Mortal Creatures

By Zoe Cannon

Grief spawns the darkest magic…

 

A werewolf who escapes into his wolf form to hide from the pain of losing his family. A widower who makes a deal with a demon to find his wife's killer. A haunted house where a long-dead woman can get a second chance at life… if she's willing to pay the price.

 

The pain of loss is universal. But for those in touch with the magical world, grief takes on new and dangerous dimensions. It's all too tempting to use magic as an escape from pain… or to lash out at the ones who caused it. In these six standalone contemporary fantasy stories, supernatural beings from werewolves to aliens to demon hunters taste that temptation—and discover a different kind of magic waiting for them on the other side of their pain.

 

This collection includes the following short stories:
Into the Light
How to Be Remembered
A Little Blood
Innocent
Brotherhood of Lost Souls
Where the Wolves Run Free

• Language: English
• Publisher: Zoe Cannon
• Release date: Aug 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223970057

Book preview

Mortal Creatures

Stories of Grief and Magic

Zoe Cannon

© 2023 Zoe Cannon

http://www.zoecannon.com

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Introduction

I wrote these stories at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic. It was a strange time in many ways, but one of the strangest parts to me was the way death and loss were all around us, but were discussed surprisingly rarely. Even as the death toll climbed, it was a cold and distant statistic, and all the personal losses that made up that number seemed almost taboo to discuss.

Death was everywhere. It was a silent presence, but we were all steeped in it.

So is it any wonder that the themes of grief and loss started creeping into my work?

Even though a common thread runs through these stories, it shows up in a different way every time. One character is coping badly with the death of a loved one, while another is trying to help someone keep the memory of her ancestors alive. Another is facing the loss of his old vocation—and the sense of self that went with it—and trying to figure out who he wants to be next.

But all six stories come back to grief and loss in one way or another. And they all involve something beyond the mundane, whether it’s fairies or aliens, light magic or dark.

These stories helped me through a difficult time. I hope they give you something you need.

Into the Light

The way Owen’s parents told it, Old Man Schneider used to be perfectly ordinary. He had worked at the paper mill; his wife had taught first grade. He and his wife would go to church every Sunday, and hand out candy to trick-or-treaters, and walk down the street every evening holding hands like newlyweds. When his wife died, that was when he stopped smiling, or so the story went. He never took those after-dinner walks anymore. Eventually, he stopped coming out of his house at all.

For as long as Owen could remember, Old Man Schneider’s yard had been a thick jungle of thorny brambles and poison ivy. Heavy curtains covered the windows, pulled so tightly no one could get a glimpse inside, even though all the neighborhood children had tried at one time or another. Some people said they heard strange creaks and groans coming out of the house at night, although Owen had never heard it for himself. Others claimed they had caught a coveted glimpse inside, just enough to see books on the bookshelf on subjects like witchcraft and necromancy. Owen’s cousin’s best friend’s older brother even insisted he had snuck into the basement long enough to see the body of Old Man Schneider’s wife lying down there, perfectly preserved, in the middle of a circle outlined with symbols that made his eyes hurt. No one believed him, of course. Not really. Maybe just a little.

Whenever the subject of Old Man Schneider came up over the dinner table, Owen’s parents would roll their eyes and say they wished people would stop making up such outlandish stories about a sad old man. If someone would just sit down and talk with him for a few minutes, his mother maintained, all that silliness would vanish into the air, revealed for the mean-hearted gossip it was. But of course no one could do that, because no one had caught sight of Old Man Schneider in years.

No one except Owen, because—lucky him—his mother made him bring over a portion of their dinner every week. Sunday charity, she called it—a family tradition her own parents had started and she had faithfully continued. When she was a child, she said, every week they had brought the neediest person in town a portion of their Sunday dinner. And no one could deny that Old Man Schneider was the neediest person in town.

Which was what brought Owen to Old Man Schneider’s door, heart pounding out a familiar frantic rhythm, hands clutching a container of tuna casserole and a brown paper bag containing two still-warm rolls. He shivered, and not only because he was standing so close to Old Man Schneider’s house. He should have worn his coat and not his jacket. This year, the weather had careened past fall and straight into winter. Any warmth the air had held during the day had vanished with the light.

He wrapped his hands tightly around the container to warm his frozen fingers. He tried not to look up at the almost-bare trees that rose like skeletal limbs to encircle the house. Instead, he knocked again—the quicker Old Man Schneider answered the door and relieved him of his burden, the quicker he could get out of here—and eyed the bag of rolls in his hand. A soft, buttery roll would help keep him warm, and his mother had only let him have one with dinner. Old Man Schneider would never know the bag had contained two when Owen had left his house. But his mother’s voice drifted through his mind, with her familiar lecture about how even the people we don’t like still have the same needs as the rest of us—the need for food, the need to feel loved and cared for. He left the bag alone.

