Piper's Gallery.

[Scottie]

The Ravens Gallery!

You step into a grand room arrayed in gold leaf and red velvet, lit by the warm flicker of candlelight. The glass-hooded candles stand atop furniture and hang cradled in sconces on the walls, doing their best to draw attention to the book cases and plush furniture, and away from the edges where cracks run through the plaster and spiders spin their cobwebs between the ceiling corners.

Dominating the back wall are two vast portraits in scrimshawed frames, the oil paint shining in the candlelight. The pictures show RPA's most venerated figures: the admins G and Kris, both women casting a stern eye over the room below.

In the centre of the room stands a writing desk with a skull-shaped paperweight, and atop the skull perches a raven, it's head cocked in your direction.

"Well hello there."

The deep voice echoes through the room and you presume from how the bird cracked its beak that the animal was the voice's source.

Midnight feathers ruffle as vibrant eyes scan over you. "New victi...visitors to my study." Sharp talons drum against the skull. "Perhaps you can entertain me while my companions are gone. Pray tell, do you know any good tales?"

The bird tilts forward towards you, its talons now hooking into the eye sockets of the skull. "No ordinary tales please. I like fresh tales…. Ones that have been conjured on the spot."

One wing shoots out, a brilliant feather floats down to land atop the desk. "Please. Sit. Write me a tale… I'll even give you some inspiration…"

The voice trails off as faint footsteps can be heard from outside the room. The bird lifts its head towards the door as the footsteps get louder and louder…

Until a very strange looking woman crashes into the room, "Rav….Are you playing a game?" She asks as she drags in large gulps of air. The raven, now visibly annoyed, responds "Yes, I am… I was about to give my friend some creativity…."

The woman interrupts and bounces on her feet as a grubby hand clings to the door frame. "Oh oh can I do it??" She asks feverishly. The raven narrows it's eyes before opening it's long curled beak to respond.

Then you can hear it, the thunderous sound of hundreds of footsteps coming down the hallway. "YES YES, JUST DON'T LET THEM IN HERE" The bird screeches loudly and the woman grins triumphantly.

"They're heeerrreeee!"

The woman lets out a shrill cackle and slams the door shut behind her as the footstep stampede arrives. You hear grunts and snuffling noises before all goes quiet.

The raven stretches out letting its feathers settle back from their ruffled state." That'll do I suppose. Write me a tale using that inspiration, I'm cannot wait to see what that mind of yours conjures up"


A new inspiration will be gifted every 48 hours with a winner selected for each.

Spoiler: Rules 

- 1 entry per member please!
- I will allow writing entries from 2 paragraph to a
maximum of 5 paragraphs!
- If you are going to use the highlighted words in your
description rather than basing it around them,
please highlight them in your description.
- All RPA rules apply. If your story contains mature
content, please put your entry in a spoiler tag
- These entries will be judged by the staff members and a
few unfortunate souls that I have managed
to wrangle into my web of weirdness.

The inspiration for Sunday 25th of October is :

"They're here!"

[Alura]

Spoiler: Talismans & Turnips 

In the land of the dark pines that sat between two great rivers was a small turnip farm. It was not particularly distinguished from other farms of its kind that dotted the landscape, drawing a considerable bounty from the fertile soil. Though the people were not rich in the way some measure wealth, they were well-fed and happy. Their families were warm and their communities were strong and tranquil. At high holidays they would gather in the village square to share from their stores, but the grandest of all these celebrations came just before the darker part of the year as the last of the harvests were tucked away from the last of the long growing season. As long as the little turnip farm's inhabitants could remember this had been the way things were. Taron Salep was the youngest in the line of sons who had passed the land from generation to generation stretching back to his great-great-great-great-great-grandfather Rapa Salep. Each had the same weathered hands with rich black soil under their nails. Each had the same easy smile and strong teeth often found gripping a pipe. Each had the same tawny hair and laugh lines around their friendly eyes. Each had the same reputation for being one of the few farmers to welcome the traders and merchants who sometimes traveled through the sleepy village as they crossed the double bridges on their way to greater cities and the wider world.

Most of the villagers and farmers shied away from the gossip and news of the world beyond their quiet borders, but the Salep men had always been bright and curious. In fact, Taron's father Swede was one of the few who had traveled out from among the dark pines to venture into the lands beyond. He used to sit by the fire and spin tales for the children of great cities built of stone, with silk waving from the walls in the wind to announce the glory of great kings and queens. Markets existed in these cities bursting with fruits and vegetables of colours and scents, ripening among spices from far off places the likes of this little village had never seen. He even said that there were people who rode across big waters on felled trees who went further than most men ever dared to go, who spoke of monsters and magic and precious treasures from the far ends of the world. Taron's mother would touch the stone that hung about her neck by a leather cord and gaze at his father with that knowing smile that mother's have when they only half-believe the stories that they hear. Her stone charm was one such treasure Swede claimed to have bought from one such person to travel across the big waters. It had an unusual charm, the sailing man had said, though what that meant he'd never really said despite how deep in his cups he had been. Taking the talisman as a lucky charm, Swede had gifted the treasure to his beautiful wife upon his return the year young Taron was born. She, as mothers always do, would bow her head to her sewing and watch her boys lean toward each other conspiratorially, enraptured at the idea of the mysteries of the world that unfolded within their minds and imaginations. Not to say Taron's mother was not a storyteller herself, by any stretch. She told the many "wives' tales'' that all the mothers did, but the children liked her tellings the best. Tales of trees that ripped and clawed at unwary children who strayed too far among the deepest groves of pines after dark and those who were dragged into the rivers if they strayed beyond the distance of their mother's call to supper. Of all her stories, however, her son's favourite of all was the Tale of the Wandering Lantern which only appeared on the eve of the Festival of Lanterns and beckoned to those few restless souls tempted by curiosity to leave the bonfires and revelries of the cheery, safe little village never to be heard from again.

