A. D. Lombardo

Shadows are not scary on their own, but the creatures lurking within them were a different story. Garin James didn’t have an overactive imagination exaggerating his fears. No, those were real, and they lingered in the darkness. And frankly, he preferred it that way. Whoever said facing your fears helped you overcome them had never lived in Braeland. Ever vigilant, Garin kept his wits about him, searching the darkness—eyes and ears—for signs of danger.​

Bathed in a blue glow, Garin followed the worn dirt path through his front yard, marginally comforted by the steady flames of the security perimeter. The three-foot-tall wall of fire radiated heat as the flames danced along the honeycomb stone trough fueled by pylons placed strategically around their home and livestock. Although he did not understand the science behind the safety fire, Garin appreciated the gasoline’s reliability and the stone’s low thermal conductivity.​

“Wash up and come eat breakfast, Garin,” his mother, Joy, called to him from the front porch steps.

Garin turned his head in his mother’s direction and nodded as if she could see it at a distance.

Joy James was a practical woman, first and foremost. She took little time for herself, but nature gifted her with natural beauty. Illuminated by the blue glow that splashed across their yard, her blonde locks bounced around her shoulders, her delicate ivory features almost majestic. Taller than most women in Braeland, her unexpected grace was something the countryside did not appreciate. She lifted a metal pail of milk Garin had left on the path and made her way up the porch steps with a wicker basket in the other hand, likely containing fresh eggs from the coop.​

Even without sniffing, he knew the familiar farmhand scent clung to him, a rustic mix of soil, hay, and barn animal. Leaving the path, Garin dusted his filthy hands against his clothes, scattering bits of hay and dirt. The dew-covered grass stuck to his leather boots as he approached the well pump and grabbed the worn handle. A swift breeze tousled his dark brown hair, and as he cut his green eyes east, a burst of orange bloomed low on the horizon. His fist tightened around the metal handle and pushed upward. The pump groaned in protest with each rhythmic push and pull, eventually sending a gush of clean water into the small metal bucket at his feet. Anxious to get inside, he halfheartedly washed his hands and face, then cupped his hand to catch the water for a quick sip to soothe his dry throat. He shook his hands and arms, attempting to dry them while scanning the horizon. Dawn could not come soon enough, he thought, grabbing the second bucket of milk, and darting up the front porch steps.​

Inside their humble home, the wavy glass of the windows flickered with the faintest blue glow from the security perimeter, casting wicked shadows across the plaster and wooden beam ceiling. Quiet and still, the hearth held the remnants of a fire that brought warmth the night before, now long since cooled. A few remnants of embers still glow faintly but quickly faded to black. Three cream-colored candles were placed around the kitchen: one on their dining room table, one near the stove, and one on the workbench near his mother’s apothecary.

The smell of cornbread beckoned him to the table, but what Garin James wouldn’t give for a single bite of bacon. A forgotten pleasure. His mind tortured him with the memory. The distinctive sizzle that would tease his ears, mixed with the rich, smoky aroma filling the house, the crispy edges, and the soft fatty parts between his fingers. The harmonious blend of salty with a hint of sweetness tantalized his taste buds like nothing else. Sadly, two hard-boiled eggs and a small piece of toasted cornbread, no butter, stared up at him. Garin kept his eyes low and ate without complaint. He dared not appear ungrateful. Lest he be reminded how many people endure greater hardships and go without.

Garin cut into his egg, the cooked golden yoke was still warm. He liked it when they were warm. His lips curled with delight, and his eyes raised to his mother. Her usually perfect posture was slightly slumped as she leaned on one elbow. Her hand mindlessly twirled her fork, and her empty, unfocused stare drew his eyes to her apothecary. He studied her behavior and contemplated her concerned brow. What was she worried about today? Money? They were always barely scraping by week to week.

Joy’s fork clinked against her bowl, breaking the silence. “Will the field be ready for planting soon?” Joy asked.

“I believe so,” Garin responded, his mouth still full of cornbread. Her pursed lips urged him to swallow his food before he finished replying. “I know I wasted time trying to repair the traction motor yesterday, but I promise, Mable and I will finish the work today.” The words slipped out before he could truly contemplate the possibilities. He hated to over-promise and not deliver. Now, he was committed.

