~o0o~

BACK AT SWAMP HAG GHIRARDELLI'S HOVEL TODAY:

Quaraun stumbled across the apartment. His strides were swift and determined. Or as precipitous and controlled as he could compel them to act. He'd enjoyed a few bottles too many of green Fairy wine to drink. And he knew it, but he couldn't oblige anybody else to notice it. No. He wasn't supposed to be out drinking this evening. Not tonight. Tomorrow is a considerably important day.

Consistent.

Stable.

Calm.

Steady. He must walk steadily. And consistently natural. And calmly stable.

Balanced.

Yes. Balance is good.

Balanced is more advisable than stable.

Yes.

Balancing was desirable.

Quaraun stumbled and fell, plunging forward into the darkness.

And upright.

Yes. Upright.

Upright is very important for walking. It would do no good to walk if one was not standing upright beforehand.

Quaraun wondered if he was standing upright or not. He couldn't tell. The determination in his steps became his immediate focus. Quaraun monitored his feet to make certain they were moving in the correct places. He couldn't discern if they were or not.

Must walk steady. Mustn't let anyone notice. Must. . . Must. . .

Thunder boomed outside.

Lightning flashed.

The momentary manifestation of blinding luminescence infiltrated the room through its purple haze. The silver violet flame melted away and sending the chamber back into the deepest blackness of night.

Mists of the Swamp of Death crept into the room through every crack. Up from the soggy swampy, waterlogged floor boards. In around the curtains of the glassless window panes. Down the chimney and out the fireplace like a demon belching smug into the building.

Wait. . . who is that?

The brilliant burst of the storm's light lasted long enough to blind the lodging with intense light.

There was a man in the corridor.

A man?

Nay.

A scarecrow.

With a grinning pumpkin head.

Long, green creeping vines coiled and slithered through the doorway and up the walls, around the windows, and across the ceiling.

Twisting.

Turning.

Pumpkins rolled across the floor, tumbling, dull thudded sounds of hollow gourds as they rolled across the room.

Laughing.

Grinning.

Shrieking.

The man of straw stood tall and thin, the flames of his jack-o'-lantern head burning like the fires of Hell from which he came.

Standing just outside the door.

Looking in.

Staring at Quaraun.

Watching.

Waiting.

Laughing.

Blood rained down the walls, flooding the floor.

Splashing.

Churning.

Weeping.

Yearning.

The Pissed Off Pumpkin Patch had found him again.

The evil Pumpkin of Death and his straw body, standing in the doorway.

How'd he get in here?

Wasn't the door bolted?

Quaraun walked closer to the door.

Cautiously.

Carefully.

Slowly.

Guardedly.

"Why are you here?" Quaraun called out.

No answer.

"Leave me alone!"

Silence came as the only reply.

"Stop following me!" Terror filled Quaraun's throat as the air in the room grow cold. Sucked out of the building. Quaraun gasped to breathe. He turned to run, but stumbled, and hastily caught himself.

Can't collapse.

Couldn't let this fellow think he was drunk, either.

He squinted his eyes. Straining to see through the darkness.

Hoping for the lightning to flash again.

There was a pumpkin man in the doorway.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

A dead pumpkin man. Where there shouldn't be one.

"Who are you?" Quaraun called out again.

Nothing.

The grinning dead man stood in the doorway.

Watching.

Staring.

Silent.

Grinning.

Laughing.

Booshee.

Booshee?

He didn't move.

He didn't speak.

Quaraun closed his eyes.

It might be one of his friends.

No.

They shouldn't be here.

They couldn't be here.

They were dead.

Dead these many years.

He was alone.

He had no one.

No friends.

Alone.

So dreadfully alone.

But who knows?

Maybe. . .

No. . .

Couldn't be. . .

You didn't care.

You weren't there.

You abandoned me, when I needed you most.

You left me behind.

Quaraun opened his eyes.

The flame eyed pumpkin man was gone.

A glowing purple unicorn was standing over him.

"You're mane and tail are corded. So lovely."

The unicorn answered, but Quaraun could not hear his voice or tell wat was said.

A glittering gold sheep was kneeling beside the unicorn.

"You have such beautiful golden wool."

They were both talking but he couldn't hear them.

A black hole was forming in the ceiling above. Blue lights flashed and burst. Sparks fell out of the gaping black hole.

Quaraun's vision blurred and doubled, then went in and out of focus a few times.

Where am I?

What's happening?

The streaks of blood running down the walls were gone.

Gone too were the pumpkin vines.

