Halloween Ficlet: The River Ghost
Oct. 16th, 2006 11:20 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
danachan.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
hobbit_holidaysTitle: The River Ghost
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
danachan
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Dark, horror
Summary: A dare and the consequences thereof.
Author's Notes: I wrote this many years ago. No, I've no good reason as to why I didn't post it any sooner than I have.
Thanks tosophinisba for the beta. ♥
*omg never ever gets to use this icon*
The night is quiet and warm, the smell of earth and grass and night-blossoms thick like perfume, the sweet sort a fine lass might wear when she wants to charm her lad. The moon is low in the western sky, full and yellow, and all is very quiet, very still.
Mist is on the river and the shriek of a water-bird slices the silence, and the grass at the road's edge shivers and sways. There is a hobbit there, crouched down low, and his heart suddenly leaps to his throat.
He laughs a little, gathers his breath, thinks of the lads back at the tavern who wait for his return. They'd laugh, as well, at his fear, so he does his very best to push it all away. The River Ghost? A story, and a joke, mostly there to scare young lads and lasses from venturing too close to the river after dark. He shivers in his weskit, wishing once again that he was back at the tavern; the finest before the ferry, as the hobbits of the Eastfarthing and Buckland both know. But more importantly than any old story about a ghost, he has a round of ale on the line, or a round to be bought, and he'll sit this through for the sake of the Causeway's best.
Silence again, and a shadow passes over the moon; some sort of night bird, and the hobbit looks up, to catch a slash of shadow it as it darts back into the dark. Then he looks down, and he can breathe again, and the road is clear.
Only then it's not.
A carriage rolls into view, right out of the dark, colored by the yellow light of the moon, a steady rumble of wheels against the hard-packed dirt of the earthen path; the faint tingle of old rusty bells. A fine enough carriage, yes, and drawn by nothing, gliding from the mist. The little (and he feels so little, right now) hobbit's breath catches, and he can't draw away.
Closer and a little closer still, and the hobbit breathes hard, until there's nothing there to feel or hear or see but the thunder of the carriage as it rumbles by on the hard-packed dirt of the path. He's heard but never thought he'd really see it and now the old stories press down against him. Would his friends laugh, now, if they knew that he'd seen it? His palms are clammy and his breath comes in soft gasps. He needs to leave because he knows the stories, knows what comes next.
But he can't. He can't, till he has his proof.
It's right in front of him, now, and he could reach out, could feel the wood of its paneling under the pad of his fingers. The wheels cut deep into the ground, but fade into nothingness as the carriage passes by, and he sits there, waiting, holds his breath.
The carriage is of rich make, with a wide window, and curtains of thick red like wine, or dried blood. The bells, his proof, are right within reach. All he needs to do is stand, and grab one, and he can make his way back to the tavern. All he needs to do is reach.
He moves. His arm darts out, grips a rusty bell. Rips it free.
Now, to run.
But his breath catches, and the curtains shift, and he looks up even though he knows that he shouldn't, and he chokes on a scream. A gurgle instead, of fear and disgust, and all thoughts of claiming his proof vanish in the night. The bell drops down to the muddy ground.
He falls back, rolling down through the grass until he hits the water with a splash and then he shrieks again, the carriage having come to a stop. He bolts like an animal, terrified and small, the stench of death suddenly thick in his nose. Run-run-run, he can't look back, and he scrambles through the mud and muck and waterweeds as he rushes to find his feet.
And then he's stopped, jerked to a halt, nothing more than a dark shadow in the night, screaming, and something is holding him by the collar. The world is still, but then it's jerked back, and he's being dragged back to the carriage, kicking and fighting and screeching; he just isn't too strong. He screams once more, before silence falls - quiet that comes from a hideous crack of bone and the gurgle of blood.
Then, nothing. He tumbles down into the muck at the water's edge, eyes looking out but not seeing, and she stands there watching him as the river takes him, waterweeds pulling him into dark water.
And she stands in moonlight, blood on her hands, and she smiles.
The quiet is broken, not long after that, as the door of the carriage shuts, the rich honey of finely polished wood glistening in the night. The carriage seems more alive now than it did before, and the bells somehow seem brighter, as if they'd been new. Without a sound, the carriage jerks into motion, but then its passage steadies, and its tracks fade into nothing as it rolls back into nothingness and night.
The moon watches everything, down low in the western sky.
Author:
danachanRating: PG-13
Warnings: Dark, horror
Summary: A dare and the consequences thereof.
Author's Notes: I wrote this many years ago. No, I've no good reason as to why I didn't post it any sooner than I have.
Thanks to
sophinisba for the beta. ♥*omg never ever gets to use this icon*
The night is quiet and warm, the smell of earth and grass and night-blossoms thick like perfume, the sweet sort a fine lass might wear when she wants to charm her lad. The moon is low in the western sky, full and yellow, and all is very quiet, very still.
Mist is on the river and the shriek of a water-bird slices the silence, and the grass at the road's edge shivers and sways. There is a hobbit there, crouched down low, and his heart suddenly leaps to his throat.
