Slices of Midnight

Chapter 1

Nothing in the world compared to a good haunting.

Not spiders. Not eerie campfire stories. Not even Miss Margaret's famous desserts.

Sweet apple muse was my favorite delicacy, but it paled next to the sight of a veiled apparition gliding across a mist-covered lake.

And no spider—not even the spindly black ones with fiery hourglasses—ever set my heart racing like the ghostly wails of a mother mourning the child she lost to wolves centuries ago.

My name is Marissa Bonifay, and as a teenager growing up on the Isle of Indamar, I witnessed each of these wonders.

But on one brisk evening, on my home island, I was destined to experience a haunting that would eclipse them all—in both scope and terror.

"Are you certain you know where we're going, Marissa? We're a long way from the village. We've been walking for an hour."

"Of course, I know where we're going, Sir Isaac."

With my curly black hair bouncing, I hopped from one partially submerged stone to another, crossing a meandering brook that wound through a remote corner of the forest known as Waurista's Woods.

"I was here only two days ago. I've scouted this entire area. All we have to do is follow this brook a little farther—just until it meets another that flows down from the hills to the east."

I glanced over my shoulder. "Be on the lookout for a big pile of rocks. That's where the haunting will occur."

My lips curled into a knowing smile. "From the front, the pile looks like the foot of a cockatrice. But from behind? You'll swear you're staring into the face of a skull."

With a lit brass lantern in one hand, Sir Isaac leaped onto one of the stepping stones.

He was my age, but people had addressed him as a knight ever since we were kids—and for good reason.

Rather than jumping to the far bank to join his fellow ghost enthusiast, Isaac—ever the cavalier—turned back and offered his hand to our third party member: a skittish lass who wasn’t comfortable being out in these forlorn woods.

"Watch your step, Piper," Isaac said, helping her from the reed-covered bank onto the rock. "These stones can be slippery, especially on a frosty night like this."

I shook my head as she fussed with the hem of her dress, trying—and failing—to keep it out of the water.

This was Piper’s first time accompanying us on a ghostly foray, and I prayed it would be the last.

Blond-haired, blue-eyed Piper, whose infatuation with Isaac had reached an alarming level, had confronted us just as we were setting out from the village priory. She had demanded to come along.

Since the local authorities forbade travel through this infamous stretch of forest, I had no choice but to let her—if only to prevent her from tattling.

Her father was the village prior, and I couldn't afford to be in any more trouble with him… or with a certain high priestess who called the priory home.

I was already having enough difficulties with that lot of holier-than-thou hypocrites.

"Oh, damn!" Piper shouted as she stumbled onto the far side of the brook.

Despite Sir Isaac's valiant efforts, she had slipped on the wet reeds, streaking her dress with mud.

"Damn, damn, damn!" She held the soiled fabric up to the light. "How am I ever going to explain this to Mother? She'll know I was out here tonight. Father is going to kill me!"

"At least you have parents who care."

I couldn't fathom how a little dirt could bring a girl Piper's age to the brink of tears.

The trees loomed over us, their branches twisted and claw-like in the dim light. I took advantage of the eerie ambiance, leaning in slightly.

"Besides, I wouldn't worry about your father killing you, Piper." A pause. Then a smirk.

"After all… you're in Waurista's Woods."

Named for a legendary witch who had kept the Isle of Indamar free from Arinar’s clutches for nearly two centuries, these woods had witnessed countless clashes between Waurista’s undead minions and the forces of the High Council.

In fact, we were heading straight to the site of one such battle, hoping to witness a ghostly reenactment.

Up ahead, among the rocks and ravines, the great Waurista had once laid a cunning ambush for the High Council and their army.

That bloody night still sent chills through the halls of Arinar’s high court.

"Don't worry, Piper. There's nothing to be afraid of," Sir Isaac said.

He shot me a look of admonishment for trying to scare her.

"But what if we do run into Waurista?" Piper asked, glancing around as wisps of late-night fog drifted past. "I bet she does terrible things to those who wander into her woods."

"Waurista is dead," I said matter-of-factly. "She hasn't roamed the Isle in centuries."

"But some say Waurista didn’t die." Piper gulped. "At least… not entirely."

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"They say her spirit still roams Indamar—always hungry, always seeking vengeance against the High Council of Arinar."

Piper’s words sent a slight tingle of fright through me—a feeling I loved.

Propelled by that unsettled sensation and the prospect of witnessing something truly terrifying, I set off with renewed energy.