As they do, the years rolled on and Taron became a man well-respected in his own right. When his father was mouldering under the pines and his mother had reached a great age, he helped her carve her turnips one day for the Festival of Lanterns which they both knew might be her last, carefully placing the tallow candles inside and carting them to the village square where others did the same with their own harvests. Pumpkins, potatoes, parsnips, and other such things were all carved and arranged into grinning and ghastly faces that were hung in doorways and under thatched eaves to scare away bad spirits and unwelcome strangers who might seek to visit the land between the two rivers in the darker half of the year. Beyond the village, the bravest of the village men who also go after nightfall to the bridge to hang the most frightening and ghoulish vegetables there. Cheerfully, some would dare each other to go alone, each still beholden to childish fears despite their age. This harvest, Taron accepted the challenge with his mother's necklace around his neck for good luck and the hoots and jibes of the other men who had brought along their carvings to the place where the two bridges sat at the narrowest points of the rivers echoing to him in the elsewise still night as they departed again for the warmth of the bonfire that flickered like a speck in the distance. The torches left behind by the other men were sunk into the damp earth and he used his own to light his path as he carried a handful of turnips by their coarse rope loops to hang them from the nails that always remained one to either side of the bridges. As he hung the first two lanterns on the posts of the first bridge, he saw in the distance a small flame. Glancing back over his shoulder to the bonfire's glow, he shivered and turned to look again in the opposite direction where nothing lay beyond except undisturbed pines. The river gurgled below his feet, but otherwise the night was still with no birds or insects singing. The light hesitated for a while, and Taron felt as if somehow someone looked back to him before the light finally moved again, weaving in and out through the pines. Perhaps one of his friends had gone ahead to taunt him. Eyes glimmering with good humour, Taron left his task to run across the open field beyond the bridges, following it as it retreated into the night-darkened forest that stretched undisturbed between the rivers north of the village. Laughing, he called out, "Murphy, is that you? Stern?" Onward he ran, feet carrying him well beyond where he could remember running before.

He found himself breaking through the line of trees at the edge of the left-hand river. Its cool, clear waters seemed somehow sinister without moonlight to illuminate them. The gurgling sound of water bubbling around rocks, however, helped to soothe the rising unease to which he could not give a name. Leaning over the water's edge he narrowed his eyes and squinted, torch guttering lower than he had realised as it showed the surface of the river reflecting back his genial face now creased with a frown. As he gazed at his face, the edges appeared to become sharper and more angular as if he were hewn from wood. The longer he looked the more he realised the lumpy flesh and rough-hewn features were those of a turnip. The wretched thing broke the surface of the water and in that moment Taron saw that his torch had not been the only thing alight. With a rattling moan and an outstretched, skeletal hand half-covered in rotting muscle and gristle the thing stretched its bony mouth wider in a raspy scream, a lantern-like ember glowing within the dark recesses of its throat.

When daylight came, the men of the village found the vegetable lanterns adorning only the posts of one of the two bridges that crossed the rivers to either side of their village. Their torches had flickered out where they stood and the rest of the unhung decorations sat in their midst forlornly, gone soft with the dew and damp and unusually mouldy and fetid for a single night left out in the grass. Soft mealy maggots squirmed through them. They looked all over for Taron, but search though they might there was no sign of him at all, save one. Upon the post of the second bridge, lichen had formed in the shape of a claw-like hand gripping at its top and in its brackish palm sat the lucky little stone that Taron's father had gifted to his mother so many years ago. Etched deep into the pine logs between the two posts of the second bridge upon which no lanterns had been hung were the words ``They're here!" in crude scrawl, claw marks gouging the wood about the cryptic phrase. When she saw it, Taron's mother fainted dead away and fell into a strange fever. She muttered in her dreams of wandering lanterns and wayward sons, her strange delirium withering her frail body until she joined her husband mouldering below the heavy earth. None were left to till the turnip patch, none left to carve their bounty for the Festival of Lanterns, and none evermore to look for lonely, lost Taron who met his gruesome fate along the riverbank somewhere in the land of the dark pines.