No more pumpkins on the floor.

Lingering squash blossoms sat in vases on the table.

The muffled sounds of his friends' voices bounced around like a rubber ball inside his head.

He tried to focus on one voice.

This one or that one, but he could clearly hear neither.

One sound.

Then another.

He couldn't make out what was talking and what was noise.

Straining to hear who was talking and what they said.

Finally, his vision became clearer, and the sounds became less garbled.

"Are you okay?" the glittering gold sheep asked.

"Who was the man in the doorway?" Quaraun asked, not answering the glittering gold sheep's question.

"What man?"

"That pumpkin!" Quaraun sat up and pointed towards the door. "The Pissed Offed Pumpkin Patch! They've come for me again. You can't let them take me!"

Wait.

He wasn't there.

The pumpkin man was gone.

Quaraun looked around.

The sun was up. It was daytime.

Night was gone. It had slunk away to the shadows, to hide for another day. Fleeing from the sun's warm embrace. Waiting for sunset to come and free it back into the world again.

"There was a man there," Quaraun said to no one in particular. "Where did he go? Did you see him?"

"No," the glowing purple unicorn answered. "Only thing we seen was you passed out on the floor."

Passed out on the floor?

Where am I?

Suddenly a knocking.

A knocking rapped quickly.

Then silence.

Waiting.

Then the knocking came again.

Louder.

Again.

Louder still.

Quaraun sat up and opened his eyes.

He looked around the room.

"Where am I?"

He was sitting at a large wooden table.

It was a small room.

Quaint.

The glittering gold sheep and the glowing purple unicorn were both gone. They had never been there. Had they? No. Yes? Maybe. He couldn't be sure.

Quaraun nervously twisted his hands around the long, thin neck of the clear glass wine bottle he was clutching. Its emerald green wormwood infused liquid was nearly gone.

"I need to either stop drinking Fairy wine, or drink so much of it I never wake up out of its embrace. Where am I? How did I get here?"

Quaraun tried to focus his eyes through the semi-drunk blur he was still drifting in and out of.

Lots of wooden shelves lined the walls.

Some shelves were jam-packed full of ancient leather-bound books.

Other shelves were littered for various assorted glass jars, coloured glass bottles, clay pots, and various brick a brack.

An altar dedicated to the proposition of attracting wealth.

Another altar for speedy business success and gambling luck.

Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. An array of metal pendulums. An assortment of containers for spells. An egg broken open for divination. An herb that is used in hexing. Talismans, tarot cards, and teas.

The home of a witch.

"Ah! Ghirardelli! The Swamp Hag's house. Forgot I was here."

He paused and glanced down at his hand. His fist tightly clenched Ghirardelli's hair as her severed head hung from his grasped. He suddenly remembered why he was here.

"Ah, sweet Ghirardelli. Payback for calling me old. I warned you I'd return for your head. You should have listened to me. How many times did I tell you I never joke? Oh dear. I'm running out of leads."

A sword lay on the floor at Quaraun's feet.

"Well, your soul eating sword had a use after all. One shouldn't try to scam a necromancer with a fake sword. It may not eat souls like you said, but it certainly robbed you of both your soul and your head. Tsk. Tsk. Lying to a Necromancer about a soul eating sword. Did you really think you could arrest me when dozens before you failed. Poor Ghirardelli. Now you are dead."

A sound interrupted his conversation with the dead woman's severed head. It brought his attention back to the sound which had awoken him. The knocking sound thudded dully through the house again.

He turned back to the front of the building.

"Damn. Someone's at your door. I suppose we should answer it." Quaraun glanced down at the dishevelled lifeless body of the Swamp Hag on the floor behind him. Ghirardelli's blood was pooling on the wooden planks, oozing out of her severed neck, gushing from veins that hung where her head should have been. "You certainly can't."

Quaraun pushed his chair back from the table, stood up, picked up the Swamp Hag's head and stuffed it into the pink beaded heart shaped bag of holding on his hip, as he made his way to the front door of Ghirardelli's hovel.

"My god! I just realized. This has never happened before."

Quaraun paused, took out the Swamp Hag's head and stared at it in disbelief.

"In ten thousand life times, I've never before killed Ghirardelli. I've never before even met her. So much is changed in this lifetime. I don't even know who's at the door. This is all new. None of this has happened before. I'm doomed to live the same events over and over. Endless lifetimes. It's always the same. It never changes. Why is it different this time? I'm not reliving my past this time. I'm on a new path in life. One I've never been on."