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Fleeing to the Dawn by Daniel Stride Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
Beneath cold and baleful stars, the chase was on. Breath steaming, Harald urged himself onwards. Thank the gods, the heavy snows had not yet come. Neither he nor his brother wore snowshoes. Still, the grim fells were an ill-place to be caught, especially when.... “Faster!” Olaf always had been more athletic, even as a child. As a man, the fox-fur coat did little to slow him. Harald cursed the weight of his own garment. He followed his brother up a hill. The snow crunched underfoot. Olaf stopped at the top. He stood silent, gloved hands on hips. “How far are they?” Harald panted. “Some distance,” said Olaf. A cry rang through the night, haunting and mournful. A cry not from this world. Harald shivered. He turned, and looked back the way they had come. They were higher now, and could see some way. The Moon bathed the fells in an eerie glow. A night so still, so frozen in time... the world might have turned to crystal. Harald narrowed his eyes. Far off, he discerned movement amid the lower slopes. “They toy with us,” he said. “Driving us before them like sheep.” “Likely,” murmured Olaf. “But to what purpose?” “Do they need one?” Olaf paused. “Maybe I shall ask them myself.” Harald blinked. “Not now, Olaf. Throw off the madness ere it kills us both.” “Maybe I am not mad.” The fur hood shrouded Olaf's face, but Harald knew his brother smiled. The dream-spell was on him again. “Or maybe I am.” Harald grasped Olaf's coat-sleeve. “No,” he growled. “There is no time. We must run on. The night will not last forever, and hope remains.” And so they continued. Running grew easier as the fells flattened. Harald took the lead now. He ignored the stitch in his side, and the leaden heaviness of his legs. Pain be damned, he thought. He pushed on through the night. He'd live to tell a roaring fireside tale. Olaf too, if only his brother could escape his otherworldly musings. The dream-spell, their mother had called it, all those years ago. Those moments when Olaf left the mortal realm behind, and ascended to... somewhere. Harald himself had never suffered such illusions. Harald glanced at the sky. He wondered how many hours remained before dawn. He imagined a winter's morning. A feeble sun peering around the horizon. Yes, that would suffice. If only they could last till then... he allowed himself the flicker of a smile. Another cry rang out from behind them. Closer this time. The embers of hope cooled, and Harald's smile froze upon his lips. # Harald and Olaf stopped at the lip of a precipice. Beneath them lay a steep valley. Its slopes loomed grim and treacherous. Harald had never heard tell of this place, though in truth he and Olaf had long since crossed the borders of the chroniclers' maps. “There is a staircase,” said Olaf. Harald frowned. “I see nothing.” Olaf pointed a gloved finger. Harald followed his direction, and nearly let loose a shout. His brother did not err. For a series of wide, flat steps led down the side of the valley. Each step lay dusted with snow. “Who would bother to carve stairs in this godforsaken place?” Harald exclaimed. “I do not know,” said Olaf quietly. Harald tried the first step. It felt sturdy beneath his boots. “It matters little. Let us go.” The pursuit had been silent for some time, but it was coming. That Harald knew. He peered down at the valley floor. Little snow had settled there. That would make tracking more difficult. Harald's hopes briefly rose. But these were no mortal trackers. What followed them tonight was beyond all ken. Harald descended, swiftly as he dared. He stopped halfway down the slope to check on Olaf behind him... What happened next would haunt Harald's memory for the rest of his life. Shadowy beneath the Moon, a dark mist suddenly gathered in the centre of the valley. Where the mist came from, Harald could not guess. It was like a cloud had descended to earth. A strange sight on a night so otherwise cold and clear. “Olaf!” he barked. “Beware!” A dozen steps back, his brother had also paused. Olaf stood, watching the mist. The dream-spell gripped him. Harald hurried back. He would shake the fool out of it. But he had no sooner grasped Olaf's shoulder than something else drew his attention. The valley mist had begun to swirl, faster and faster. A fierce wind was thrown up. There was nothing else for it. There was no time to run back up the stairs, nor reach the valley floor. They must take their chances here. For better or worse. Harald gripped his brother tightly, and pressed him against the sheer wall. He cursed. The wind billowed Harald's coat, tugging him towards the drop. He gritted his teeth, and held on tighter. He would not fall. Nor would he allow Olaf to fall. But just as Harald felt his grip loosening, just as the fury of the gale was ready to tear him off the narrow place, the wind stopped. Harald