[Blakserenity]

As hungry eyes gathered around to see the story teller who was about to write their tale, the hall fell silent. Eerie blood curdling scratches were heard against the window as the tree outside stretched its branches wide, as though trying to pull the window pane from where it sat so it could hear the tale. Beyond the walls, the wind had started to howl in anticipation and a rusty gate on its hinges had begun to creak and groan, wishing that it could get inside, but knew that it was tethered to its wooden post. "Alright." I began as I raised my eyebrows for emphasis and set about writing the tale that was to be told aloud so everyone could hear.

"Once upon a time, there was a little girl who was very lonely. Every day she would sit alone by herself at school and try to ignore the taunts and chatter as people around her snickered over her appearance. They jeered and taunted, constantly pointing out every delicate feature she knew was flawed. Even her teachers would make remarks when they thought that she could not hear. The little girl was saddened by their lack of affection towards her, knowing that she was different from everyone else. For despite the fact that she dressed like everyone else, with beautiful dresses and hair tied in a bow, she knew she was different than the others. It was not their behavior that separated them from her, but her appearance instead. For instead of the soft squishy pink flesh that covered their invisible bones, she had a hard orange head with gentle looking solid black eyes and a wide grinning mouth. From her torso, two skeletal arms protruded from her body, attached to fully fleshed out hands. Her legs were partially fleshed in some areas, but revealed bones in other places. Unlike the other children, Pepo could not really run, or catch objects that were hurled at her. If something was thrown at her, her body would burst and she would have to pull herself together, which only increased the laughter she received from the other children.

One day, Pepo decided that she had had enough of the taunting and constant torment she received. She decided that she would teach the other students a lesson about kindness and respect, because despite the fact that she looked different, she was fully alive, just like they were. She deserved to have friends, and deserved to be treated like everyone else, despite the fact that she did not appear as the other children did. No, she would be respected, feared even, and perhaps even liked by some. To others she would be seen as an enemy and maybe even a monster, but if Pepo could feel good about herself for once in her life, she would do whatever it took. So she took fate into her own hands..."

With a wide grin on my face, I leaned back and let out a low sigh "and now, the fun part." I whispered to myself, enjoying the suspense that was eminent. The group that the woman had summoned leaned forward to hear the story better as their inhuman faces begged for more. They wanted me to continue, but I knew they would not receive it; not right away at any rate. I could see in each of their hollow eyes that they needed to know what Pepo would do. Was she going to kill someone? Would she try and make friends? That alone was my decision and as I gazed around the room, I could tell they were eager for more. "So dear raven, have I caught your attention just yet? I have not written for an audience before, but I do not mind. Writing is simply what I love to do, so after I refill my ink and relax my hands, I will continue on. But in the meantime, you may simply imagine..." I said in a small purr of a voice, enjoying the attention that I myself was receiving.

[ArtisticVicu]

He leaning into her side, pressing along the plane of her back until his face was squished against the hair behind her ear. She could feel him trembling against her even with tremors of her own coursing through her body. "Go" he whispered harshly, voice strained, quaking with the same fear that had them both trembling. "Quick. Up the stairs." The breath he pulled in shook in her hair. "I'm right behind you."

She pulled herself up off the bottom step and out from under his weight. Whatever comfort she had gained with his solid weight against her vanished as soon as there was any distance between them. Her legs felt like jello, refusing to take her weight right. Panic shot through her as she leaned heavily on the railing, desperate to move quickly without making much sound. They had to be quiet. They had to be-

His hands found her waist and shoved her towards the top of the stairs. Her feet fumbled beneath her, thudding hard on the hollow stairs. The sound seemed to echo around them leaving her heart pounding in her chest. The desire to round on him and demand what the heck he was playing at was quickly snuffed out when she realized the echo was his thudding up the stairs right behind her.

"Go, go, go!" he hissed. Her foot caught the lip of a stair but she barely noticed. Her hands released the railing in favor of pressing into the steps. She shoved at them, treating the whole thing like a ladder than the staircase it was. How he managed to reach the doorknob before her was beyond her. All she cared about was the door opening at his command.

Except, it didn't. The two of them bodily slammed into the unyielding door and the shock lasted the length of the subsequent sound. Panic filled them both. She opened her mouth - whether to scream or to cry or to ask what they were to do next - but he pinned her to the wall with his body, a hand to her mouth. Pain flared at the back of her head; he hadn't been gentle, careful, not that she could blame him. Not when he choked into her ear, "They're here!"

[Azazeal849]

Prompt #2

"Some excellent ideas so far, don't you think, Rav?" says a voice.

The raven lets out an indignant quork and bobs around on its skull perch to face the interruption. At some point while you were weaving your stories, a bony, waxy-skinned man has slunk into the room and lain down on one of the faded chaise lounges. He appears to be taking note of your tales in a leather-bound book. As you all turn, he offers you a soft smile.

"Hello."



"What are you doing down here?" the raven bristles, ruffling up its feathers. "Get back in the attic!"

"I had some spare time." The man shrugs languidly and snaps his book shut, rising to his feet to appraise you all. "Well well, look at you all here. Future defenders and traitors alike, all waiting for your cue."

