Scary Stories to Chill Your Bones – Shadowland

My latest and last tale for October is called Shadowland. It’s a gothic tale of siblings, and the games they played. Perhaps you played this same game when you were little.

I hope to pick one of my shorts and make a short video to go along with it. Which one would you pick? Leave me a comment at the end and help me decide? Okay here is the tragic story, Shadowland…

Shadowland

It was only a childhood game, nothing more. My twin sister, Silence, little brother Thomas, and I played it most days once the governess left us for a new job and the warmth of North Carolina. A simple game, really. You were to go from point A to point B only by walking in the shadows. See, I told you it was easy.

We started small from our grand porch and then to the root cellar, filled with winter vegetables and dried beans. Once mastered, we moved our game. Next, the smokehouse to the barn. That one only took us two weeks to overcome. The forest was easy, as was the town, but there was a place quite suitable for the game—the town’s graveyard. By then the shadows had lengthened, for the bitter wind of winter dared to knock upon our front door, leaving the game for the brighter days of spring and summer.

Plus, Poppa forbids us to go to the graveyard. Said death might be catching and to stay well far away. Mother had passed six months earlier from consumption, and after that, Poppa declared wild notions with a forlorn melancholy not lost on us children.

Like sometimes happens in late fall, an unseasonably warm, sunny day gave us hope to return to our game. Silence, the cleverest of us three, pleaded with our father that we should lay winter wheat on Mother’s grave out of respect. It was unlike him to be swayed, but Silence resembled Mother so that Poppa relented.

He commanded us to return when the church bells rang four. Miss Martha packed us a lunch and patted us on the heads. We’d been underfoot as of late, and she relished her time alone. “Be sure to eat it all.” Martha winked at our brother.

Jonathan had grown thin and pale these last few months.

We giggled and whispered under our breath our plans. First, of course, we’d stop, have a picnic at Mother’s grave, lay some golden wheat for her to enjoy, and tell her our latest adventure. She adored my stories. Only then would we play our game. We’d start at Mr. Fetcher’s caretaker’s shack and finish at the wrought-iron gate closest to the path home.

The sun thawed our cheeks as we spread out our quilt and nibbled on biscuits and hard cheese at our family’s plot. Most of the names were washed away with the movement of history. Mother’s rested to the left of her parents, whom we’d never met. A smaller limestone tilted toward Momma’s; probably some relative from beyond our years. We placed the wheat around our presumption of mother’s outline. Each of us poured out our little broken hearts. Thomas the most. He drew his scrawny knees to his chest and mumbled, answering voiceless questions.

We lost ourselves in our misery, unbeknownst that we harbored such sorrow.

Grief has a way of doing that, I think. Losing stretches, reshaping the past.

By the time we dried our eyes, the day had yawned on leaving us with a mere hour of play. Hastily, we packed our things and raced toward Mr. Fetcher’s shack.

The caretaker didn’t take to kids frolicking in his graveyard, but he’d ridden his wagon down the road which led to Claire’s Point.

“You know the rules,” I called out. “Stay in the shadows least you die.”

“Why’d you have to say it like that?” Thomas whined, kicking at a pile of dirt next to the shack.

“Because that’s the rules dear brother.” Silence nodded.

“Maybe we shouldn’t play…” Thomas shivered and whispered, “among the dead.”

“Don’t be silly.” I ruffled his dark hair.

“They always call me silly.” He folded his arms and pouted his sallow lips.

Silence placed the basket in the crook of her arm. “It’s why we’ve come.”

So the game began. From the outbuilding, to headstone to headstone, we strode; the sunlight always just beyond our toes. The grief from earlier clung to us, and our laughter bore over to a silent determination.

We’d made it halfway when Thomas stopped, and I bound into him, knocking him to the soft earth.

“Don’t step in it.” Thomas’ eyes sunk in all the further.

Silence hopped ahead to the next row.

I looked at my feet in the brown grass. The sunlight was far enough away. “What?”

“Death,” Thomas said.

“You’ve turned strange this afternoon, Thomas.” I stretched out my neck to observe a safe path.

At that moment, a chilling wind struck against me, threatening to topple me, and a dark cloud swept across the late afternoon sky. Thomas jumped from our Shadowland onto Silence’s.

“Poppa is right, you know, you can catch death.” His slight frame cowered against the gravestone.

“Don’t be silly Thomas.” I gripped the limestone to balance against the gale.

“It’s on my shoe.” He scraped his shoe leather against the marker.

Silence pointed. “See, the gate and the path are just beyond. There is nothing to fear, brother.”

Thomas stood.

The cloud concealed the sun, basking the graveyard in darkness.

Thomas licked his lip. “Momma?” He bolted toward the gate, arms flung wide in greeting.

The church bells began their unhurried tolling.

Dong.

A cold so deep clenched my bones. “Thomas don’t!” I yelled. “It’s not safe.” The cloud covering the sun dissipated.

Dong.

His feet vaulted over knee-high grass and clods of dirt. The shadow shrunk. His foot landed in sunlight.

Dong.

Silence screamed, and my voice matched hers. Icy fingering waves of fog leapt at him, concealing him from my sight.

Dong.

The fog withdrew.

It was quick, really. He was there, then he wasn’t.

Silence and I stumbled home. Tears soaked our cheeks as we clutched each other with such despair.

I want to say the town searched for him.

I want to say he was found alive; run off to Mr. Milford’s barn searching for kittens.

I want to say he sprinted home ahead of us and sat in Martha’s kitchen eating a steaming bowl of porridge.

I want to say all these things…

But none of it would be true.

He’d been dead these six months, buried alongside Mother. A white headstone marked his grave.

Poppa was right, you could catch death. Thomas had caught it.

I said the game was easy, didn’t I? It was easy until it wasn’t. That was the last we played, and we never told another soul our story. So Play the game if you dare, but remember the rules–least you die.

How very tragic.

Have you ever played such a game? Ghost in the graveyard, hide-and-go-seek? If so what did you call it? Oh and, which Scary Story to Chill Your Bones would you like for me to make a video of? Let’s see we have, The Doll, The Nightmare, The Shades, and Shadowland! Let me know and tell me what you think of Shadowland!