blinked. At first he did not move, for fear of the wind's return. Then he turned slowly. His heart pounded. The mist had vanished. It had left something in its place. A stone city stood within the valley. High and walled beneath the Moon. Reaching out into the night, spiked battlements stretched like fangs over the main gate. Harald rubbed his eyes. No, he was not dreaming. A city, in this desolate place, where before there had been only bare rock for miles. As he watched, the city walls began to glow. A pale blue hue, the like of which he had never before seen. This was no place for mortal men. “Olaf,” Harald hissed. “We must flee. Now!” His brother drew away from him. Olaf pulled his hood back, and looked down upon the city. The pale blue glow illuminated his face. “No, Harald. I must see this place for myself.” Before Harald could react, Olaf pushed past him, and bounded down the snow-dusted steps like a mountain goat. He was headed for the valley floor. And the city. Harald cupped his gloved hands to his mouth. “Come back!” he cried. There was little time. The pursuers would arrive any moment, and then... well, that did not bear thinking about. But Harald knew he must rescue his mad brother first. The dream-spell was a terrible thing. Harald cursed as he hurried down the steps. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. But on the descent, he realised something else. The city called to him too. That pale blue hue...the walls suddenly seemed less of stone, and more of frosted glass. Such beauty, lost in a desolate landscape, amid the rocks and windswept snows. Harald's heart raced. A strange and terrible fever gripped him: a fever for the city. He sensed that once one went in, there would be no escape. But why would anyone ever wish to leave? One could spend an eternity here. Then he missed a step. For the rest of his life, Harald swore he had planted his boot firmly. He had always been sure-footed, no matter the conditions. But this time the stone was not there. Harald tripped and slid. He bounced from step to step. His bulky coat and gloves skimmed the slick surfaces. His hands and feet could not find any grip. At last he reached the valley floor. He skidded to a halt amid a small snow-drift. Harald lay stunned and insensible, too sore to move. The snow beneath him felt like a cold bed. The chill seeped through his clothes into his bruised limbs. He looked up at the stars. So far away. Small crystalline specks in the darkness. Things beyond the ken of mere mortals. Harald had never felt more alone. His mind screamed at him to beware. He must rescue Olaf. He must flee. But Harald lay unmoved. His will spent. Then just as he felt himself drifting into slumber, he heard it once more: the terrible, otherworldly cry. It came from the top of the steps. That shook him awake. Harald sat up. His heart raced. He had to hide. He could not run. He could not fight... He heard a whisper. As though someone sat beside him in the snow drift. Someone who could not be seen, but could be felt. And heard. The whisper told him to crawl. Crawl Harald did. His head pounded, his neck ached, but he crawled. On hands and knees through the soft valley snow, towards a line of boulders. The boulders lay beneath the sheer wall, out of the baleful moonlight. With the last of his strength, Harald heaved himself behind a boulder. Here the ground was rough and rocky, but he cared little. No sooner was Harald out of sight of the steps than he collapsed like a dead deer. The last thing Harald heard--or imagined he heard--was singing. Soft singing, in no tongue known to man. # Harald awoke with the sun in his eyes. A feeble sun, on a cold winter's morning... and him wrapped in a fox-fur coat on the fells. By the gods, his head ached. His limbs felt bruised and battered, as though a giant's club had pounded him while he slept. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He frowned. The city and valley had vanished. All around him lay flat-topped hills, powdered with the light snow of early winter. “I escaped,” he muttered. He climbed to his feet. He threw back his hood, and basked in the chill light of day. Harald knew he had lived to tell his people of this terrible journey. In after ages, he would tell this story often. But search though he might, he never saw Olaf again. Nor indeed has any man from that day to this. 💀💀💀 Bio: Daniel Stride has a lifelong love of literature in general, and speculative fiction in particular. He writes both short stories and poetry; his stories have appeared in Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Tales to Terrify Podcast, and Eternal Haunted Summer. His first novel, Wise Phuul, was published in 2016 by a small UK press, Inspired Quill. A sequel, Old Phuul, is due out in the near future. He likes chocolate and cats, and can be found blogging about the works of Tolkien (among other things) at https://phuulishfellow.wordpress.com/. Daniel lives in Dunedin, New Zealand.