As he turns his head to regard each of you in turn, the candle light pools in the lines of his face, making him look older, uglier. He folds his arms as he turns to look through one of the arched windows, his reflection a ghostly image on the dark glass.

"I'm reminded of something another artificial human once said in an old film: I can't lie to you about your chances, but you have my sympathy."

The hazy reflection makes it difficult to tell who among you he is looking at as he speaks, but you do catch a smile, and unlike the first one this smile is as cold as the glass it's projected on. As you watch, a flash of green un-light joins the candle gleam, and for a moment you see emerald sparks dancing in the eyes of the reflection. When the man turns towards you once more, both the smile and the green gleam are gone.

"Oh dear," he says, unwinding a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat and examining the face. "Time runs away from us all once again. If you'll excuse me, I must get back to the attic."

He moves with slow, spidery grace towards the door, pausing to run a bony finger down the raven's feathers as he passes the writing desk. The raven, unimpressed, just tries to peck at his hand.

"Hmph." the bird says, ruffling its feathers again and casting its beady black gaze around the room as if these repeated interruptions are somehow your fault. "Well, I suppose that's as good an inspiration as any." It spreads its wings and flaps them in your direction, fanning the air impatiently. "On you go, on you go!"

The inspiration for Tuesday 27th of October is :

"I can't lie to you about your chances, but you have my sympathy."

[Alura]

My eyes flicker between the door through which the two unusual residents have passed and the raven sitting expectantly atop its skull. What an odd house.

Spoiler: Trespassing & Tall Tales 

Running his swollen knuckle joints along the stubble of a few days' beard, William Peterson allowed his rheumy blue eyes to move over the boys sitting at his feet. Half of them had the same sandy brown hair and sun-baked skin he'd also had at their age, though his grandsons lacked the marks of time. The other half were neighborhood boys and little Tara who tagged along with the two Milton boys everywhere. Taking a swig from the glass bottle propped on his knee, he considered their request. He'd spent many balmy evenings like this when the air was thick with honeysuckle sitting on the front porch with the cicadas' and crickets' orchestrations accompanying his tall tales. Least ways that's what his daughter always called them. She and her siblings had grown out of his stories, but the younger generations often barely believed them at all. Resting the bottle back on the condensation-ring it had formed on the knee of his trousers, he fidgeted a moment, smoothing his light plaid shirt and slapping his neck to dispatch a mosquito drawn to the heat and sweat of the hot summer night's assembly. His eyes ran over the bicycles receding into the dusk where they had been dropped on the lawn by hurrying kids as the sun dipped below the peaks of the distant mountains. A few adults leaned on the railings of the wide veranda, most pretending to busy themselves with whittling or other things, waiting to hear the night's story as eagerly as the children exhausted from their day's play. With a thoughtful harumph, the old man took a deep breath and stared out into the last bruised light of the day.

"When I was mebbe twelve my best friends were Sam Baker and Ripley Keats. Sam was a slight feller, wiry though. Grew up to be a cableman for the 'lectric company that ran the lines out past here, way out into the farms and such, y'know. He was the good one, rest him. Then there was Ripley and no one was mistakin' him for good. Wasn't bad, 'xactly, just y'know... pr'cocious they called him. Well we all took our bicycles out up a ways toward the old Crane Mill. It burned down now, oh, I'd say fifteen years ago. Any way, Sammie'd just got a new bike for his birthday a week or so before and we thought an adventure was the way to go to celebrate. Maiden voyage o' sorts. Snuck out just past midnight and thought we were kings, peddlin' up past Old Man Watkins place without settin' off a single one of those yaptraps he called dogs. Dunno how many times Sheriff Daly went out there for one thing or t'other, but any how... That night was a lot like tonight. Middle of summer, and it was a Dog Summer, heat wave like we'd never seen then and only a couple times since. We rode up to the old mill and left our bikes at the edge of the property. There was a sag in the fence, just enough to lever up and climb on over if you knew where to look, you see - and of course we did, three boys, heh heh. Sammie, we tossed him up over first and I went after, then Ripley came behind last. Now the Crane Mill was huge, and the farmers used to bring all sorts of things in from the surrounding counties to have 'em ground up there. Flour, what have you. Crane even had a gin brought in for a long time that ran, then some of the cotton farmers started buyin' their own. Still there, or so it was then, that old gin. Strangest lookin' contraption. Ain't seen nothin' like it really. Don't use 'em anymore, not out here. Big cities have 'em or the shiny new versions of 'em, I s'pose. But the night we gone up to the old Crane Mill, you know it was strange, from climbing the fence last to the way he went so peaceful like through the mill that night. Still an' quiet was never really Ripley's style. He was al'ays first in, last out and damn the consequences." A few of the parents jerked their heads and his daughter rapped on the kitchen window overlooking the porch with a dish-soaped wrist and a glare that made the old man jump before grinning sheepishly at her and chuckling conspiratorially with the boys who smirked to one another. "I'll never forget what he said to me at the top of that mill though, God's honest. 'I can't lie to you 'bout your chances, but you have my sympathy.' Imagine that, comin' from a twelve-year-old boy. Well, mebbe he was near on thirteen. Ripley was the oldest of us. Yessir right strange, right strange. That's what he said though.

