Shadowland: A Story of Wonder and Adventure in the Shadows

Unravel a Haunting Tale Where Wonder Meets the Unknown

Welcome to my latest Story of Wonder and Adventure—Shadowland, a Gothic tale to chill your bones! This is my final spooky offering for October, weaving siblings, childhood games, and a brush with the eerie unknown. Maybe you’ve played a version of this shadowy game yourself—stepping through the dark, daring the light to catch you.

I’m dreaming of turning one of my scary shorts into a video. Which would you choose: The Doll, The Nightmare, The Shades, or Shadowland? Drop a comment below to help me decide! Now, settle in for this tragic Story of Wonder and Adventure—Shadowland…

Shadowland

It was just a childhood game—or so we thought. My twin sister, Silence, little brother Thomas, and I played it nearly every day after our governess traded us for the warmth of North Carolina. The rules were simple: move from point A to point B, but only through the shadows. Easy, right?

We started small. We darted from our grand porch to the root cellar. Its air was thick with winter vegetables and dried beans. Mastered in days. Then, the smokehouse to the barn—two weeks to conquer. The forest was a breeze, the town a thrill, but the real test loomed: the graveyard. By then, winter’s bitter wind had stretched the shadows long, pausing our game until spring’s brighter days.

Poppa forbade the graveyard. “Death is catching,” he’d warn, his voice heavy with loss since Mother’s passing from consumption six months prior. His wild notions carried a forlorn weight we couldn’t miss.

But late fall surprised us with a warm, sunny day—a chance to revive our shadowy adventure. Silence, ever clever and the spitting image of Mother, convinced Poppa to let us lay winter wheat on her grave. He relented, commanding us home by the four o’clock church bells. Miss Martha packed us a lunch, winking at Thomas—pale and thin these past months—as she shooed us out.

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 and have a picnic at Mother’s grave. We would lay some golden wheat for her to enjoy. We would also 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. 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 Mamma’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, 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. He’d ridden his wagon down the road. The road 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.”

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. 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. “Mamma?” He bolted toward the gate, arms flung wide in greeting.

The church bells began their unhurried tolling.

Dong.

A deep cold 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 can 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. We never told another soul our story. Play the game if you dare, but remember the rules–least you die.

What’s Your Shadowy Tale?

Have you played a game like this—Ghost in the Graveyard, Hide-and-Seek? What did you call it? Share below! Help me choose a scary Story of Wonder and Adventure. It’s for a video. Should it be The Doll, The Nightmare, The Shades, or Shadowland? Tell me what you think of this chilling tale—I’d love to hear!

Love Stories of Wonder and Adventure? Subscribe to my newsletter for more haunting tales!

Please follow and like us: