Spooks
The things that lurk just out of sight...
The townsfolk sing, “If the mist be slitherin’, open yer skin, spill yer red, and pray the old one back to bed.”
You’d think we lived in a Bram Stoker tale. Now, it’s true we do live in Brașov which is in the Transylvania region of Romania and ringed by the Carpathian Mountains, but the scariest thing I’d experienced thus far was my private prep-school fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Skitterman who looked like she might roast and eat you if you got your multiplication homework wrong. I still find it ironic, considering how she terrified me, that I ended up becoming a teacher.
But that did, indeed, become my vocation and it was in that capacity that my reputation must have blossomed enough to get the attention of a Mr. Castigroff who had asked if I would consider trading in my crowded classroom for an exclusive, one-on-one tutor position for his son. The timing proved fortuitous as I now found myself sadly unattached since my most recent, short-lived romantic entanglement ended in an unexpected and unpleasant manner I’d rather not relive or relate. A second strong motivator was the absurd amount of money offered. Castigroff explained it meant to remunerate for their living so remotely, off the grid; that I would either have a horrifically long commute or need to live with them for the duration of my employ.
In short, I agreed to accept the role of private live-in tutor.
I was glad of my decision to live at Castigroff’s home, because the drive there proved more arduous than the map suggested: the longest stretch of the trip wound up treacherous, curving mountain road and the entire route one way took nearly three hours. I could never have lasted long, doing that every day—especially with the dense morning fog in autumn and winter.
While it took some time to adjust to the oddness of the entire arrangement, I eventually settled into a routine and most of my original awe at my new surroundings receded. Castigroff had given me a tour of his expansive estate and all its self-sustaining features: he had refashioned its guts to accommodate running on energy from solar panels, two perpendicular windmills, a water wheel in the adjacent rushing river and several batteries for storage, backup and other uses. My room was comfortable with a nice alcove housing a writing desk and the chef made every meal a gastronomic event.
The highlight, though, was little Killian, Castigroff’s six-year-old son who was my charge. Shy at first, his naturally precocious and playful personality perked up quickly and I found myself thoroughly enjoying our time together. He was eager to learn and made for a teacher’s dream pupil: attentive, engaged and able to pick things up with remarkable speed and proficiency.
There were a few others in the house besides the Castigroffs and chef Dorsett: housekeeper Agatha, grounds caretaker Mr. Gorshuen and doctor/athletic advisor Xander Hollinsworth who took care of Killian’s physical activities, diet, and was on hand for general medical emergencies, etc. I only saw any of them in passing, due to our schedules and tasks—not even at meals as our breaks were so scattered. But, living alone most of my adult life, dining solo felt quite comfortable. The standout break from that familiarity lay in Dorsett’s mouth-watering offerings which continued to surpass anything I had ever prepared for myself.
Always an early riser, I took my morning walks before most of the household awoke. Though I never made it downstairs before Agatha and Dorsett. I joked to myself that they never slept.
Outside, the autumn fog hung thick and heavy as ever, making my passage through the grounds dreamlike. I had grown up in this region my whole life, so it didn’t bother me in the least. Visitors romanticized the mist to no end, finding it either lyrical and magical or haunting and eerie; the latter enhanced and popularized by Stoker’s famous novel. You could hardly go anywhere in this part of Romania without finding a shop hawking novelty nonsense that exploited some element of Dracula.
In fact, a friend of mine had been commissioned to do art for a picture book of Castle Bran (the believed inspiration for the home of Stoker’s undead brute) as well as all things Carpathian and Dracula adjacent. Knowing my writer goals, he had asked me to do some short poems—haiku and such—to go underneath his drawings. This despite knowing I professed myself a devout non-believer in all things mystical.
Spooks, I called the lot of it.
But, to finally have something of mine published, I had gladly agreed. So, he had given me copies of the drawings his editor had decided would comprise the book and I had made it a habit, at the end of my walks, to sit on a bench and write something for each.