"We had spent mebbe ten minutes looking around the inside of that ol' place. Found nothin' much to write home about on the main floor, just that odd-lookin' cotton gin and the bulk o' the mill itself. Pictures somewhere, maybe in the 'paper office. Bobby Mackey's son runs it now, I think. Mackey was good people. Married Donna Haver's daughter not too long after we went wanderin' in the mill the week Sammie got that bike..." William's gaze unfocused and he sat for a while before one of his grandson's touched his leg and said 'Grampa', causing him to clear his throat with another sip of his drink. "Where was I... Ah, yes, there I was. So! We squeezed in through a little half winda' an' walked around that floor for a while and nothin' all that excitin' happened. Sammie said his older sister, Sarah, had been told by her best friend Anna-beth Crane of the Crane Mill Cranes that the main offices were on the second floor and that her papa could see out all across the workin's o' the mill from way up there. So, we hoofed it up a few flights and peeped in a couple o' doors before we found a gold-letterin' sign for Anna-beth's papa. We let ourselves in and started lookin' about. Mostly just papers, normal office stuff. He did have an intercom, though. You know, one o' them little box setups with the mic that you speak into and broadcasts all across the buildin'. Oooo, yessir, we spooked and rattled ourselves with that, takin' turns callin' out while the other two went runnin' all over. Pro'ly did that twenty or thirty minutes at least before we got tired of it. At least, Sammie and I did. Ripley'd been real quiet for maybe five or six minutes. You know how time is, when you're a kid you don't really pay much attention. So we ran around, looked high and low. Not on the mill floor or any of the offices up on the second. We had just 'bout decided he'd gone on home, but Ripley was braver'n a 'coon and twice as feisty. Not like to leave us there. That's when Sammie remembered Sarah talkin' 'bout the basement.

"We went down there together, one o'them old heavy flashlights between us you know. Steppin' down an' lookin' at each other, heh heh, makin' sure neither o' us wimped out on the other. We'd just gotten about halfway down the first flight of stairs toward the landin' when Sammie nudged m'arm. There sure as shi-" William's daughter caught the corner of his eye with furrowed brows and an unamused look through the kitchen window. "Sure's shootin' there's Ripley standin' on the landin' looking off into the dark. By this time Sammie and I'd got the tingles all up our spine an' were ready to go. I called out to Ripley, and my voice sounded as shaky as my knees, heh heh. He didn't answer me though, no. Just stood there starin'. Strangest thing. Sammie had his fingers diggin' into my arm like I'd disappear if he let go and we took turns callin' Ripley's name and askin' if he was alright, but he didn't answer a one. When we finally worked up our nerve and went down to him, we looked off where he was lookin', but all we saw was black. No lights, no security exit sign, nothin'. Finally I grabs Ripley by the arm an' gave him a shake an' says,'Hey, Ripley, what's wrong with y'buddy?' He looks at me an' says, 'I can't lie to you 'bout your chances, but you have my sympathy.' White as a sheet he was. Strange. Oh, no, my momma didn't raise no da-" His eyes slid to the window and back to the children. "No fool. I got Ripley by one arm and Sammie got him by the other and we started t'pull 'im back up the stairs. BAM!" The children at Grandpa Peterson's feet jumped, as did one of the adults who nearly fell off the porch railing, hand over his heart and a semi-circle of snickering pals jeering at him. "Just like that! BAM! Somethin' sounded like a wrench gettin' thrown and a rumble like... like a whole buildin' shakin' and fallin'. No sir, not this boy, no. We was up and out and over that saggin' fence like a couple o' startled rabbits. Draggin' Ripley the whole way as pale as he'd got a fever. And he had. We cycled like bats outta hell through those streets and we never told nobody where we went or 'bout our little adventure. We'd do our fair share o' sneakin' out through the years, but that one I'll never forget if I live to be as old as Methuselah, though I s'pose that ain't all that likely now.

"Well, any way, we got home and Ripley was cooped up at home a few days, but his momma got him fit as a fiddle again. Boy'd had more chicken soup'n a cannin' factory by the time she's done with him. Always skittish though, about the old mill after that. Never would go near it and we never asked 'im to... Didn't much want to go near it m'self. That's why when he turned eighteen and went to work there we's right su'prised. Took to it though, but he's strange again. Quiet, pale. Lookin' rough. We thought mebbe it was just workin' double shifts. By then the mill'd started talkin' with a development company about the land. Buildin' a factory like what sits out that way now. We didn't know it at the time, but Ripley'd never been workin' double shifts. The night he died, they found 'im alone long after his shift’d ended halfway down the stairs from that same landin' into that same dark basement we’d stood on more’n five years before. He's scratched up somethin' fierce, but they said he was banged up from fallin' over the railin'. Mebbe so... Mebbe. But I just remember seein' him standin' there, twelve years old and jus' half-whisperin' that odd phrase, ’I can't lie to you 'bout your chances, but you have my sympathy.’ Al'ays wondered what 'e meant 'bout that..." The children at his feet were soon ushered away with saucer-wide eyes and threats of phone calls to their own mothers if they didn't get straight home to wash up and get to bed. William's daughter brought him a cup of coffee and said good night, kissing his cheek when he said he'd like to sit a while before turning in for the night. When the house was still, William finally lifted his old bones and set the hot cup of coffee to the side of his worn chair, steps creaking over the old porch as he moved to stand at the top of the stair as though he were drawn. His face was pale and he stood transfixed as the lamp light winked out and the insect chorus went mute.

