner. It was a narrow room with thick drapes like stage curtains, and behind a wooden screen stood a dumbwaiter that only arrived at the upstairs landing, and a doorway to the old dining room where a fourth corner might have been. Now the whole chamber was commandeered, turned over to private rule, and reconfigured around a large, dark-wood dining table. This too was an exact square. The table had had its legs unscrewed one by one, muscled into place with great difficulty, and then reassembled. All around were signs of long-term occupation: the curling edges of maps had been tacked to the walls, the little clay womb of a round pig sat squatly on the crowded table and promised its future promise. Every make and era of lantern had been hung from the low-hanging chandelier.
Spritely presided from the dining room’s final armchair, his stacked commonplace books arranged like a wobbly ziggurat on the cushions beside him. He held a brass twelve-sider and two ivory sixers.
—The road sloped hard downward, red mud turned dry, flaking from the wheel-well wheels of the wagons. The caravan snaked over the switchback trail. The city’s spires, drenched with morning sun, were still barely visible through the smoke-haze. Dust climbed up the calves of the escort riders. Somewhere in the high crags, a goblin whistle cracked the silence.
Farrow’s character—Maximus Lancewell, by name and by trade—charged ahead on foot. He wore a red cape gilded at the edges, a bandana knotted beneath curls that might have been called a mullet, and a trusty gladius already in hand. There was flair in his every motion that built up as he charged.
Cherie’s character was long-legged, like a gigantic doe running on the wind, her skirt short and fluttering. Her name was Freya Vanferno, with hair longer than a waterfall, trailing behind her like a comet.
Fire-darts spun their heavy tails in the air, as wagons rattled into a new velocity. Horses raised their high-pitched alarm.
Maximus Lancewell lifted his blade with panache and shouted back to the teamsters, “Run on ahead! On, and on to the city!”
Neither the drivers nor the horses asked for the message to be repeated. The caravan burst forward, hooves pounding, canvas snapping in the chaos. One driver glanced back to see the two escorts—the dashing boy and the enchanted girl—make a final stand, blades drawn, framed by the rising dust. Beyond the crest of the hill, a flank of goblins sprang up in a row. Lancewell ran through their chief with his gladius, but many more were already at hand.
The truth wore a different mask.
When the last wagon rounded the bend and the city gates groaned open to accept them, Maximus Lancewell lowered his blade and reached out a hand—not to fight, but to help the goblin rise. The creature groaned morbidly, lolling its eyes and swinging its hands limply.
“I think they’re gone by now, you scene-hog,” commented the young hero.
“How ignorant,” the goblin muttered. His face was like dried fruit in the sun. “I have been plying my craft since the olden times.”
“I told you to ham it up. Not to let loose with pyrotechnics and your squad of scarecrows,” exclaimed the hero, gesturing at the row.
“They’ll tell the story for years. Saved by heroes.” The goblin dabbed its fingertips onto the pooling jelly-jam where the gladius had pierced his shirt. He then sampled it with his tongue and decided, though it was a little tart, that it was not half-bad.
Freya Vanferno poked at the nearest goblin scarecrow with her trusty, stout wand–not much more than a child’s tunic thrown over a dress-makers rig.
The goblin finally dusted himself off and stared. Then said: “There’s no need to disguise yourself in front of us. Your bandana. Your cape. Not even your gleaming short sword. None of that is the real you, dark lord.”
Farrow bristled, wondering why a fictional character could see through his disguise. “Spritely… I mean, ‘Reader’—why does this goblin know who I am?”
Spritely raised an eyebrow and paged through his most current commonplace book. The sound of paper scraping over paper. Then he found the relevant lines. “...Goblins are named after the word ‘Gob,’ for mouth,” Spritely read, his finger tracing the spidery ink. “Goblins say things. Their aim is to talk and talk until, inevitably, they hit their mark. So either he made a guess, or heard a rumor.”
Farrow shifted forward on his cushioned stool. It squeaked softly under him, a broken whimper of upholstery. His onyx sixer lay in front of him, cold and smooth like something from an underground stream. He undulated his fingers above it, not quite touching, letting it rock back and forth. His gaze had gone unfocused, staring into somewhere past the veil.
“Your friend—Pyroclast the beastman—told us who you really are,” hissed the goblin, clicking each syllable like a predator enjoying the sound of its own teeth. “He is insane, of course. But he knows much that is hidden.”