“We’d best not spend too much money on that motor until you are sure of the parts you need,” his mother suggested. “I have already spent money to reserve the seeder and harvester from farmer Tomlin. Do you still plan on planting carrots later this week?” she inquired between bites.

“Day after tomorrow, I hope,” Garin responded. “Carrots will give us the best return, a high yield in 60 to 90 days, plus Tomlin’s equipment will make short work of the process.”

Joy nodded her head, pleased with his news. “Good, I already reserved the seeds last month. We can collect them from town tomorrow while we make deliveries.”

Morning sun broke in a blaze of glory, filling the kitchen with a warm glow that prompted Joy to blow out the candles. Garin darted outside, anxious to get to work and fulfill his promise. Sunlight crawled across the land, vanquishing the darkness inch by inch. Satisfied they were safe, Garin switched four of the ignitor pylons off, extinguishing the perimeter around the front of their house and barn but leaving the remaining four near the garden, chicken coop, and back of the house for his mother. The cool morning breeze swept through the grass, carrying with it the sweet scent of jasmine.

Garin opened the main barn doors, letting fresh air and sunlight rush through. Careful not to step on a freshly dropped cow patty, he opened the outer stall doors and released their two cows into their small pasture. Their brown draft horse, Mable, whinnied from her stall, anxiously ready for work. He walked to her gate, chuckling at her enthusiasm, and stroked her velvet nose.

“We’ve got a long, hard day ahead, Mable. You best set your mind to working,” he suggested as if she didn’t already know.

Garin moved with practiced ease honed through years of routine. Harnessed and hitched to the moldboard plow, Mable entered the field at Garin’s direction, picking up where he left off the day before. Mable, familiar with his presence, responded to his gentle commands. Garin guided the plow with precision as Mable’s muscular body jerked and forced the angled blade through the soil. There was something pleasant, almost sweet, about the smell of freshly turned earth, especially after a good rain. Together, they worked what felt like endless hours, racing to beat the sun’s relentless progress.

The day was heating up nicely as Braeland summers were apt to do. Sweat dripped off Garin’s nose under the unbearable midday sun. The field was only half-plowed, and Garin knew there was still much to do to prepare for the mid-season crop. Despite the daunting task, Garin’s determination spurred him to test the limits of his endurance. His gaze drifted to the field’s edge, remembering how he had tried to rush to finish days earlier and pushed the traction equipment past its limits. The motorized behemoth sat idly in the sun, mocking him from the edge of the field, knowing his struggle would continue until he could acquire the necessary parts to fix it.

He counted the remaining yards and estimated the number of passes left before he finished plowing—twelve. A part of him longed for the early years when his father and older brother did most of the difficult work. Their farm had prospered under his father’s leadership, with paid seasonal workers and mechanical equipment rivaled only by farmer Tomlin. Garin was thirteen when his father and brother left him and Joy to chase gold. A foolish daydream that had ended in a nightmare for Garin and his mother. The mere thought of them pained Garin’s soul. What became of them was still a mystery, but Garin chose to believe they were still alive somewhere because the alternative was too heavy to face. Death felt too final a fate.

No, Garin refused to accept losing them. As long as their status was still unknown, he’d believe they were out there—somewhere, anywhere—and that they might come home. He might get to see them again, hug them, laugh with them. He’d had his fill of being the man of the house, he and his calloused hands. Three years was much too long for a boy his age.

Mable snorted, reminding him she was doing the actual work and he was not exactly alone.

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of his mother near the house. Her favorite blue dress swished in the light breeze as she moved from one end of her garden to the next. She worked swiftly, harvesting herbs by the basketful.

The thunder of hooves coming down the road jerked Garin’s head over his shoulder. He pulled Mable and the plow to a stop, wiped the sweat from his brow, and shielded his eyes from the sun. The rider was a young boy who slid from the saddle on his brown horse even before it had stopped.

“Mama Joy! Mama Joy!” Came the boy’s desperate cries.

Garin watched Joy meet him at the garden gate for a brief conversation before both bolted toward the house. It was times like this Garin was glad Joy’s work as an herbalist gave her a sense of purpose. But he also knew that now she did it more for the money than any satisfaction she once gained from the craft. People flocked to her from three towns over to get their hands on her herbs and salves. Her ointments were said to heal anything, well, nearly anything. And the money did help—another thing he missed from his father and brother being around. His family was never rich, not by a long shot, but they never went hungry when his father ran the farm. Occasionally, Garin received a little coin to spend for fun. Fun. He could not remember the last time he spent the day having fun. It was hard to remember anything besides calloused hands and worn-out, used everything.

