The Fair Folk - Part One of Two

Short Fiction - Suspense/Supernatural

Greetings, Talebones Readers!

After some forays away from home, we’ve returned to Ferris Island for this one. (Albeit the Ferris Island of the past…)

For this tale—in honor of spooky season and some personal reading I’ve been doing, lately—I set out to write something sort of moody, atmospheric, dark, maybe even a little bit Gothic, in the literary sense? You can certainly be the judge!

The length of this story was on the boundary of being a little too long to read comfortably in one sitting, so I decided to break it into two parts for ease. The second part will not be too far behind, so never fear.

I hope you enjoy!

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Click here for more stories set on Ferris Island!

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Photo by R K on Unsplash

Dr. Kenneth Strand read his newspaper and ignored the hollow-eyed ghost of his mother in the corner of the parlour as the nearby church bell pealed over the lake, shattering the calm of an otherwise perfectly lovely Sunday morning. 

The bell had a mocking quality to its voice, a sinister tone. Kenneth tried to focus on the headlines, but the sound was bothersome; it was even worse than the unblinking stare of Old Mother Strand in the corner, where she sat most days, incorporeal and flint-faced. At least he had grown somewhat used to her, over the years. The bell was an intrusive nuisance.

In its wake, Kenneth imagined his brother, Reverend Walter Strand, climbing the small rough wooden steps to the pulpit of the little church, clearing his thin throat, speaking in his reedy little voice. His shabby black suit. His dusty old shoes. Hand-me-downs, secondhands. Not fitting of his name.

Walter had always worn the Strand name crooked, untailored. Wrong.

And worse…Kenneth saw her in the pews, her youthful face tilted up in wide-eyed rapture, listening to the reverend drone on and on as if he was the very voice Heaven itself…

In disgust Kenneth dropped the paper on his knees, stared hard at the ghost of his mother in the corner. That wasn’t even the chair she used to sit in. He had no idea why her ghost was so intent on sitting in it, now. 

“If you have any suggestions,” he said, “I’m always ready to hear them.”

But she just fixed him with that glare, the same one she had withered him with daily when she was alive, reduced him to ash. 

Sitting beside her elbow on the little table was the opened letter. Kenneth had received it in the post only a few days prior, in his brother’s simple homespun scrawl. An announcement. A wedding. Reverend Walter Strand and Annabelle Jones were to be married. A September wedding; how grim. What could be worse than a wedding in the autumn chill on a small island like this?

Kenneth grunted, threw the paper onto the brocade settee nearby, stood up. The song of the church bell died away on the wind, and something within him burned. Like the ache you get after eating too much. Indigestion, but of the soul. 

He left the parlour and strode down the long corridor to his study. Sellowmere Hall was the largest house on Ferris Island, paid for nearly a century earlier by his grandfather’s business dealings and exports, built of imported stone and the island’s own old-growth timber. It was a grand place, but Kenneth could not help but notice the fading wallpaper, the cobwebs his old housekeeper couldn’t reach, the increasing dust, the smell of must and mildew coming from somewhere—he did not know where. 

And it was empty. So empty. Just himself, the servants, and the ghosts. 

Kenneth shoved his hands in his tweed jacket pockets, his clipped footsteps echoing in the high-ceilinged corridor. By now, nearly thirty two, he had always thought he would be married, would have filled this big old house with children. A good wife at the hearth, by his side, in his bed…

The image of Annabelle Jones sitting in the creaking pews of the rotten old church, staring up at his younger brother with such naive worship, stoked the burning in his chest even higher.

It was not just. It was not fair. Walter had nothing. A tiny parsonage, a tiny church, an even tinier congregation. Shabby, shabby, from top to tail.

But yet, he had her.

Upon reaching the study, Kenneth slammed the door behind him, hoping this time it would keep the ghost of his mother out, somehow. But it did not. She appeared as usual, sitting straight-backed in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, just staring.

She never spoke, but she never had to. He remembered her sorrows in sharp detail. In her youth she had been plucked from the green hillsides of her rocky coastal home in the northeast corner of Scotland and brought here as a bride, to the ass-end of the Washington Territory, this strange small island on the edge of the new world; she had wrung every ounce of her homesickness and misery out onto her children. No amount of money, power, or influence could soothe her grief for a place she never saw again with her waking eyes. 

Kenneth crossed to his rolltop desk and sat down. From the window he could see the lake, distant edges misty in the morning cold, but the little church was hidden from view around a marshy corner.

Good riddance. 

A thought brushed his mind, then, thin like an abandoned web stretched across a doorframe, but he indulged in it anyway. It was not a new thought, but the arrival of the letter had amplified it, made it clearer:

If it were not for Walter, Annabelle Jones might have noticed him, instead.

It was spiteful to think so, maybe, but not unfair. Never unfair. Dr. Kenneth Strand was the richest man on Ferris Island, likely richer than most on the mainland, too. Generational wealth, deep and unyielding. He could provide for any woman’s desires. What did Walter have, except a ghastly old church and a God most of the superstitious islanders were still wary of?

He glanced over at his mother’s ghost. It was the one thing she had in common with the Ferris Island locals she had so reluctantly spent her latter years around. Those beliefs, those superstitions. The gloomy tales of her distant, windswept home: changeling children, lone hawthorns, hidden entrances to other worlds. The Fair Folk. The Good People. 

When he and Walter were little, they had a governess who told them fairy stories. And these were sweet things, little morality tales featuring cherub-cheeked sprites with gossamer wings, talking animals, lost children led home to their cozy beds. This governess—still a child herself, in so many ways—would soften the stories, make them appropriate for bedtime and good dreams.

