Ebon Skull Archives: Revenge on Broadenburg

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This is reposted from OES documentation for the pleasure of the Atlantic Community. Story by Geist of OES.

The village of Broadenburg lay just south of the manor. There was a wide meadow between the two points and then a short tree line and then the village. To the west and east of the village were fields and the two branches of the Brachen River. Beyond that was forest. The people of Broadenburg and the lord and servants of the manor had little contact with each other as a rule - that contact being mostly relegated to business during the harvesting season - until recently, when the servants of the estate abandoned the manor, taking refuge in the village after telling wild tales of madness and suicide. The circumstances behind these actions and slanderous talk was speculated at, but no villager could have guessed them being a direct result of my presence, or, I should say, the presence of my corpse, on the dung heap behind the old swine barn at the manor.

I lay unmoving, unseeing, but aware of everything in a way beyond the grasp of mortal men or beasts. I was aware of the talk and rumors in the village, and ever my insubstantial being was drawn there. Why, I could not say. But it was, and so there my incorporeal presence wandered aimlessly along the field edges and forest like a poison mist, everywhere and nowhere at the same time - detached from all, but aware of everything to the slightest workings of the brains of the creatures of the wood so, that I knew always what they were thinking and how those thoughts controlled their actions.

It was during these aimless roamings that the dogs of the village began to leave their yards and sleeping places at night and wander into the forest. They would meet at hidden grottoes where the moonlight filtered through the leafy canopy and dappled the ground with silver, and there they would howl and dance, feeling my closeness and giving me a sense of cold joy that left me hollow in a way I had never known before. It was a strange partnership. Like a lover's embrace separated by the glass of a window pane. And yet despite this separation I knew I was having an influence over them. As though I were infecting them with a part of myself. Their number grew and they became more wild and aware, yet this heightened consciousness was closer to madness than anything and a mortal observer of their dance would no doubt have been stricken dumb with horror and fled the scene. They became feral and some did not return to their homes. Instead they roamed the wood like wolves.

In the forest, some mile or so from the village, lived a woodsman, a giant of a man with long wild hair and cold gray eyes who rarely associated with the people of Broadenburg and many of them thought him mad. He was often gone from his home for most of the day wandering the wood and did not return until late. One such evening, when the moon was shrouded in dark clouds foretelling a coming storm, as he approached the clearing to his home, a feeling of dread and fear gripped him, no doubt some woodwise sense he had developed over many years in the forests. He hesitated, then, axe in hand, began to run. The closer he came to the cabin the greater his fear of what he might find there increased, as did the urgency to protect his family from the nameless terror he felt growing like the darkness around him. The door was open and he burst in. Forever afterward he wished he had not returned that night, better to have been felled by some savage beast or maybe drowned in the swollen fork of the Brachen. His wife and his three children lay twisted horribly amongst broken furniture, bloodied and mutilated. A pack of the more feral and infected dogs were devouring the remains. The Woodsman went mad with rage and slew them all with his axe. Then, stricken with grief and the insanity of what he had seen, he ran blindly until he came to the village. There, he stumbled into the Brachenfork Inn. Such a sight had never been witnessed in the sleepy village in anyone's memory. The woodsman, holding his axe and covered in gore stood staring at the horror stricken patrons. Then he spoke, "We are damned. All of us." And fell to the floor and cried.


The people of Broadenburg were aghast at what they guessed had occurred. A small party was formed to investigate the woodsman's cabin while another took the poor, blubbering man into custody and locked him in the root cellar of the town administrator. He would not respond to their questions so they waited, hoping for answers when the group who had gone into the wood returned. Just before dawn they were spotted reemerging from the forest edge, grim and ashenfaced. They had stayed to bury the remains of the victims. The dogs they put on a pile and burned. There was no doubt in their minds that the woodsman had murdered his family. What puzzled them were the dogs. They had recognized some and with the strange disappearances that had been taking place it could only be guessed that the woodsman's madness had somehow included the kidnapping and perhaps ritual slaughter of the poor beasts. A courier was sent to the nearest magistrate, three days ride along the south road, as the villagers had not the authority to try or condemn the man. I was aware of all of this, lying on the dung heap, with the tendrils of my incorporeal self winding through the forest and fields and creeping ever more tightly into a stranglehold over the village of Broadenburg. It was not a conscious will that directed this force. Yet the guilt I knew was mine.