On his next turn of the field, the boy’s horse disappeared down the road and his mother returned to their chicken coop. Garin sighed with regret; he should have woken up earlier and cleaned the coop for her but his mother never gave him grief. His father, on the other hand, would have switched him hard for not completing his chores. He could still remember his brother being unable to sit during dinner more than once. Get up with the sun—his father harped. We only have so many daylight hours, and you best do your part. Not that the man would wake either of them. Garin shuddered remembering a beating he took when he was deemed old enough to pitch in and fell short of his father’s expectations.

Mable whinnied as if to tell Garin to get back to work. Her blonde tale flicked away flies, and Garin refocused his efforts, directing her onto the next row.

The sun continued its journey across the sky, threatening to cross before they could finish fully. The hours of back-breaking work had hardened his mood. If only we could afford to pay a hired hand, he thought. He wanted to be grateful for all they had, but the struggle never seemed to end. There was more to do than the two of them could handle, and if they continued to sell off land, they would not make enough off the harvest to see them through winter. Each year, they seemed to have less and less.

With his next step, he felt wetness seep into his left boot. Last night’s rain, which he had originally appreciated for softening the soil, now soaked his sock. What Garin wouldn’t give for a new pair of boots. A new anything now that he thought of it. How many more seasons could the harness for Mable last? And that was just one thing in front of him. Looking at the overworked leather, he found himself missing his father again. This was not his father’s harness, Joy had sold that to pay for repairs to the roof. His mother had sold a great many things that first year, including ten acres of land. She never showed any dissatisfaction, but Garin blamed himself for not being old enough, strong enough, to get them through those early days and work the entire farm.

Garin turned Mable down the last row as the sun continued to fall in the west. Each step took effort. He hated the start of planting season. Sunup to sundown performing back-breaking work meant for more than one person, and certainly more than a single sixteen-year-old kid. He was lucky the neighboring farmers took pity on them and offered advice when they could. No physical help, but advice.

By the time Garin finished the field, milked the cows, and secured the animals in the barn, the setting sun was merely a splash of orange and red along the horizon. He latched the barn door and gave it a firm jiggle. Satisfied that everything was secure, he glanced across the newly plowed field and beamed with pride. With the field prepped, seeding would go fast and easy.

Out of the corner of his eye, Garin saw a blue glow burst to life, followed by others. Wild blue flames cut through the air between each tower, warning him of the late hour and the dangers that lurked in the darkness. One that would soon creep across the fields and to his back door if he did not hurry.

Garin rushed to start the nearest pylon behind the barn. He turned the dial to the pilot position with his dirt-covered hand, then pressed the ignitor button, listening for its signature three clicks. The final audible click sparked the flame, and he turned the valve on, feeding the gas to extend the flames. A cool blue glow splashed over his shoulders and then slithered in both directions across the landscape. A comfort, maybe, but he was nearly twenty feet from the second pylon, and there were four in total he needed to light. He caught sight of his mother near the garden pylon; its flames spread across their farm before she swiftly ran toward the next station behind the house.

With one eye on the quickly setting sun and the other on the next ignitor, fear lifted Garin to his toes as he ran to the second pylon. He had been so focused on completing the day’s chores that he’d forgotten to keep track of the growing darkness. They had never cut it this close before. The sun was nearly set, and shadows threatened to engulf him. In his panic, he overshot the next tower and skid to a stop several feet past it. His heart thumped in his chest as he made his way back, turned the dial, and pushed the button, waiting for it to come to life. The glass globe exploded with light, and the flames snaked across the ground, shooting a three-foot barrier into the air. The heat of the barrier mixed with the cool night air, adding something sinister to the setting sun’s sweetness.

The third pylon covered the front of the house. Again, Garin turned the dial to open the valve, pressed the ignitor button, and waited. Click—click—click. He waited again. It did not light. In frustration, he used his filthy knuckle to knock on the valve housing hoping it might help. Nothing. He twisted the valve closed, took a breath, counted to five, and reopened it before repeatedly pressing the starter.