I followed the brook upstream, eager to discover the haunted depiction of one of the blackest days in Arinar’s long history.

As I trudged through the reeds, I slipped a hand into my coat pocket and pulled out a smooth glass orb, roughly the size of an apple.

Much to my chagrin, it had not yet begun to glow.

The orb had been a gift from one of the female fortunetellers who occasionally visited our village, and I didn’t want Piper to know it existed.

The priestesses at the priory weren’t exactly fond of my friends and me spending time with those women, claiming they were involved in the dark arts.

If Piper found out, word would undoubtedly get back to them.

Then I’d have to confess that it had been given to me by a particularly kind, one-eyed wanderer…

A woman who insisted on being called Auntie Muriel.

Unfortunately, the orb remained clear, showing no trace of the glowing greens, reds, or yellows that filled it during a haunting.

I had yet to figure out the intricacies of this divining art. Still, I knew one thing—when ghostly activity was near, the colors always appeared.

With a sigh, I dropped the orb back into my coat pocket.

Just then, a tawny owl came screaming out of the night, approaching from behind. Its high-pitched screeches echoed through the trees as it zoomed past us, heading upstream.

"A good omen," I said, taking off after it. "Let's go!"

"A good omen? How can being scared witless be a good omen?"

Nevertheless, Isaac followed. But after only a few steps, he suddenly stopped.

"Hold up. It's Piper."

With great reluctance, I stopped and turned.

Piper stood beside the brook, frozen in fright.

"Come on, Piper. We need to hurry. The haunting draws near."

Terrified and wide-eyed, she shook her head, refusing to budge.

I narrowed my gaze. "Now, you listen to me, Missy. It’s one thing to tag along just to try and steal my boyfriend—"

I folded my arms.

"—but if you make me miss this haunting, I will strangle you, so help me. Is that clear?"

Isaac, having clearly heard me call him my boyfriend, drew himself up a little taller.

"It'll be alright, Piper," he said smoothly. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Thankfully, the young gallant’s words were enough to get the frightened little thing moving again.

We moved deeper into the woods, stopping now and then to listen.

Noises on the wind were often harbingers of a haunting, especially those of a residual nature.

But tonight, we heard nothing unusual—just the distant howl of a wolf and the occasional hoot of the tawny owl ahead.

"What's wrong with the water?"

Piper had stopped mid-ascent up a steep embankment, peering down at the brook. Here, the stream tumbled into a gently rolling waterfall—just a short distance from the rock-strewn convergence where the haunting would supposedly occur.

"It's turned dark for some reason."

At her words, I snatched the lantern from Isaac and scrambled to the water’s edge. Extending the light toward the brook, I barely registered my companions' startled gasps.

The water had changed.

Where there had once been a crystal-clear stream, dark crimson now flowed.

"Blood."

Sir Isaac’s voice had lost its usual stalwart tone. "Waurista has done this. The brook runs red with the blood of her victims."

"We must run!" Piper shrieked.

She whirled, ready to bolt, but Isaac caught her arm before she could tumble down the embankment.

"Don't be silly."

I dipped my fingers into the sanguine brine, watching as the liquid rippled beneath my touch.

"The blood you see is just an apparition. And it's an amazing one at that."

I pulled my fingers from the water and held them up to Piper. They were wet—but showed no sign of red.

"The haunting has begun."

Piper stopped struggling against Isaac’s grip and took a deep breath, trying to stay calm.

But the ghostly forces in the woods would not grant her respite.

The tawny owl screeched wildly as it reappeared, swooping overhead on its way back downstream.

Its final cry had barely faded when the sounds began.

Distant voices.

Clashing steel.

The low, hollow rattle of bones.

Piper clung to Isaac. "What's that? What are those noises? What's happening?"

"Be quiet so I can listen," I whispered harshly. "How am I supposed to understand anything with your crybaby jabbering?"

As it turned out, I wasn’t able to decipher much.

Every word was distant and indistinct from our position on the embankment. Logic told me we must be on the periphery of the haunting.

Gripping the lantern, I got to my feet and charged up the embankment toward the confluence of the two streams.

At that point, I barely cared whether my companions followed.

Still, Isaac and Piper weren’t far behind when the rocky foot of the cockatrice came into view.

Here, the air pulsed with paranormal energy.

The voices were louder. Clearer.

Long ago, soldiers had spoken these very words on this very ground. Now, their echoes returned.

The rattling of bones filled the night.