That night the villagers closed their doors and shutters and spoke in hushed voices about the horrid deed that had been committed so close to their homes, staying their gossip when it was noticed that a child was present or when outside a dog barked. The latter reason for their silence they could not explain, but there was a menace in that once familiar sound, and they would pause and listen before going on. Outside, overhead, the cloud cover returned.

For the first time since my unholy transformation I became aware of a power behind it other than my own. A presence I felt near me. Black and smothering and potent in its evil. No form it took, but I could feel it next to me, standing with its hand extended downward where I lay like a father to a small child offering guidance and aid. I tried to rise, and failed.

"Do you hate them?" it asked.

No voice I had. My body was dead. Yet somehow, in a hiss that was terrible to comprehend, a vile utterance passed my unmoving, decaying jaw.

"Yes" I said. "I hate them."

"Then rise."

And I did. No blacker form ever rose from those hills, or passed into the night than I. Silent as death I crossed the marsh and into the wood around Broadenburg. No living thing stirred. The wet, marshy vegetation died and rotted under my feet. The leaves of the forest trees curled and blackened at my passing. And all about I could sense the beasts and winged birds of the wood shrinking and hiding from my awful presence. Yet I knew, should I so desire, they were mine to command.

I came upon the sleeping village just after mid-eve. The clouds had broken overhead, and though no stars shone through, the moon had emerged and bathed the hamlet in its cold half light. At the edge of the village was a small form, a child; golden haired Ulster, a parentless waif who lived off the handouts of others and slept in the hay of unlocked barns. He did not fear the night. Its uncertainty held no more terror for him than what his existence showed him everyday, sun or no. He did not hear my approach. My shadow went over him - and he was gone.


My predications on Broadenburg went on for a fortnight. With each evil act my boldness grew. I had power, that I knew, greater than any mortal man I would face in the village. I could thank the dark one for that. But with that gift he also stole the last vestige of conscious or fellowship I had with my former kindred. Why I was cursed with this I fear I will never know.

The villagers themselves seemed resigned to their fate. Like a people living with some deadly plague they went on with their lives, hollow, with no conviction behind their work and no mirth in their play. Zombies, they were, waiting to die, but afraid to let go of the tasks and chores that made up their day and so gave meaning to their lives. They dared not flee. The animals watched them always. Crows perched on every eave and fence post, making no sound until the village borders were approached. At night the dogs roamed wild in the streets. Savage brutes, tearing at any living thing they came upon. And the courier they had sent to fetch the magistrate in Belinhoff had not returned. I knew, of course, that he never would. His corpse hung from an old, dying elm just a quarter mile from the south road.

Each evening was the same. The people of Broadenburg made to their homes, mute, no haste in their steps or movements, devoid of any drive or forcefulness of action. Their doors would be bolted and shutters latched. They would eat meager meals, say their final prayers, and retire to sleep that provided no dreams or refreshment. They were little closer to life than I.

Then I would come. As always the clouds that had shut off the day's sun would open so that the moon could shed its silvery light over the somber village. No sound was made in the forest or fields or in the streets and homes of Broadenburg. My approach was in silence save the awkward gait of twisted and flesh-dead feet. And they would wait, lying sleeping in their beds, or awake and listening to the silence so that the beat of their heart was the only sound in the darkness and as their fear grew they would wonder if it was their heart and not the sound of footsteps.

And I am here, a black form in the moonlight. A shadow on their doorstep.

I am upon them.

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