“Light already!” he shouted as if the pylon might listen to his pleas. The next lamp still needed to be lit, especially since it protected the side of the house closest to the woods, where danger was sure to be waiting. Again, he shut the valve and reopened it, anxiously pressing the starter.

Click—click—click! NOTHING!

A chill ran down his spine. Don’t panic, he told himself. He pressed his ear to the metal housing and heard none of the usual faint gush of gas. Nothing. Well, not nothing; his ears rang with the sounds of nightlife. Crickets and frogs chirped and croaked, calling to one another and welcoming the night.

“Come on,” Garin shouted, frustratedly pounding the stone tower with his balled fist. “Not tonight. Don’t fail tonight.”

As he searched for a rock to bash the valve with, a shadowy figure flitted between the trees, and the chatter of nightlife fell silent. Garin held his breath as even nature hid in fear, knowing it could only mean one thing. His eyes scanned the woods. There was no movement or lurking red eyes, but still, he felt unable to move from his spot. It was there. He could not see it, but he could feel something, a presence—staring at him. His mind begged his muscles to move. To his right, a pylon came to life, and a line of fire blazed in his direction. His mother had turned on his final station. He grabbed a nearby stone and clanged on the metal housing of the pylon, hitting the regulator valve a few times for good measure. He turned the dial and listened. In one ear, he hoped to hear the release of gas; from the other, he begged not to catch movement in the woods.

Then came the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves. A guttural groan followed by a growl turned his blood to ice.

Thud, thud, thud.

Heavy footfalls announced the beast’s approach. Garin’s heart skipped a beat, threatening to stop on the spot if the beast did not kill him first.

A gush of gas whispered in Garin’s ears, and he pressed the starter. Clicks one, two, and three sounded, followed by a whoosh, and the globe above his head came to life. Bathed in blue light Garin glanced over his shoulder as the circle closed around their house. Garin backed away from the perimeter but stopped short of turning away. Just outside of the blue flame’s glow, a shadowy creature crouched on all fours, growling. Its demonic red eyes narrowed, and its teeth gnashed the air in Garin’s direction. The beast leaned toward the light, illuminating its pale, leathery skin covered in bulging dark veins and silky black hair. Garin could tell the beast was once a man, even in its squatted position. His lightly tattered clothes hinted at a once-refined status in the community and the newness of being turned. A tell-tale black thorn protruded from the man’s bicep, probably still pumping fresh poison into him.

The pair stared back and forth, unable or unwilling to move. Garin searched the man’s features for familiarity and saw none. To his relief, the beast backed away from the light and galloped back into the woods. Garin should have gone inside and been thankful for the near miss, but he could not. He waited.

Crunch, snap, rustle. He listened for the fading sounds of the beast returning to the forest. He had never seen a wraith that close before. The stories were meant to be terrifying, but they hardly did them justice. That thing, that wraith, had been within a few yards of him. It would have killed him or, worse, turned him had he not been so lucky with the pylon. Not that anyone really knew what happened to those who were taken. They simply vanished.

In the distance, the beast rose and stood like the man he once was before another joined it. Taller than the first, the wraith’s silky black hair nearly reached his shoulders. The moonlight kissed its head, and Garin noticed it turn and cock its head to the side, revealing a sizeable scar on the side of its pale cheek. The beast focused its two red eyes on Garin, sniffing the air as if it were collecting Garin’s scent.

“What are you doing?” His mother nearly shouted, startling Garin out of his trance. “Get inside.”

Garin gripped his chest in shock before scrambling up the front porch to the open doorway. “You scared me out of my skin. Don’t sneak up on people.”

Joy wagged her finger at him as he tried to enter.

“Not good enough. You’re not coming into my house until you clean your face and remove those filthy clothes. Wash up at the pump, and I will lay out a change of clothes on the porch.”

Garin sank back on his heels, his mouth agape. He looked back across the yard to the well pump and then to the wraith-ridden forest.