"It’s growing in intensity!" I called back to my friends. "There’s a hollow stump just across the stream to the west. We can observe the apparitions from there."

I bounded across the brook.

Further downstream, Isaac and Piper followed my example.

Isaac cleared the water effortlessly. Piper, however, never had a chance.

Displaying the grace of a drunken mule, she slipped mid-jump and tumbled headlong into the icy brook, soaking herself from her knit woolen cap to her leather boots.

Sir Isaac fished her out quickly, and the pair barreled after me through the woods.

"Quit fooling around, you two! You're going to miss it!"

Before long, we reached the hollowed-out stump of what must have once been one of the tallest, most ancient trees in the forest.

Perhaps it had still been alive when Waurista annihilated Arinar’s wizards and warriors.

Regardless, this stump had undoubtedly played host to the haunting we were about to witness—hundreds, if not thousands, of times.

"Alright, no matter what happens, we must remain here," I said, raising my voice over the growing din of noise. "Is that understood?"

Sir Isaac nodded as he slipped off his coat and draped it over the cold, wet, and trembling girl beside him.

Piper, teeth chattering, made no such promise.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the orb.

Inside, a bevy of red and yellow lights swirled in a frantic dance. I had never seen it so alive.

A tingle of excitement ran through me.

"Oh no," whispered Piper.

After slipping the orb back into my pocket, I looked up—

And immediately understood Piper’s concern.

Scattered among the trees, perhaps a dozen bluish lights flickered and danced.

The paranormal energies saturating the woods were coming together, coalescing into fully formed apparitions.

Heart pounding, I extinguished the lantern to see them more clearly.

The sudden plunge into darkness, however, was too much for Piper to handle.

Panicked, she sprang to her feet, ready to bolt—

But Isaac grabbed her, pulling her back into the shelter of the stump.

"Don't worry, Piper," he assured her. "It’s just like the blood in the water. Nothing we're about to see is real."

"And do try to stay quiet," I hissed.

The blue lights thickened, surrounding us on all sides. Some drifted closer.

Giddy with excitement, I scanned the glowing orbs, desperate to make out images—faces, swords, anything.

I strained to match the sounds with what I was seeing, but it wasn’t working.

Not yet.

More lights appeared.

One amorphous cluster passed directly overhead, but still, they remained nothing more than floating blobs of ambient energy.

A nagging doubt crept in.

Had the haunting stopped progressing?

That made no sense. Every calculation I had made—everything from studying star charts to consulting my self-designed divining rods—indicated this event would yield fully formed apparitions.

Dozens of them.

I was on the verge of giving up when my gaze dropped to the ground.

A new blob of blue light had formed—just inches from where we crouched.

The energy pulsed, shifting, condensing—

Then, in a flash, a skeletal hand burst from the earth.

And it was rising.

Piper screamed—

Isaac and I both clamped a hand over her mouth.

Before us, the skeletal hand clawed its way free, giving rise to a bony forearm, an elbow, a shoulder—

And finally, a sightless skull.

Grasping one of the stump’s old, gnarled roots, the skeleton pulled itself from the earth, as though rising from a shallow forest grave.

For an instant, it paused.

Then it lifted its eyeless sockets to us—

And let out a throaty growl.

It took all of Isaac’s strength to keep Piper from bolting.

While our attention had been locked on that particular apparition, others had appeared.

Hundreds.

The forest had become a battlefield.

Glowing skeletons, armed with axes and clubs, swarmed the trees. But they were not alone.

Ghostly soldiers had arrived as well, all clad in the crimson of Arinar.

The two forces clashed in a brutal, spectral war. And from the looks of it, the skeletons were winning.

Arinar’s fighters fell in droves, their bodies crumpling to the ground—maimed, mangled, utterly outmatched.

"Home!" Piper sobbed. "I just want to go home!"

The only place in the forest where Arinar’s forces held steady was near the confluence of the two streams.

There, beneath the Banner of the Golden Stag, twenty-five soldiers and wizards had rallied.

Though vastly outnumbered, this small force fought as one, pushing back the skeletal horde with steel and sorcery.

One of them—a heavyset soldier with a black beard and a spiked flail—obliterated the very skeleton that had crawled from the ground before our eyes.

"Hold fast, heroes of Arinar!"

The bellowing voice belonged to their commander—a regal-looking man of about forty, clad in lavish armor. His princely countenance radiated authority even in death.

