Where Light Fades
The Presence
On an ordinary night, the forests surrounding Morda Meynes are still and dead. Not one bush rustles, not one gust of wind howls, and not one animal stirs, for all that once called these forests their home have long since sought greener pastures. Of course, a dead forest befits a ghost town better than any other; when night comes and goes and not so much as a floorboard creaks within the withering walls of Morda Meynes, when all that treads the streets are dead leaves culled from a fall long past, passers-by would be forgiven for thinking this small village in a forgotten corner of Vorheim had been utterly abandoned by God and his subjects.
They may not even be particularly wrong; the people of Morda Meynes are as isolated from their creator as the village itself is disconnected from its far more prosperous neighbours. To the wiry men and women that stumble through its streets, the only world beyond their walls is an endless sea of barren, lifeless forestry. And they may well be content with that; should they become cognizant of the rich industry and tireless craftsmanship that oozes from every other pore of Vorheim’s expanse, they may well sink into an eternal and irreversible despair, one which is already only restrained by astounding quantities of booze circulating the filthy streets of Morda Meynes.
But on one night in particular, a singular symphony of sound tore through a vacant forest path. Feet and dirt met, the first such encounter in years, and the mountains surrounding Morda Meynes reverberated as the footsteps pattered ceaselessly. Troves of dead leaves crunched and crackled, and the wind stirred once more, bemused by the intrusion.
Ah, there she goes, the oldest of the trees surely mused amongst themselves, another little one on the pilgrimage of a lifetime.
This song of nature was as transient as it was unexpected; once the source of the forest’s scant fun burst into an idyllic glade, her footsteps were muffled by the resplendent greenery; they would soon come to an end altogether. For what nestled in her eyes was far more captivating than whatever she had trodden on throughout her path of conquest.
Bagworth Church. A name forgotten by all those that knew of it but inscribed sparingly throughout its hallowed halls. In Morda Meynes’ days of prosper, Bagworth Church stood proud, its doors eternally outspread. Now its doors remained open for another reason; no hand has laid upon them for one decade too many, and their hinges revile the warm sensation of human contact, threatening to tear themselves apart should the threat of such present itself. Once a testament to God and all his glory, Bagworth Church’s only legacy is to stand as a reminder of what happens when God’s kindness is thrown back at his face.
At the centre of the glade, the abandoned church’s doors faced the young girl, engulfing her gaze with the dormant darkness that had festered within its halls since before even her parents had known the gentle breeze of wind. Any man, woman or child with anything to lose would have turned tail at such a sight; it was eerie in its emptiness, the danger abundant in its utter absence of life. But she took a slow step forward. And then another. And then another. Her heart beat like a drum, pounding with greater volume through every protracted step she powered through.
And he could hear all of it.
Her first steps on the dusty stone floor were music to his grotesque ears, though he had not yet assumed a form through which to express his craven glee. The floor was littered with the shattered remains of numerous pews, ill-prepared as they were to withstand the eternal assailing of the elements, and the scurrying of spiders in the corners of her eyes fermented a deep nausea in her fragile stomach. With only a dim streak of weak moonlight leading the young girl across the aisle, the ominous presence silently guided her every step around the rubble and ruin, all beneath her notice. He preferred his prey empowered, believing themselves to have arrived at their destination entirely of their own will and ability. For what followed was made all the sweeter.
The young girl stopped in her tracks once she could proceed no more; before her stood an altar, crafted of wood most pristine for its day but not unaffected by time. She pressed against it with the tip of her finger, and an awful groan tore through the dormant silence as it forced itself back into place. But she was not so fascinated by the altar itself as what rested upon it: a pair of spindly candles as white as her teeth, with not a speck of dust between them.
Despite the gloomy darkness closing in on her like a thick fog, the small, uncomfortable smile that crept upon her face was, for a moment, the closest Bagworth Church had known to true light since its abandonment. Its place was soon usurped; with childish vigour, she drew a cracked match from the depths of her pocket, and with it a coarse rock. He already knew of their origins – an older girl passing through the village had presented them as a gift, though that was not all she bestowed. With them came instructions, and her words were relayed with crystal clarity in his twisted mind.
“Do you seek escape from this wretched life? Do you want the magic man in that church to whisk your parents away? It’s so simple, a baby could do it!
“First, travel to the desolate church in the glade. But travel alone! The magic man is shy; he’s not fond of crowds, and you may well scare him away for the rest of time!”
The young girl had already followed these instructions to the letter. Nobody was nearby. Nobody could interrupt them. He cackled silently as she continued to obey.
“Next, take these. You know how to strike a match, don’t you? Anybody can do it! The magic man will see you entering, and his candles will appear, waiting to be set alight!”
The formless being tingled with euphoria – he had waited years to become corporeal once again, and he was going to savour this next transient venture into the mortal realm. As she drew a deep breath, preparing for the last step of the ritual, the being grew ever more excited and restless.