“Yes, Mother,” he muttered despite his heart’s protest. She knew best, and he knew better than to question it. He slipped off his boots and stripped to his skivvies, placing his dirty clothes over the front porch railing before darting down the front steps two at a time. He quickly pumped water into the pail with his eyes fixed on the woods, barely looking down as he scrubbed his arms and hands with the horsehair brush. Garin quickly ducked his head under the cold stream and rinsed his face and hair. Satisfied, he darted back to the house and dressed in the clothes his mother had left on the stool by the door. Although it was probably not the best bath he’d ever taken, it was undoubtedly the fastest.

The scent of his mother’s stew welcomed him into the house. Homemade cream color candles flickered against the herb-covered rustic beams above. He glanced at the unused gas lamps mounted on the wall and the unlit oil lamps around the room. His mother’s frugal nature kept them safe enough without wasting unnecessary resources, like paying for oil. Garin placed his boots by the door and dropped his dirty clothes into the waiting laundry basket. His mother stood near the stove and jutted her chin toward the dish cabinet. Garin opened the hutch near the hearth. The shelf with his mother’s green glassware was nearly empty, save for two small bowls. A wedding gift, as he recalled, that had been sold off in pieces to cover expenses last winter. He set the table with the two bowls, and his mother handed him a freshly baked loaf of bread before returning to stir the cast-iron pot. Garin sliced two meager portions, one for each of them.

“You cut this evening too close,” Joy suggested as she looked into the pot. “We both did,” she sighed.

“I promised I would get the field plowed today,” Garin justified.  He paused for a moment, his mind filled with those tense moments trying to light the pylon. “Did you see them?”

He hoped she would say no and let him believe it was only his imagination.

“I saw them,” she responded without looking up.

“I have never seen a wraith come this close to our farm. Since when do wraiths venture this far from Mystic Canyon?”

The clang of the cast-iron stove vent closing made his eyes drift to his mother. She lifted the heavy pot with ease and brought it to the table, setting it between them.

“I can’t say I have seen more than a few come anywhere close to our farm until recently. They are getting bolder, I think. I imagine they lurk closer than we realize. Best to not press our luck again.”

“Do you think it will ever be safe to go out at night or travel more than a day’s ride away?”

His mother pressed her hand to her heart. “Travel?” She turned and stared at him. “Why would you want to travel? Your father would not listen to me; now he and your brother are gone. They thought gold would make us rich, buy happiness, and look what we have now.”

Garin instantly regretted the question. “I am sorry, Mother. I don’t want to leave, but I would like to travel someday. See something, anything beyond Braeland. There must be a way; I have heard you go out at night, seemingly without fear, I might add.” He held his breath, hoping she would share her secrets.

Darkness clouded her blue eyes. “Why would you leave Braeland? This is our home. I go out at night because I must. Because. . .” she did not finish her statement; she just stared at Garin like she might crumble if another word was uttered.

“Someday, Mother, I will want to have a family.” He said gently, hoping she understood he could not live with her forever.

Joy stiffened for a moment, and she took a deep breath and then released it slowly. “I suppose you are right,” she nodded, her gaze softening. “When you say a family, do you mean with that young woman Eve in town?”

“Eve?” Garin blurted back in shock. “I could only hope. I’m not sure if she is interested in traveling. She once mentioned Corsica. I would love to see the capital.” He tilted his head, contemplating the possibilities.

“Enough talk about travel and the future. I’m tired. Let’s eat.” Joy’s furrowed brow ended their conversation, but he could not help but notice a pensive sadness as she looked away.

Candlelight flickered like the tension between them. Joy carefully dipped a ladle into the pot, and Garin could hear it scraping the bottom as she scooped up chunks of potatoes and carrots. The savory smell of the stew made his mouth water, and his stomach screamed for a bite. She generously filled his bowl with three vegetable-filled scoops before serving herself three ladles of mostly broth. Stirring the pot slowly, she found the only piece of meat and placed it in Garin’s bowl.

Garin half smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He cut the meat in half using his spoon and slid his bowl across to her. “You need this as much as I do,” he protested the unequal portions.

Their eyes exchanged a few silent phrases through the candlelight before she accepted the offer. His mother dipped a bit of bread into her broth, her eyes meeting his once more with a tired, apologetic smile.