[Blakserenity]

At first my eyes are fixed up on the man who has entered the room, perplexed with how ghastly but eerily handsome he might appear to some. Although he looked gaunt and like he hadn't had a proper meal in ages, there was something intriguing about him. When he left the room once more, I relaxed a little bit, only realizing I was tense when I ease myself back into the leather chair once more. I hear my body heave an audible sigh and I feel like a little bit of weight has been lifted from me. Once more I direct my attention to the eager crowd and the raven. "Well then... seems I have a bit more to add to my story now." I grin wide, thinking over the prompt that the man had just given me as ideas stirred in my head. Visions of my little ghastly pumpkin girl dance around as I begin to imagine all of the horrible things she will do. So once again I take the quiver and ink and in a slow and languid way, dip the nib into the ink and begin to write.

"When Pepo set her mind to something, she really set her mind to it. She made sure that she committed fully to what she was doing and followed it to a t. The fact that she wanted revenge for the horrible things the students had done to her, did not bode well for everyone else. Those that had been the cruelest would receive horrible taunts and tricks back; some would even be scared enough to wet their pants. Others, who showed a little bit of empathy towards her would be given the same kindness she had received. If they laughed at her or pointed fingers, then she would simply make their lives miserable in a pleasant way, with some kind of strange gift. One boy that constantly taunted and teased her about her looks got a small surprise in his sandwich when Pepo not only stole his lunchbox to put worms around the sandwich, but added other creepy crawlies inside the sandwich. And there were a few who were incredibly nice despite the way that she looked, so she would be kind to them in turn. She gave them small treats that they would eat and enjoy as a kind way of saying thank you.

On one adventure of mischief, Pepo had stirred up a hornet's nest, wrapped it in a bag and then released the hornets nest in the boys locker room, just setting it beside the door so she could make an easy get away. The boys screams delighted and excited her and made her want more. From simple innocent pranks, Pepo decided it was not enough. Her small little carved smile stretched into a wide grin of glee as she rigged a trap above one of the boy's bedroom doors and when he entered the room, he was sliced clean in half. No one knew how it had happened, simply that it had happened. With every passing day, Pepo's innocent little pranks became darker and darker. One boy who had thrown poor Pepo into a lake she threw into a massive tank of pigs blood, making the boy shriek and scream with disgust and humiliation. It no longer mattered to little Pepo if people saw her as demented or crazed; she was happy.

Eventually she got bored with her games and returned to the gentle innocent Pepo that she had been before, but now people revered her. They never bothered her again after that." I finished off, being that I could honestly think of nothing more horrible to do to the poor children. I looked back at the Raven and made a face, shaking my head "I need more inspiration for dark and devious deeds. I am a creature of light... how am I supposed to write horror?" I asked softly, sighing deeply as I pondered long and hard what to write about.

The raven just scoffed at me and let out a small caw before it flew over and landed on the desk in front of me. It gave me a look of pity then simply said in a saddened voice, "I can't lie about your chances, but you have my sympathy." It obviously meant that if I could not figure out what to write about next, then I would be doomed forever to be trapped in the room with it, or to simply fail at what I was trying to do. The onlookers seemed disappointed and when I stared at their disheartened faces, I felt my courage bolstering.

"Very well then raven... I will try my best to continue to entertain." I smiled a little, getting nothing more than a simple nod as the raven flew back to the skull and buried its head beneath its wings in thought. I could not tell if it was trying to give me ideas or not, but it gave me a little bit of hope that perhaps... just perhaps, I could finish what I started.

[InfraredHero]

Prompt #3

The raven once again perks up, preparing to address the new stories, when it was once again interrupted, this time by a loud cackle. The source of the interruption is revealed as a slender, pale man exits the shadows in the corner of the room. "How long have you been there?" The raven caws. I didn't even notice you left your drawing room."

The man approaches you as he answers the raven. "Heard the commotion. Had to join in." The man brushes his long blood-red hair out of his face. "Have an idea for your little game here." He begins pacing around the room. "Something is coming. No one will stand. Even the shadows run in fear." The man draws near to you once more, bringing his face inches away from yours.

A moment passes as he stares into your eyes, then he breaks away and begins laughing again. "Yes, that is the inspiration this time. 'Even the shadows run in fear.' And indeed they shall." He continues his chilling laugh as he returns to the corner of the room he emerged from, his voice slowly fading away.

When silence once again filled the room, the raven took the chance to speak up. "I suppose that will do." The bird again stretches it's wings out and caws, then returns to it's resting position. "Now then, if there will be no more interruptions." It gazes at you, awaiting your next story.