Say it.
Say it!
“Somnium, Somnium, h-hear my plea!”
For several moments thereafter, her eyes remained rooted to the ground. The air filled with silence as the echo of her words died out, and her head slowly crept upwards, fearing the ritual to have been for naught.
But there he stood.
Somnium.
He had heard her plea well before it was verbalized; before she could even finish speaking, the looming presence had at last assumed his triumphant physical form, his white robes tinted a sinister green by the dormant moonlight peering through the oval window. She could not discern anything about his face, which remained in abject shadow no matter what light ought to have imprinted upon it, save for what writhed behind it – tendrils as thin and stringy as hair twisted and writhed with a will of their own, and it was impossible to determine from where they originated.
Somnium stood in silence, sizing up just who had come to pay him tribute now that he had been given form at last. The young girl was dressed in decrepit grey rags, whipped apart and torn up by her journey through the forests of Morda Meynes, and her brown hair had become bunched up and filthy, unevenly reaching down to her waist and doing nothing to obscure the faded bruising on her face.
Oh my… the youngest yet. What great bravery she possesses. I shall not regret this night, Somnium spoke in a tongue unknown to man - his voice was booming, and sounded as if it were of great volume, yet it was confined to the halls of Bagworth Church, crawling through every nook and cranny such that even the vermin skulking through the darkness knew that his presence demanded their respect.
Hearing his strange mutterings, the girl looked up into where his eyes ought to have been – his speech had emerged as indecipherable muttering, none of which she could ever hope to understand, and yet it was hypnotizing. Comfortable, even. A sensation she had sought all her life.
“Little one. Thank you for making the journey to my humble abode. You have rescued me from nothingness, and I owe you nothing short of my very being. Name one desire, any desire, and I shall grant it.” said Somnium, his every word drawn out and meticulously calculated.
The little one was taken aback – he knew why she had come to him perhaps before even she did. But the word any… for a term of such brevity, its implications were as vast as the sky itself. She was paralyzed; through no fault of the being standing before her, but by her own indecision. The twisting and confusion in her face – there was nothing Somnium delighted in more.
“I-I… can you… can you get rid of my parents?” the girl asked.
Initially, she was met with solemn silence – Somnium of course had an answer prepared before she even asked, but he savoured the silence and the discomfort the girl stewed in as she awaited an answer, in much the way a starving man would savour freshly cooked meat.
“I… cannot do that. To dispose of people altogether, to rid them from the world… it’s no different to murder, little one. And murder is one wish I cannot grant.”
“But you…!” the girl said before relenting.
Frustration… the polar opposite of silent uncertainty, but no less sweet to Somnium. A wave of jubilation swept over him, and yet he took great care not to reveal it; the loss of his stoicism may well have lost him his entertainment.
“That being said…” Somnium continued, “It is not the only means through which to solve what ails you, little one. There are avenues you have not yet explored, roads down which you have not yet travelled. I implore you, put some thought into this, so that both of us may walk away pleased this night.”
From confusion, to irritation, and now puzzled contemplation; for Somnium, a veritable banquet of extremities that merely whetted his appetite – a lesser being than himself could be sustained purely on such a delight as this. He could tell that the girl putting this much thought into anything in her life was exceedingly rare, though it was not a trait he could fault her for; compared to the hardy and God-fearing men that inhabited most of Vorheim, the people of Morda Meynes led simple, hedonistic lives. In his cavernous mental machinations, faulting her for her simplicity was as absurd as chastising trees for being unable to walk.
Indeed… that simplicity, that ignorance… it was what he enjoyed most about these nights.
“Can you… can you move them somewhere else then? Please?”
Her next plea was enriching to the nocturnal presence, moreso than her first by orders of magnitude. He feigned contemplation for several moments more than he had prior, the darkness obscuring his vicious smile.
“I… could do that. But what is to prevent their return? I will not be present in this world for long, little one. Much like the moon, I come and go, my being ebbs and flows. Wherever the winds of fate choose to carry me, I must comply. As soon as I disappear, so too will my influence, and your parents will find their way back eventually. It would be cruel of me to taunt you with paradise, only for the depths of despair to invite themselves upon you once again.”
From the girl, there came no cry or plea. Her gaze turned to the floor, a pout taking an icy hold over where her smile had once been. She wished for the floor beneath her feet to open its maw agape and swallow her whole, if only to escape her own incredible powerlessness.
I came all this way, and I’m going to leave with nothing, she silently accepted with a grimace.
Now, it was his turn to wear an ever more predatory smile.
“But I believe a shift in paradigm might suit you, little one. You are thinking only of your parents, and how those pieces may be moved across the board as you please, whether it is possible or not. Try as I might, I cannot surpass my boundaries, much as you cannot surpass yours. But there is one piece we have absolute authority over, and it is from that where the answer to your problem shall arise.”