They sat in silence for the rest of the night. A small fire danced in the fireplace, more for light than warmth. His chair sat at an angle across from his mother, his back to the kitchen. They were both tired, and tomorrow would be another long one. Garin studied his mother’s eyes. Unlike her name’s sake—Joy seemed sad. When his dad was around, she smiled and laughed, and Garin loved her enthusiasm for life. These past years had been harder on her than him, and he saw it more with each passing season. Her spirit remained strong only because they had no other choice, but he could see the weariness today more than ever.

Joy twisted the thin gold band around her ring finger. She was missing Garin’s father more today, he could tell. Was it their anniversary or his father’s birthday? He could not remember the dates. He slumped in his chair, letting his head fall back until it rested on the thinning brown padding. Now that he thought of it, his father’s birthday was coming soon. They always celebrated right around the mid-summer planting. He sighed at the thought. How much longer could they go on?

In a snort, Garin startled himself awake. He’d fallen asleep in his chair. His mother sat gracefully across from him, her nimble fingers tying delicate ribbons around fragrant bundles of dried herbs. Each bundle was carefully placed in one of the many woven baskets that surrounded her, creating a colorful and aromatic display at her feet.

“Good night, Mother,” Grain said sleepily before slipping off to his room for a proper rest.

As Garin slid into bed and closed his eyes, his mind raced through the evening’s conversation. Sleep, sleep, please sleep, his weary body begged, yet his mind refused to comply. At least, that was the last thing he remembered before he was startled by a banging on his door.

“Garin,” His mother called through his partially opened door, “you’ve overslept. We need to get going if we are to get to town before the mid-morning rush. Please put on the clothes I laid out for you on your chair. I am nearly ready myself. You need to hurry,” her rushed tone encouraged.

Overslept? He wasn’t even sure he’d slept at all. He slid out of bed, his mind mush and his overworked body stiff and unwilling to cooperate. The effort it took to come to his feet was great. A splash of orange and yellow sunlight beamed through his window, cascading across the floor. The sun was up, and the ignitors were already extinguished. His mother had been busy. By his calculation, she had let him sleep an extra hour, maybe two.

Garin all but jumped into his dress clothes, a pair of crisply ironed brown pants, a pale blue shirt, and a meticulously kept dark brown leather vest. Before he finished, he heard his mother scurry down the hallway and move around the house, followed by the creak and bang of their front door.

Garin looked at his hair in the mirror. What a mess, he thought. Using his brush and a bit of water from the pitcher on his dresser, he raked the wildness into submission. He considered shaving after stroking his stubbled chin, but the second bang of the front door pushed him down the hallway to his waiting boots by the front door.

On the third bang of the front door, he chased after his mother. Her fancy navy blue dress swished around her as she descended the steps ahead of him. The sun beamed over the treetops, announcing their lateness. Around the farm, he noticed signs of all the work his mother had put in while he slept: all the gas ignitors were turned off, the cows were in their pasture, and their horse, Mable, was already hitched to their wagon. He cut his eyes to the pile of baskets, herb bundles, and crates of candles Joy had already loaded. A stack of neatly wrapped boxes and packages awaited him on the front steps, which he surmised were dresses for Sophia Davenport and various lace decorations his mother often made. When had she gotten up? Had she even gone to bed? Judging by the look in her eyes as she passed him—the answer was no.

 “Did you milk the cows this morning?” Garin asked, doubling his pace to catch up with her at the chicken coop after loading a set of packages left on the porch.

She extended a basket of eggs to him, using the opportunity to brush bits of straw and a few stray feathers from her dress. “I have already taken care of the animals,” Joy answered distractedly. “You needed your rest. We have much to do in the coming days,” she patted his arm with one hand while the other moved through the air, tabulating the supplies in the carriage.

“Your satchel,” Garin announced. “I think it’s still inside. I’ll go—"

“NO!” Joy snapped before softening. “Sorry. Allow me. There are a few other things I need from inside the house. Please just go check the pasture gate. I can’t remember if I closed it properly, and the hinge appears to be loose,” his mother suggested, glancing over her shoulder as she darted toward the front steps.

Check the latch? Garin’s heart sank as he watched her disappear. He couldn’t remember a time she’d ever forgotten to close it—not that she would have had to remember at all if she hadn’t done everything herself. And she still wasn’t letting him help.

He pursed his lips and glanced at her departure as he set off to do the one thing he was apparently to be trusted with.

Why hadn’t she woken him to help when there was clearly so much to be done?