Maximus Lancewell, put away his blade, then tilted his head. “Ah. And where is Pyroclast these days?”

“He’s gotten himself captured again,” the goblin noted with a shrug.

There were cages hanging from iron rings like long-forgotten windchimes out along the Old Telling Road. No wagon or cart went that way anymore. The cages dangled over dry ravines. No birds sang. Each cage cast a long and twitching shadow over the weeds and crumbling mile-markers. The wind made a moaning choir of the metal bars.

“I see,” said the hero. He reached for a suede pouch in his tunic and drew forth a modest handful of minor, uncut gems—cloudy citrine, greenish garnet, a flawed ruby. “I brought the usual,” he said, dropping the pouch into the goblin’s bony hands.

The goblin weighed it, then inhaled deeply through his gills or scars or whatever had once been a nose. “This is only part of the bargain,” it rasped. “Remember me the second half.”

Maximus nodded solemnly. “If, in my travels, I should meet another of your kind, I will tell them that Gob still lives in the stony hills. Find the obsidian vein and follow it for three days; down to the forgotten pools.”

The goblin’s lips parted in a terrible smile, as unto a gate of bone; a massive vault of fangs, cracked and yellowing, arranged like a mausoleum staircase. The creature was aged, beyond sentiment. “I have not seen others of my kind since I was a cub,” it said softly. “I no longer hold out much hope. But I carry on in the knowledge that—when my time comes, and I face the pillar of fire—a dark lord will stand up for me.”

Silence fell in the parlor.

Cherie broke it. “Oh,” she said brightly, with a lilt in her voice like a girl skipping past a graveyard, “he’s a sad little bumpkin after all, isn’t he, brothers?”

They arrived at a place where paths met amidst stands of sword-grass as tall as trees. In the nearest cage humming to itself, legs hanging through the bars like laundry. There sat a beastman with matted fur and wine-colored eyes. He licked his teeth and acknowledged the visitors. There was no fur on the creature's forearms or hands as if it had pulled something out of a fire. The exposed skin was bright white and engraved in patterns.

“Help,” the beastman called out mockingly. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”

Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he stated matter-of-factly.

Cherie’s character breathed through her nose and aimed her stout brass wand toward the cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”

The other cages creaked in the wind, and the city walls still smoked in the distance.
“Help,” the beastman called out, mockingly at first. “I’ve gotten myself caught again.”
Maximus Lancewell groaned and pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Pyroclast,” he said, flatly.
Freya Vanferno exhaled and raised her stout brass wand, narrowing her eyes at the hanging cage. “Better get him down before someone starts asking questions…”
Around them, the other cages creaked softly in the wind, their occupants long vanished or remembered only in whispers. The iron rigs swayed on their chains, casting long vertical shadows across the forgotten roadside. Above distant city walls smoke from a dozen chimneys started to puff as the last meal of the day hit the skillet.
“Don’t,” Pyroclast said, suddenly serious. “Not the blaze, please. Besides, I can’t be trusted with freedom.”
He gripped the bars of his cage tightly and looked down at Maximus. “Seven leagues from here in a neighboring county, there is an estate. Something untoward is about to transpire there, and I fear for the children.”
Maximus blinked, reacting with old Pyroclast-flavored suspicion to the abrupt shift. “What does that have to do with you?”
“I remember,” Pyroclast said, before tilting into the other side of the cage and saying. “I forget.”
Freya tilted her head. “What is he talking about now?”
Pyroclast didn’t answer right away. He looked at Maximus Lancewell, and spoke with grave purpose.
“Adventurers,” he said. “We have accomplished much together. My warnings have never led you astray.”
The wind stirred. The cage gave a low creak of fatigued metal.
Pyroclast looked down at his hands—his claws—and tested to see if they still obeyed him. He paused, as though he meant to say more. But the silence lingered longer than his breath, and he bowed his head. He looked out past the hills, toward the low line of trees that bordered a neighboring estate. “We are asking… for help.”
“You accept?” Spritely asked in his capacity as Reader. “But this is a dangerous quest. You will need more players if you hope to survive.”