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The Patience Factor by Rick McQuiston Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
Everett Stones was a patient man. He wore the virtue like a coat, immersing himself in it, using it as a tool to deal with life’s unexpected and inevitable twists and turns. Whenever something would come his way he would simply deal with it in his own sweet time, allowing his patience to steer him through it. Now he would be the first one to admit that his life was basically unscathed by any real tragedy. He’d never lost a loved one, and his health for the most part remained stable. But he always felt his patience was what would pull him through. His philosophy was to let time itself heal all wounds, whether they were physical or mental. His successful book detailed many different forms of patience that he had developed over his life, each carefully tailored to specific situations that one might encounter. Most psychiatrists and other professionals in the field dismissed him as a quack whose theories were only based on such practices as meditation or religion. But the book sold well, nonetheless. So well, in fact, that he could afford to retire early and live in relative comfort for the rest of his life. Whether he actually believed in The Patience Factor, which was the title of his book, he sometimes doubted. But such doubts would always be suppressed by referring to Chapter Nine: Accessing Diminishing Beliefs in One’s Beliefs. His ego sometimes swelled beyond the boundaries of what most people would consider normal or even acceptable, but he did not care. It deserved to roam as it wished, unhindered by other people’s perceptions. He, Everett Stones, had applied The Patience Factor to his life and ascended above all complications. He had conquered all of the difficulties that were slated to come his way, and he had done it with his own methods. No amount of money or success could compare to finding a true path by one’s own means. The Patience Factor had worked for him and that was his true reward. For the most part, he believed it had worked for other people as well. He received numerous accolades regarding his work, and he felt confident that he had helped many people. Perhaps not to the degree that he had himself, but many people nonetheless. So now here he was, Everett Stones, acclaimed author of The Patience Factor, sitting in his wheelchair and covered with layers of wool blankets to keep pneumonia at bay as the trees outside his library window swayed back and forth in the cold January air. They seemed to be beckoning him to his eternal rest. He knew fully that he didn’t have much time on Earth left. His 102nd birthday was only four days away, and his body was beginning to succumb to old age. But it didn’t bother him. He was already a living example of his book. A shining advertisement for the effectiveness of his work. Very few people lived to be 101, and he had managed it due to his theories in the art of patience. This fact had caused a surge in the popularity of his book. 57 years after it was first published it was still selling millions of copies, and he found himself to have become something of an icon. The knowledge of this soothed his mind and relieved the aches and pains of age. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and gazed out at the gray scenery. His aged, but still sharp, mind jumped back to a young man he remembered from almost 50 years earlier. His name was Richard, and he was a very emotional person prone to acting rashly. Everett recalled when he first met Richard; it was at a book signing. Richard had told him how he had lost the love of his life. How his beloved bride-to-be had cancelled the wedding a week before it was scheduled to take place. How he had utilized the methods in The Patience Factor, and how his fiancée had committed suicide when she had not heard from him in weeks. Tears welled in Everett’s eyes. Richard, stricken with unbearable grief, also had said that he learned one thing from The Patience Factor: infinite patience, for better or for worse. Unfortunately in his case, it was for the worse. The next day, Richard was dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. Everett felt bad, even responsible, but he quickly got over it; Chapter Four of The Patience Factor helped him immensely. He felt a sharp pain in his chest that radiated into his left arm, increasing in severity. His head grew light, and breathing became difficult. It felt like his chest was locked in a vice with Death’s bony hand turning the rod. The realization that he was dying settled on him like a cold, wet blanket. He struggled to maintain his composure, to assure that he would be found in a dignified manner befitting an icon such as himself. Then, just as the remaining breaths left to him were dwindling to nothing, a vision manifested in the window. A weak smile formed on his face. “An angel,” he croaked. “An angel has come for me.” “Yes, I have come for you, Everett,” the vision said softly. “Although I am no angel. Nor do I come from where angels do; suicides are damned.” It was Richard! The young man who had lost his fiancé all those years ago. The figure quickly grew in size, blotting out the January sky with its dark form. “I have waited nearly 50 years for you,” Richard said in an eager tone. “I do not think I could have done it were it not for your book.” 💀💀💀 Rick McQuiston is a 57-year-old horror fanatic with over 400 publications, including three novels. A new novel is due for publication in 2026. McQuiston spends his time working on new full-length and short stories. |
AboutLinda Gould hosts the Kaidankai, a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |
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