fantasy – Helen Marie Joyce

The Mistress of the Lake (Chapter Five)

She looked up at the sky; it too appeared at calm. No Electric Storms brewing this time. How strange to have been through such an intense experience with no corroboration whatsoever? How was it that there was absolutely no proof that what had come to pass had actually happened? As she pondered at the events that had just come and gone, her gaze browsed her surroundings, and she observed the breathtaking scenery that lay around her: lush grass patches delineated a dirt path that lead to a cluster of tall trees and through them, she discerned a glistening lake that beckoned her.

Continue reading The Mistress of the Lake (Chapter Five)

The Descent (Chapter Four)

The descent felt easy, effortless and swift. Trance like. The Basilisk’s stare singed the back of her mind, commanding her to descend as she hovered over each step, gliding almost, downwards. She reached the landing of the staircase and turned to face the massive clock that stood in the centre so imposingly before continuing further down. The hands, she saw, were spinning in a silent frenzy, forwards and further forwards in time. She stood in front of it, as if mesmerized by its constant movement. It felt strangely soothing. The Basilisk hissed at her hesitation, as his behest was for her to descend down into the gut of the House on the Hill.

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The Children of Leviathan (Chapter three)

Heavy breathing, her fists clenched behind her back against the door, her legs shaking.

Eyes still shut, she took a long deep breath.

Relief.

She had just marginally escaped the double wrath of the strange limbo-like wilderness, manifesting itself in the imminent Electric storm and the pack of crones prowling outside. Yet somehow she did not feel entirely safe even behind the bolted door. A false sense of security grew in the pit of her stomach. She could not be sure whether the insides of this House on the Hill held no hostility, no grudges against her, and did not seek to harm her soul. In fact, she was more certain than not that the House was awaiting her arrival in order to begin its foul play. However, she could not afford to be overcome with panic and so she tried to calm herself by thinking, “confront each fear as it comes, not before”.

But was it fear indeed? Fear of what? Of the unknown, fear of something real, or an illusion? Fear of feeling helpless and alone, fear of feeling powerless and lost? Fear of pain, of loss, of damnation? She still did not know which questions to ask, and this scared her more than any demons or traps Leviathan placed in her path. Continue reading The Children of Leviathan (Chapter three)

The House on the Hill (Chapter two)

Voltaire – To the living we owe respect, but to the dead we owe only the truth.

Her hands dug deep into the moist and dense soil. It had only just stopped raining, and the ground was so wet, she could feel the water drench her clothes at her knees as she sat on all fours at the base of the hill. The great tree that she had taken refuge under, to sit out yet another Electric Storm, had wept; its old bark had cracked and tears of resin had trickled down to its base. She had an awkward sense that it was tears of resentment, and rushed to her feet. She touched its resentful resin, and it burned to her touch. Sucking on her sore finger she thought she heard a voice: a child’s voice, coming from the base of the tree, no, from beneath the roots, rising up and reverberating through the bark’s cracks and resin pus.

“Hurry”.

The old voices had stopped since she had crossed the river. This voice was of a new order, sounding innocent yet compelling enough for her to pay serious heed. She knew she had no place there, amidst the strange nature, the twisted nature of past, of longing, of yearning, there, deep in the Forest of Forever. She knew it even before she decided to cross beyond the silver river and penetrate the unknown North, but the Gray Wolf left her little choice. He had seized her thoughts, entering her mind at his will, during the dead of the night, and she often could see through his auric eyes, images of frustration, of chase, of want, of desire. She would wake each time thirsty and hungry to venture into the Forest to seek the questions, to which she already knew the answers.

“Hurry, follow the Moon”.

Continue reading The House on the Hill (Chapter two)