Just before Owen could raise his hand to knock a third time, the door creaked open. Owen’s legs tingled, like they did every week. They urged him to run, whispered that he should drop the food on the doorstep and race back home to slam his own kitchen door behind him. This job had passed from his mother to Owen a year ago, when she had decided he was ready. In an entire year, it had never gotten easier. Oh, he put on a brave face at school whenever people asked him what it was like to meet Old Man Schneider face to face. They always had the same look on their face when they asked, dying of curiosity but also transparently glad it wasn’t them. He always shrugged and said it was no big deal, even as he exaggerated Old Man Schneider’s features—the point of his chin, his tufts of white hair like devil’s horns, his skeletal body that made it look as if he hadn’t eaten in years. The crags in his face as he glared down at Owen every week, reaching down with bony fingers to pluck the food from his hands without a word.

The description wasn’t much of an exaggeration. Owen’s courage was the only lie.

Owen didn’t run. A full year of doing this, fifty-two weeks, and he had never run yet. This time, like every time, he willed his voice not to quiver as he looked up into Old Man Schneider’s face, preparing to say the ritual words his mother had given him. From one neighbor to another. But this time, like every time, he knew he would stammer out the line like a coward.

But this time, the words died on his lips before he could speak. Because when he looked up into Old Man Schneider’s devil-pointed face, the old man was smiling.

More food from my reliable neighbors, he said, in a voice that creaked like a rusty door. Excellent. I’ll need it to sustain me for the work ahead.

Owen tried to come up with a suitable response, but all that came out was a hesitant, Uh?

Old Man Schneider plucked the container and the brown bag from his fingers. His smile spread until it took up half his face, not that there was much room on his face to begin with. It wasn’t a face that was built for smiles. Tonight is the night. The planetary aspects are finally correct—the only time it will happen in my lifetime. I don’t intend to waste it.

Owen had never believed the stories that Old Man Schneider was trying to bring back his dead wife. Although he wasn’t inclined to believe his mother either, when she said their neighbor was just a sad old man. There was too much darkness in his eyes, and too much spidery grace to his movements. Every time Owen looked into the man’s eyes—which he never did if he could help it—he felt like he was looking into an endless pit, filled with nothing but darkness and the sound of screams.

He didn’t know what was wrong with his neighbor, only that something was. Maybe, like some people whispered, he had killed his wife himself, and chopped her body into pieces that he still kept stored in his freezer. But the tales of magical circles and bodies that wouldn’t rot? Those were just stories kids told their little brothers and sisters to scare them at night.

Now, though, staring up into the jagged abyss of that smile, Owen wasn’t so sure.

What are you going to do? he squeaked. As soon as he said it, he was amazed he had found the courage to speak at all.

Old Man Schneider’s smile spread even wider, until Owen thought it might creep past the boundaries of his face. Tonight, I right a great wrong. Tonight, my purpose upon this earth will be fulfilled.

He cracked the corner of the container open with long, slender fingers. He leaned in and gave an appreciative sniff. The gesture looked wrong on him—too human. Owen shivered.

Many thanks, young man. He snapped the container closed. Now, I apologize, but I must get back to work. I have no time to waste.

He slammed the door in Owen’s face before Owen could muster up the courage to squeak out another question.

Usually, Owen walked away from Old Man Schneider’s house as fast as he could, speeding up with every step until he was running by the time he burst into his house. This time, he walked slowly, casting a backward glance at the house every few steps.

He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. Just the bones of the trees, and the dark tangle of the brambles. He had almost convinced himself that he had imagined the entire conversation, when the whole house rattled behind him, like it had leapt off its foundation for a fraction of a second.

Owen stopped and spun around. The house looked the same as it had a few seconds ago. But as he turned back toward his own house, green lightning flashed out of the corner of his eye.

When he looked over his shoulder, though, the house—once again—looked exactly the same.

Just his imagination.

With one last glance, he sped up and let the house disappear into the darkness.

* * *

The next week, the container was filled to the brim with beef stew, and Owen had to keep it perfectly balanced to stop it from leaking. He struggled to balance the container in one hand as he reached out to knock, and winced as another trickle of hot stew ran out onto the sleeve of his jacket. He pulled his hand back and hastily rebalanced the container again.

Only once he was safe from more floods did he realize this was the first week he hadn’t hesitated before knocking. Not only that, the cold didn’t bite as deeply tonight, even though he had forgotten to wear his coat instead of his jacket again. When he looked down at his hands, they weren’t shaking. His heart beat out a slow, cheerful drumbeat in