Author's note:
I hope you enjoy this occult tale of the secret darknesses that live among us, often unseen. As a reader, please be aware that occult horror may well contain elements of mind-control, unnatural violence, and other taboo acts including a lack of consent. But don't be too alarmed: there is a more tale here than there is terror. All characters are fictional and over the age of consent (18 years old or more).
I have submitted this tale in the Halloween contest due to its haunting, supernatural theme though there is a small connection to the holiday. As always, votes and comments are appreciated more than most readers realize.
- Kethandra
Malleable
By Kethandra Wilde
Prologue
The young boy's eyes shot open when the goat stopped its frightened, insistent bleats after hours of non-stop complaints had rung out into the night. The grogginess of a night alone, struggling to fight off both sleep and fear, was gone.
His pulse pounded, hands shaking as he felt in the dark for the bow and the single, special arrow. He heard, almost felt, the low rumbling growl before he saw the shape of the beast, a darker form against the dim pre-dawn.
It was unmistakably a panther, but far too big.
Fingers, slick with nervous sweat, tried, failed, tried again, before nocking the arrow to the bowstring. He would only have one shot. Thin legs protested as he stood, both numb from their long wait and reluctant to leave their hiding spot behind the stacked sun-dried bricks.
The string whined as it was stretched, only the slightest of sounds but enough for pointed feral ears to hear, tilt his way. The boy tugged, harder, pulling string and arrow back to his cheek, too fast, too hard, too nervous. The beast growled again, turning its broad head toward him. Its eyes seemed to glow. The sound became sharper, a snarl.
The bowstring escaped, slipping through skittish fingers. Thrung!
No! Too soon. Too high.
The snarl ripped through the air as the beast heaved upright, onto its back paws, more like a bear than a jungle cat. It stood tall, enormous, at least the height of a grown man.
The arrow would have missed, sailing over the beast's head if it hadn't stood, if it had been a mere natural predator. As it was, the boy saw the briefest glint of color flashing through the gloom, of yellow-bright metal tipping the shaft's leading edge, before the snarl became an unholy scream.
The scream broke the spell of silence. The milk goat bleated renewed complaints, now almost shrieks. One human voice, unsure, then a second and third, sounded from the small huts surrounding the village's central clearing.
The scream rose, louder and higher, full of pain and rage. Claws scratched and dug at the beast's chest before the massive creature fell backward onto its back in the dirt. The scream ceased after a final deep shudder, leaving the goat to fill the air alone as silent villagers slipped out through newly unbarricaded doors, curious, hopeful, cautious.
No one spoke as they gathered in a circle around beast and goat, one still on the ground, the other finally quiet, but tugging on the rough rope tied to the stake that held her.
Adults moved aside to let the youngster draw near, showing him a respect, or maybe a fear, he had never before been granted. The bow was forgotten by the bricks. All that mattered was the arrow now. It's shaft, except for the black feathers that fletched its rear end, was invisible burrowed deep in the man's chest.
Man? No. Boy. Older than he, but still young, surely no more than 16 years. A thin trickle of blood, appearing almost black, leaked from slack lips. The beast had seemed so fearsome, so terrible. The dead, naked form on the ground in its place was terrible in a different way, so vulnerable, so small and wrong. Scrawny arms, barely any fuzz on a pale upper lip.
The body looked so vulnerable in death, so harmless, the child looking down at it began to doubt what he'd known he saw. The beast, huge and hairy, oversized and inhuman, impossibly beyond reason. The doubt vanished when he recalled the monster rearing up, exposing it's softer under side as the sweat-slick arrow escaped his grip, propelling the golden triangle, carefully shaped and sharpened, on its own improbable schedule.
———
Coco Bouvier drew in on her new vape pen, holding in the sweet water vapor and the THC it carried to her lungs and blood stream. Her mom did not approve of the pen.
But her mom, Lucinda, was at Sew What, the small shop where she had found work as a seamstress, so Coco had opened the door for the handsome landlord of their new little house. He needed to fix a small issue with the plumbing. Her mother hadn't mentioned calling him about the leak, and Coco had only noticed it this morning, but he knew about it, so she must have let him know.
They had only moved in a little over a week ago, and the place was crowded with Lucinda's many potted plants, mainly herbs, as well as woven baskets confining dried varieties. Coco's mom was an herbalist, a healer, a witch, or a variety of other inadequate labels, depending on who was describing her. Two weeks ago, Coco had come home to find all their belongings in a rental truck. Lucinda had been 'called', she'd said. They were moving from Santa Cruz, with its beaches and vibrant young tourist town vibe, too Chico, in the middle of the hot, dry Valley. Lucinda gave her lanky, beautiful young daughter plenty of freedom, but the one thing not to be questioned was a 'calling.'
Exploring the new town, Coco was starting to admit it wasn't that bad. The university brought in a diversity of young energy, even if the surrounding bleak land was mile after mile of unnaturally green farms, almond orchards and rice patties. Her smooth dark skin and the -- as she was so often told -- 'exotic' look acquired through her varied ancestry made her stand out.
