The moon hangs low and sallow over the pines tonight.

Like a great eye in the cloudless sky, it casts long shadows onto the winding track, the well-worn ruts of cart wheels looking more like claws furrowed into the earth in the pale black-and-white. In the still silence of the night, Katherine can hear only her footsteps cracking against the frost, the rough cloth of her cloak pulled tighter about her shoulders as she makes her way to Dead Man's Fork.

It wasn't always called that, of course, but here, when the world has narrowed to the lonely crossing of two paths and the large, flat stone jutting out of gnarled stumps, Katherine remembers all too well the stories they tell about this place in the village. How the swamp-lights came and took Jenny Goodwater away, some winters before, and how every sunrise after All Hallow's Eve, blood had been found, curdled and black, in the etchings of the stone.

That stone was staring at her now, its blank face cold and unrevealing, and the whispers come unbidden to her mind, the charts and incantations half-remembered from the old books. The stone around her neck seems hot, now, twisting like a coal against the twine, and before she can quite remember moving to fetch it, it's in her hand, her fingers tight and pale against the rough surface. If it means no more of the stares, the jeers, Nehemiah Cotton with his grasping fingers… The stone stares, the moon stares, and the hot thump of blood running inside her forearm sings for the stones, Katherine's hand rising with a spirit of its -

"Now, there's no need for all that, Miss."

He's dressed in all black, leaning against the naked pine pressed into service as a sign, eyes glittering at her out of the dark. Their color can't quite emerge from the shadows, but at the way they rove about her while he smiles, Katherine can feel the heat of the stone give way to a sensation of firelight next to her cheeks.

The stranger unfolds himself from his perch, sketching something that suggests a bow. A smile tugs at the edge of his lips, and he's next to her, now, nimbly twining his fingertips against her wrist and sending the stone clattering out into the black.

"Is that what they told you? Blood and gristle and some chant or other? Dear me, I really ought to sort that out one of these times."

A low whistle of breath escapes his lips, tickling Katherine's neck, and the unplaceable accent purrs against her ear, like a secret between lovers.

"It's always funny what we let ourselves believe, isn't it? One must wait quietly for life, to be proper and precise. Kneeling and rising at the sound of a bell, and if we wait long enough, we might allow ourselves a pleasant dream as the last grain falls."

His body is warm behind her, now, fingers winding through her own, and somehow the cloak that shielded Katherine from the world is like a blanket against the stone now, words in an accent she can't place coiling between her thoughts.

"You though, Miss… one doesn't wait at a crossroads without wishing for a journey, I don't think. A trip away, new explorations, a world beyond imagining."

His lips are warm against her throat, and his hands are so gentle that they burn.

"It'll scarcely cost a thing."

—

A touch of spooky seasonal salaciousness here, drizzled with a hint of atmosphere and one of the themes I keep coming back to. The mysterious stranger is quite pleased indeed to meet our heroine here, although I suspect most have already guessed his name if they're this far along in the reading. Despite the spooky overtones, I wrote this envisioning an entirely consensual situation, with a touch of fiendishly charming teasing and a lovely mix of gentleness and fiery passion, perhaps even tinged with a touch of romance as things progress.

As usual, I'm always happy to hear any ideas you might have, whether related to this prompt or not! Thanks for reading, and I hope you're enjoying your Halloween season to the fullest.

DPP Profile