On this one particular day, I was trying to come up with something for his evocative depiction of the mysterious carriage arriving out of the mist to pick up a nervous-looking Jonathan Harker. I looked around the fog that surrounded me and tried to imagine what it might feel like to have such a carriage appear, here and now. What would Jonathan have heard? What mythos would the reader be aware of and awaiting? I came up with:
Hooves clitter-clatter
Through thick Carpathian mist
Ancient hungers stir
I wasn’t sure if I liked it. I felt I wanted something more; I just didn’t know what. It irked me because I so often felt this way about my writing. It never seemed good enough. Finished was not the same as complete. One was done; one was whole. And I felt this poem was missing something. But what?
And that’s when I heard it. The random occasional bird calls had stopped, without my noticing, but the mad beating of wings, furiously flapping away, startled me out of my thoughts. And the ensuing silence that remained felt wholly unnatural. For the first time, I felt that creepy sense of dread that people always tried to sell about the fog. That idea that it moved insidiously, hiding things from view. Unknown things. Dangerous things.
Spooks.
No. Nonsense! But something was out there.
I recalled that the region was famous for brown bears, wolves, lynx and other predatory wildlife. We never saw them the city, but up here? Had I foolishly imagined I bore some sort of immunity? Something had clearly scared the birds off; the only logical answer I could surmise left me feeling vulnerable to a carnivore that could not only outrun but outclimb me. I sat on the bench, paralyzed with paranoia, my heart beating in my chest.
Could I make into the house? I tried to recall exactly how far away it was. How many steps it would take to get there. To open and close the door.
I listened, straining my ears to hear anything over my pounding heart. Some ridiculous voice in my head wondered if I’d suddenly hear horse hooves and carriage wheels.
Snap!
A twig cracked. Stepped on? To the right!
I peered as hard as I could into the mist. Nothing but sinister swirls of nebulous, eerie ether. Unless…
There! A pair of shining, yellow spots, like eyes glowing through the mist!
I gasped. Held my breath. Frozen in fear.
The eyes disappeared.
I stared intently. Where had they gone? Were they ever there? Had I imagined them?
Chills shivered over me in rippling gooseflesh.
A horrible scream erupted as wild arms wrapped around me! I screamed as well, lurching up, whipping around to face whatever foe I might.
Killian fell to the ground in a fit of laughter.
My whole body relaxed as I caught my breath—amused, angered, and thoroughly embarrassed.
“You realize you’re going to get the hardest math quiz I can come up with this afternoon.”
Killian jumped up, instantly contrite and whining: “No, no, no! Please! I’ll never do it again! I promise!”
“Well…I’ll think about it,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”
I gave his shoulder a guiding pat and we headed for the house. But I did look back to see if anything was following us. Of course, I could see nothing in the fog. Even so, my gut told me something lurked out there. Something hungry. With horrible yellow eyes. I just hoped I’d never find out what.
My own words echoed in my mind:
Through thick Carpathian mist
Ancient hungers stir
Authors Note:
I feel like there is so much more to explore than I have time for in a single Substack post. So many mysterious things going on:
Why this insanely remote, off grid location? Why are the employees all on different schedules? Is there something in the fog? What is it? How is it connected to the rest of the elements of the story?
Maybe this is just the beginning of a much larger tale…
If you read this far, what do you think? Would you want to know more?
This story was created as part of the Sunday Scaries curated by Labyrinthia Mythweaver, Mathew C. Bryant • Horror Poet and Conor MacCormack.
The best part about this one is that it feels like you accidentally wrote the first chapter of a novel. By the end I had more questions than answers, and somehow that made it creepier. Also, “Finished was not the same as complete. One was done; one was whole.” is an incredible line.
And there's ambiguity, but you leave just enough space that it might not have been only Killian.
The haiku writing scene is a nice play with form (I APPROVE!)
Well done