The girl looked up to his vacant face, astonished.
“Little one…” the ghoulish being said, all the while restraining his salivation, “What is your name?”
“…Abigail.” she answered with her head downturned, “I-I hate it.”
“You hate it? A name of such beauty?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And would you kindly tell me why, Abigail?”
Despite his imposing presence, no answer would escape her mouth. But to pose the question at all was for show; Somnium knew all there was to know about Abigail as soon as her feet grazed the long untended grounds of Bagworth Church.
“The woman raising you; the one who bestowed the name Abigail upon you. She’s not your true mother, is she?”
Somnium faintly shivered with glee as he heard Abigail’s heart skip a beat – her eyes pierced where his own ought to be before she slammed them shut, dejected even by silence.
“She’s not.” she said, her heavy heart weighing down her vibrant face.
“But to have a mother at all is a gift, even if she was not the one to birth you. So why reject her, Abigail?”
As a thin layer of tears welled up in her eyes and her throat tightened, Somnium was almost ready to cry out in ecstasy – a raging, hungering wolf brewing beneath his eldritch vessel thrashed out impatiently, imploring him to hasten the path to the night’s foregone conclusion.
“Sh-she… she hi-“
“Ahhh, she hurts you, doesn’t she?” said Somnium, his artificial veil of ignorance becoming more difficult to retain, “And what do the people of your village do about it?”
Upon this query, a horrible dread coiled around Abigail’s tongue; the answer was obvious even to her, for so often had she sought a way in which she could answer such a question with resounding confidence. But the truth was undeniable, as was the anguish the realization wrought upon her.
“…nothing.” she said, her answer barely audible.
He of course didn’t need to hear it. But to witness such an ugly truth crawling out of her own mouth… had he any need for currency, he still would have considered the sensation priceless.
“What is your recourse, then? Nobody who supposes themselves as your guardian is willing to help you, and your legs are too frail yet to carry you to more promising pastures.”
Somnium’s crooked smile faintly glinted within the dark halls of Bagworth Church – he was just one response, one damning answer away from knowing that his prey was firmly within his clutches.
“I… I have nowhere to go.” Abigail answered, her gaze returning to Somnium with no glimmer of life left behind it, “I know nothing of the world beyond Morda Meynes; to run away by my lonesome would be certain death. Can I… stay here? Forever?”
At last ready to close the curtains on this story, Somnium’s tendrils steadily descended to the ground. The dusty, unkempt floors whined as the coarse texture of the tendrils scraped against them, weaving through holes and piles of rubble as they cautiously slithered towards Abigail, the darkness concealing their wicked intentions.
“To stay here is hardly befitting of a precious young lady like you, Abigail. I can offer you something far greater. I can offer you peace for the rest of your days, and a joyous silence oh so few are lucky enough to claim. A paradise no place in Vorheim, or Delmas, or anywhere else in this wide world can hope to ever match. You need only make the request of me, and that peace is yours.” said the wicked beast, the moonlight at his back slowly dying.
As the room descended into abject darkness, illuminated only by the wavering candles, his many tendrils crept up onto Abigail’s feet. Soon they were ascending like spirals around her limbs and tattered clothes, and they enjoyed their first taste of thin blood as they tugged ceaselessly at her skin. But her mind was overwhelmed with euphoria, induced by the monster who now stared down at her with animalistic delight. Whatever she was enduring in that moment, she knew in her heart that it was far preferable to the life awaiting her at home, and the many years of painful memories that haunted every scant possession of theirs. With barely the slightest shred of control over her own words and actions, she nonetheless delivered her final words with a genuine, overwhelming passion, fatally tempted by the unknown.
“Oh Somnium, Somnium… hear my plea. Take me to a place where I can know only peace. Avert a lifetime of hardship and strife. Grant me the life my dear mother would have bestowed upon me, were God not so cruel and wicked. Where I can finally rest…”
Somnium prefaced his answer with a subdued cackle. And it was as her body ascended to his glistening maw that her eyes at last laid upon his face; in her blissful daze, even the bestial horror that the darkness had shielded so well seemed inviting, and she faced the end of her mortal existence with a smile.
“Then, Abigail, I shall grant you eternal rest, and endless, bountiful sleep.”
By the time dawn finally broke, neither Abigail nor Somnium were of the physical world any more. The people of Morda Meynes took notice, but what were they to do about it? Another young girl leaving the squalor behind, seeking her own paradise elsewhere in Vorheim; to these villagers, it had become a tale as old as the earth beneath their battered feet. Who were they to stop a young maiden’s aspirations when they themselves possessed none? What could they offer anybody beyond squalor and disdain? The only good they peddle greater than any other dot on Vorheim’s map is an unrelenting, all-consuming apathy.
And there is nothing Somnium cherishes more than that apathy.