"We must hold, warriors—but only for a little longer! Lord Atherton will be along shortly with five thousand of the province’s finest soldiers and mages. That witch has sealed her fate by attacking us this night!"

His voice rang through the battlefield.

"Waurista will have kissed the flames of Hell ere the dawn!"

The brave soldiers would need every ounce of fervor their commander could conjure.

Because the moment his words faded—

The skeletons attacked again.

This wave was larger than the last.

I watched as several humans fell beneath the undead onslaught.

But they did not break.

Through sheer grit and determination, the soldiers and wizards fought back, crushing the skeletons and holding their ground.

"My lord and commander! Dire news!"

The shout came from across the battlefield, near Arinar’s battle flag.

My friends and I turned just as a man on horseback galloped through the woods, his face twisted in raw, unadulterated fright.

"Sergeant Barnes! Report!" the commander barked. "What word from Atherton?"

The messenger reined in his horse and dismounted.

"Commander, the darkest of hours has befallen us," he gasped. "Lord Atherton has been slain—his force of five thousand, vanquished!"

Though the commander’s face glowed with the same ethereal light as the other apparitions, I swore I saw his complexion pale.

"But that’s absurd," he countered. "It would have taken a force of over ten thousand skeletons to wipe out Atherton’s legion."

Barnes swallowed hard. "My lord, Wizard Zorvaan of the High Council believes Waurista commands at least three times that number tonight."

The commander’s gaze swept the battlefield.

For the first time, he looked truly lost.

"What are your orders, Commander?"

For a moment, Barnes’s question only deepened the general’s unease.

Then, with a slow breath, the golden-haired lord steeled himself.

"Sound the retreat," he told a nearby retainer. "Waurista may have outsmarted and outmaneuvered that dolt Atherton, but I’ll be damned if I sit here and let her do the same to me."

The retainer raised a horn to his lips and piped out an urgent call for Arinar’s forces to withdraw.

But the order had come too late.

Even before the final note had faded, the earth split open once more.

A new wave of skeletons was emerging.

These were unlike the others.

They towered over the battlefield, far taller than any we had seen before. And they were better armed.

A legion of spear-wielding giants was rising from the soil.

As this new host of horrors surged toward Arinar’s flag, Sir Isaac placed a hand over Piper’s eyes, shielding her from the carnage to come.

Surprisingly, Piper would have no part of it.

She pulled Isaac’s hand away.

She wanted to see what would happen.

The skeletal giants unleashed a storm of spears.

All but a few of the battle wizards and their golden-haired commander fell.

The survivors had only their shields to thank—arcane barriers conjured by the wizards, and the commander’s massive farasite buckler.

But the second volley proved too much.

The remaining wizards crumpled.

Now, only the commander stood.

"Fight me, Waurista!"

The general stepped toward the stump where we were hiding, his voice ringing with defiance.

"You have no honor, cowering behind these mindless servants!"

He slammed the broad side of his sword against his buckler.

"Come out, you black-hearted bitch! Face me alone—if you dare!"

And Waurista would oblige.

An opening formed in the ranks of the undead, and through it charged an ebon stallion, its hooves pounding the earth like war drums.

Upon its back rode a woman clad entirely in black, wielding a flaming sword.

The moment I saw her—raven-haired, fierce, unstoppable—I was utterly enthralled.

Waurista.

I watched in awe as she charged toward the general.

Both warriors unleashed primal screams that echoed through the forest.

Then—

Their swords collided.

Yet only one of them survived the clash.

Waurista’s fiery blade cleaved through the commander’s sword, slicing it in two.

And it didn’t stop there.

The same downward strike found the commander’s neck, severing his head from his shoulders.

The force of the blow sent his cranium flying—

Straight toward the place where Isaac, Piper, and I were hiding.

"Ombra'lay! Zak'tachinay!"

The witch’s triumphant cry rang through the battlefield as the commander’s spectral head rolled to a stop before us, his unblinking eyes fixed in our direction.

The sight proved too much—even for me.

Three screams shattered the night.

We scrambled over one another, fighting to be the first out of the hollowed stump.

Our terrified wails echoed through the trees as we bolted down the brook, tripping, stumbling, tumbling the entire way.

But then—

Somewhere in the chaos—

My screams turned to squeals of delight.

I had expected a memorable haunting.

But never—never—had I dreamed of something this spectacular. This terrifying.

Waurista’s triumph would be forever seared into my memory.

"Ombra'lay! Zak'tachinay!"

What could the witch’s words mean?