He laughs a little, gathers his breath, thinks of the lads back at the tavern who wait for his return. They'd laugh, as well, at his fear, so he does his very best to push it all away. The River Ghost? A story, and a joke, mostly there to scare young lads and lasses from venturing too close to the river after dark. He shivers in his weskit, wishing once again that he was back at the tavern; the finest before the ferry, as the hobbits of the Eastfarthing and Buckland both know. But more importantly than any old story about a ghost, he has a round of ale on the line, or a round to be bought, and he'll sit this through for the sake of the Causeway's best.
Silence again, and a shadow passes over the moon; some sort of night bird, and the hobbit looks up, to catch a slash of shadow it as it darts back into the dark. Then he looks down, and he can breathe again, and the road is clear.
Only then it's not.
A carriage rolls into view, right out of the dark, colored by the yellow light of the moon, a steady rumble of wheels against the hard-packed dirt of the earthen path; the faint tingle of old rusty bells. A fine enough carriage, yes, and drawn by nothing, gliding from the mist. The little (and he feels so little, right now) hobbit's breath catches, and he can't draw away.
Closer and a little closer still, and the hobbit breathes hard, until there's nothing there to feel or hear or see but the thunder of the carriage as it rumbles by on the hard-packed dirt of the path. He's heard but never thought he'd really see it and now the old stories press down against him. Would his friends laugh, now, if they knew that he'd seen it? His palms are clammy and his breath comes in soft gasps. He needs to leave because he knows the stories, knows what comes next.
But he can't. He can't, till he has his proof.
It's right in front of him, now, and he could reach out, could feel the wood of its paneling under the pad of his fingers. The wheels cut deep into the ground, but fade into nothingness as the carriage passes by, and he sits there, waiting, holds his breath.
The carriage is of rich make, with a wide window, and curtains of thick red like wine, or dried blood. The bells, his proof, are right within reach. All he needs to do is stand, and grab one, and he can make his way back to the tavern. All he needs to do is reach.
He moves. His arm darts out, grips a rusty bell. Rips it free.
Now, to run.
But his breath catches, and the curtains shift, and he looks up even though he knows that he shouldn't, and he chokes on a scream. A gurgle instead, of fear and disgust, and all thoughts of claiming his proof vanish in the night. The bell drops down to the muddy ground.
He falls back, rolling down through the grass until he hits the water with a splash and then he shrieks again, the carriage having come to a stop. He bolts like an animal, terrified and small, the stench of death suddenly thick in his nose. Run-run-run, he can't look back, and he scrambles through the mud and muck and waterweeds as he rushes to find his feet.
And then he's stopped, jerked to a halt, nothing more than a dark shadow in the night, screaming, and something is holding him by the collar. The world is still, but then it's jerked back, and he's being dragged back to the carriage, kicking and fighting and screeching; he just isn't too strong. He screams once more, before silence falls - quiet that comes from a hideous crack of bone and the gurgle of blood.
Then, nothing. He tumbles down into the muck at the water's edge, eyes looking out but not seeing, and she stands there watching him as the river takes him, waterweeds pulling him into dark water.
And she stands in moonlight, blood on her hands, and she smiles.
The quiet is broken, not long after that, as the door of the carriage shuts, the rich honey of finely polished wood glistening in the night. The carriage seems more alive now than it did before, and the bells somehow seem brighter, as if they'd been new. Without a sound, the carriage jerks into motion, but then its passage steadies, and its tracks fade into nothing as it rolls back into nothingness and night.
The moon watches everything, down low in the western sky.
He's not back by dawn, and he's not seen the next day. Merry Brandybuck looks as if he'll be sick as Fatty Bolger explains that the River Ghost has claimed her own. They'd found old Balfo's torn weskit down at the water, caught on some reeds, stuck in the mud. And that was enough for the hobbits who had gone searching for him.
Balfo Sandybottom was (as good as) gone.
There were some (of course there would be some) that said he'd gone and run off to Bree, but the lads (Pippin Took and Folco Boffin amongst them), well, they knew the truth. And so a toast for the memory of their friend, in Fatty's own way.
"This is why you won't see me no closer to the river than this," he says, and they all down their ale.
Half-buried down in the mud, under wagon rut and pony hoof, is an old rusty bell.
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Date: 2006-10-17 03:30 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 01:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 03:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:48 am (UTC)Old fic still has its uses, I guess.
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 04:12 am (UTC)Thank you for letting me boss you around. ♥
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Date: 2006-10-17 10:50 am (UTC)I must like it when you boss me around because I let you do it so very often. ♥
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Date: 2006-10-17 04:28 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 12:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 12:48 pm (UTC)I hope you can work on some of those other ideas you mentioned, especially that certain one. With Pippin :D
no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:02 pm (UTC)I would like to work on some of those other things. I don't know if this one thing is one I mentioned, but I will maybe email it to you once I get it typed up. *vague omg*
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Date: 2006-10-17 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 04:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 09:03 pm (UTC)Thanks for reading, dear.
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Date: 2006-10-17 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-10-17 10:01 pm (UTC)I am working on something else that I will try and have finished before the 31st. I am trying to keep my fingers, in hopes I'll actually finish it in time.