The inspiration for Thursday 29th of October is :

"Even the shadows run in fear."

[ArtisticVicu]

The silence weighed heavily on them both as they waited. She strained to hear whatever it was that he had heard but she hadn’t needed to; the creak of the kitchen floor echoed through the basement and into the stairwell. The floorboards beyond the door gave a groan under the weight of someone passing by. There was a telling delay before the sound continued on.

“Such misfortune for such young souls.”

They both jumped, their attention snapping to the bottom of the stairs. The shadows of the basement hid it from sight but it looked like there was a cat sitting on the bottom step. It moved and he pressed into her more as fear drove them to back away from the thing’s movement. From one moment to the next, the thing was in their face revealing a shadow of a person with a haunted, tired gaze.

"I can't lie to you about your chances, but you have my sympathy." The ghost – it had to be a ghost because if it was anything else, she didn’t know what it was – retreated back a bit before stepping around his back. She tracked it with her eyes, feeling him shift against her to keep the ghost in sight. “You aren’t the only poor soul to have gotten caught up in all of this.”

He pulled back and her fear spiked when she realized what he was about to do. She brought her hands up to stop him but was too slow. He asked in a harsh whisper, “What do you mean? What are we caught up in?”

---

The ghost grinned at them, the grin itself stretching unnaturally wide. He jolted. The foot holding his weight slipped and thudded onto the step beneath it. She clapped her hands over her mouth to muffle the whimper that escaped.

Either the silence was deafening or her heartbeat was too loud in her ears. She couldn’t make out the sounds of the house, couldn’t even hear him breathing against her if he was even breathing. They stayed there pressed against the stairwell wall for what felt like an eternity before she felt him start to relax.

The door opened violently.

Light flooded the stairwell and chased them down the stairs as he barreled head first towards the darkness of the basement holding tight to her hand to drag her with; even the shadows run in fear of whatever had shattered the darkness of the stairwell. He caught the last of the railing with his other hand and used it to make the tight corner, yanking her after him.

She shouldn’t have looked back, she knew that, but he had grabbed her left hand and the turn had opened her up to the top of the stairs. Unintentionally her eyes snapped to the doorway full of light at the top of the stairs. Something stood in the light, a sharp dark outline of a form that she lost sight of as soon as she had caught sight of it. It didn’t tell her what had opened the door - didn’t tell her if they were against something human or something more. All it did was confirm they were being pursued.

[Alura]

Spoiler: Terror & Tragitti 

Sienna kneaded the join of her neck and left shoulder with freezing fingers as she gazed through one of the cafe's front windows into the night time street beyond it. Her reflection was what one would expect of an Italian woman her age, but other than a sense of classic style to her dress there was little obtrusive about her. She was attractive, but in the pedestrian way all young women are even when they are not great beauties. Tonight she sat by the window and gazed through herself. Nico had promised to meet her twenty minutes gone, and with a hand laced with the handle of her cup she barely noticed it growing cold as the minutes ticked away from her. The window radiated cold, and as a barista moved through a door to the kitchens, the flare of light that flashed across the chilly glass surface propelled her into a memory.

"Look at me here. Here, yes. Beautiful! Chin to your left shoulder and look up... no, chin left shoulder, head tilted right and smile. Just a little... there. Perfect. Bellissimo." Luca's dark eyes smiled at Sienna where she sat at the edge of a fountain, one leg submerged to the knee, the other canted up as melodramatically as the rest of her feigned repose on the precarious perch. The stone was hard and uncomfortable, the water nearly so cold that she felt it in her bones. Her teeth clicked softly, though she managed to hold a warm breath and exhale a moment each time the shutter clicked. "Shall we do one more?" Luca lifted his brows as if seriously considering, before lowering them and laughing at her expression. "No more, no more, I jest." He placed his hand over his heart and handed off his camera to the assistant who stood nearby reviewing the photographs already taken for quick editing. Moving towards the fountain, he bowed and extended his hand to help her out. His fingers were warm against her freezing ones, and he wrapped his arm about her waist familiarly as he walked her to where the assistant stood. Settling a blanket around her, he gave her left shoulder a squeeze along the cowl of her dress and leaned over her as they reviewed the images he had captured. After giving a few instructions to the editing assistant, he smiled back to Sienna. He was so near that his long, dark lashes nearly brushed her cheek. She could feel her pulse in her throat and wondered if he could feel it racing under his palm. Her cheeks tinged faintly with embarrassment and she let out a nervous giggle before saying, "I suppose I should find wardrobe." She had done, drying herself and donning her street clothes. When she was sinking into the warmth of her winter coat, he had walked through the little tent, leaning against a rack while she pulled on her boots. "You have a red nose, like a reindeer." He joked. She rolled her eyes, but found herself still smiling in response to his infectious smile. He had offered her a drink and she had agreed to go.

The night-darkened streets were beautiful in moonlight, the weather uncommon cold and somehow adding a touch of magic to the air. Snow was even more uncommon, but softly it began to fall around them, the hoary sky blotting out the light. As they passed through a narrow alley, Sienna drew close to Luca, breath misting and mingling with his as they walked, nothing to be heard but the sound of their breathing and their boots crunching on the snow. Neither dared to speak - at least, that was how Sienna felt it went. At the time, she had thought it was simply impossible to be the first to break the spell. Had Luca felt something different? As they passed an arched alcove, a tall figure unfolded himself. It must've been a trick of the very faint moonbeams and lights from shuttered windows that made it seem so, but the very thin, tall man with long white hair seemed to grow as he stepped forward towards them. The shadows in the alley seemed drawn to him, as if they cloaked him and added to his stature. As he loomed, Luca pulled Sienna back with him, urgency in his motions though he said nothing. Consternation and fear warred in his eyes for a moment. Gripping his hand, Sienna stepped back tentatively with her eyes glued to the figure, foot slipping on the snowy paving stones. She could have sworn that the tall man smiled at them, though things moved so quickly that she could barely recall the rest. She stepped back. Her foot slipped. The tall man smiled. Luca turned to look at her. The moment Luca turned his face away, the tall man had lunged for him through the chilled night, face a mask of emaciated horror. The shadows at his back seemed to run from him as Sienna screamed. Or had that been Luca? She tried to pull him back with her, but he was limp. Or had he been struggling with the shadow man? She tugged at him, unwilling to let him go until his hand became impossibly cold in her grasp. What exactly the tall man had done she could not really recall. Luca had almost imperceptibly squeezed her hand once as his blue lips faintly whispered, "Run!"

Sienna ran. She ran and slipped, fell, and kept running, screaming and sobbing as she made it back to the lit areas where a few late night romantics were still strolling. Where the editing assistant who had been helping disassemble the lighting for the photography shoot came running as well. There were whistles, people, lights, snow, questions, and through it all the cold left her shaking. La Benemerita had collected her and somehow she had managed to answer them to tell them of the little alley, the man who had attacked Luca. They asked her to guide them, but she refused, clinging to a little local woman who had moved through the crowd and stood stoically by her side. Sienna shivered from more than cold, but the woman went with her where she was led for questioning, bringing her something hot to drink and drying the tears from her face. Clasping the younger woman's hands, the elderly woman inclined her head conspiratorially when they were alone and whispered to her, asking her what she had seen. Lips working for a moment, Sienna could only manage "Anche le ombre corrono per la paura." The woman crossed herself, murmuring "malocchio" or "evil eye" before kissing Sienna's forehead and removing a horn-shaped necklace from her own neck to place it around the younger woman's. Not even bothering to pull her hair through the chain, Sienna sniffled and looked down at it, her shaking hand calmer as she touched the charm. The woman told her that she had been afflicted, but that so long as she had a healer perform a protection ritual and say a benediction over her, and continued to wear the gifted necklace, the bad things would not follow her. How she had been afflicted or what she needed protection from, the old woman would not say.

Unsettled by the events of that bitter cold night, Sienna had done as she had been instructed, seeking out a folk healer who with oil and water confirmed what the old woman had said and ritually warded away "the bad things". Though she was not a superstitious woman, Sienna inexplicably felt better afterward as she had prepared for her return home. The deceptively dark alleys of Italy left behind, she had returned to her work at home in Paris and beyond. It was here, nearly a year to the day where she waited for her friend Nico to join her. It was very unlike him to be late. A movement outside the window caught her eye and as she focused her eyes she saw Nico jogging towards her. She smiled broadly and waved, ready to tease him for his tardiness. As he moved nearer he seemed to be picking up speed, and just before he moved to the doors of the cafe he hesitated. After a moment poised to enter, he turned just as abruptly and ran down the side of the building. Rising quickly enough to jar the table, she apologised to the empty tables around her, darting from the cafe and down the street where Nico had run. When she rounded the corner of the little alley that ran at the back of the cafe, she scanned the dark. Touching the cornicello at her throat beneath her jumper, she blew out a shaky breath and watched it mist around her before plunging ahead. She had barely cleared the mouth of the alleyway when from over a stack of pallets unfolded a tall, shadowy figure. Nico's sleeve fell from behind it, his brown hair disheveled as his body hit the cold ground. In horror, Sienna fell back a step with a scream frozen in her throat. The tall, shadow man loomed out from the shadows not cloaking him, but rather seeming to eat any trace of light around him before fleeing off along the narrow walkway. They screamed along the walls and climbed toward the rooves looking for a hint of light. Lower lip trembling, Sienna felt rather than saw him move. In the moment it took to blink, he stood before her, bending to extend a talon-like hand towards the join between her neck and left shoulder - though his claws did not touch. Just like the panes of glass she could feel the cold radiating from him. The burn of just that shade of cold cut to the marrow. Fear bound her feet as the hollows of that face moved near to hers, its hidden recesses more terrifying than any face until it did morph into the emaciated death mask of Luca. Her Luca. Her heart drop and its thin, not-quite-right lips bared jagged teeth as the thought flashed through her mind: anche le ombre corrono per la paura! Even the shadows run in fear!