But their mother did not have such qualms. All of her tales were soaked in blood and mischief, bargains gone wrong and twisted justices dealt, and none of the Fair Folk were too friendly or helpful except when it benefited them. 

Kenneth had asked her, once, when he was about six or seven, “Are there fairies on Ferris Island?”

And she had given him a long, queer look with those icy blue eyes and said, “Anywhere spite and spirit thrive, you’ll find such Folk, Kenny.”

He had not known how to take that, at the time. But now that he was grown, and her ghost was his constant companion in this empty house, it was hard to take it any other way than truth. Solid as stone.   

According to the tales, the Fair Folk had the power to make things disappear. But you had to be careful in your dealings with them. You had to be clear in your desires, and you couldn’t blink or fail to think. 

The Good Neighbors don’t think quite like we do. And they don’t feel the sting of obligation.

Kenneth stared out at the lake and the dark smudge of the forest beyond, the place called Mothwood, which surrounded the lake on all sides. Those old woods were deep enough for spite to live, sure enough. And spirit, certainly. 

If it were not for Walter…

The idea began to distort under the phantom gaze of Old Mother Strand, and Kenneth found himself wringing his hands over his desk. If there was even a chance. If it could be so. 

If Walter could disappear…

He paused, blinked, shook himself as a dog rids itself of a fly. He would never harm a hair on his brother’s head. He was a doctor, a wealthy man, and well respected; the directness of such violence was not in him. 

But if there was another way…

His mother’s ghost did not blink, and never did. But Kenneth thought, perhaps, a phantom wind from the east—from lonely hillsides dotted with stone fences and shaggy cattle—tousled her ghostly white hair, just briefly. 

*******

Kenneth did not properly remember from the stories what offerings he was supposed to bring. So he started simple. 

The day dawned cold and gray. The sky over Ferris Island’s western half was hazy and sinking, clouds reaching down in a tentative gesture of potential rain. Kenneth carried a porcelain bowl of still-steaming porridge from the kitchen, hoping his old housekeeper didn’t see him doing so. There were some questions he didn’t feel like answering. The porridge was studded with raisins and thick with butter and cream, fresh from the dairy only a mile down the road. A rich meal for any creature, of this world or the next. 

Kenneth crossed the manicured gardens and grounds of Sellowmere Hall in strides, the dew scattering from his good shoes, until he reached the place where the tame land ended and the savage began. The woods were thick with fir, bent-necked hemlock, and occasional oak, and seemed to watch him as he approached with the rapidly-cooling bowl. 

There was no movement around him except the amber-eyed passage through the grass of Old Putnam, the groundskeeper’s ginger cat, out for a hunt. Kenneth did not much care for cats, and this one always seemed to wear a face of utter disdain. For Kenneth specifically, perhaps, or for life itself. A too-knowing expression.  

But maybe cats always looked like that. Kenneth couldn’t be sure.  

Once Old Putnam had gone flick-tailed into the long grass of the meadow and vanished, Kenneth turned his attention to the woods and paused a few feet from the boundary, peering up into the boughs. They seemed to consume every trace of light, leaving an eternal night within. 

But he found his courage and strode in, the underbrush swishing against his tweed trouser legs as he went. 

He did not go far. He could not bring himself to. The woods were unnaturally quiet, and he felt the eyes of something upon him as he entered. 

A short distance into the woods he found what he was looking for: a flat stone, only a little larger than a dinner plate, half-hidden by leaf litter and duff. He cleaned the debris away and set the bowl of porridge on the stone, like he was serving a small table, and he stepped back. 

“Good Neighbors,” he said, in as formal a tone as he could muster, under the circumstances. “I’ve brought you an offering, and I would like to humbly ask a favor of you.”

He cleared his throat. He knew if he was going to do this, he needed to be clear with his intentions. 

“Please make my brother, Reverend Walter Strand, disappear. Take him away from this world, so that I may have what he has. What I deserve to have.”

He let the words fall, feeling strangely powerful as he said them. The woods were still hushed, listening, as if there was something else he was supposed to say. 

Feeling suddenly uncertain, Kenneth concluded, “I promise to bring him to you. All I ask is that you take him away. All the way away. If you agree to this bargain, please…accept my offering. And um…enjoy it. I suppose.”

He backed away, then, afraid to turn around. He backed away until he had returned to the low daylight, staring at the wall of trees, the bowl of porridge obscured from view by the thick, dripping boughs.

Since there was nothing else to be done, Kenneth went back to the Hall feeling uneasy, though he couldn’t be sure why. His mother’s ghostly gaze felt even more judgmental than usual. Had he done it wrong? Had he said the wrong words? 

When he returned, just before twilight, sure enough: it was clear he had made a mistake. The bowl of porridge was untouched, save for a handful of flies and one curious mouse who scattered from the flat stone as soon as Kenneth entered the woods. 

Kenneth brought the bowl back to the kitchen and went to bed that night disappointed, but not discouraged. 

I must use something better, he thought.

So he did. Over the course of the week, successive days, Kenneth tried everything. A slice of chocolate cake, thick with frosting and sugared fruit. A glass of good whiskey. A slab of raw steak, which the cook turned the whole kitchen upside-down looking for, in vain. Kenneth even forced himself to enter his mother’s old bedroom for the first time since she had died and pocketed some of her jewelry, real gold and silver, encrusted with pearl and sapphire. All of these things in turn he laid on the flat stone in the woods. All of these things were rejected, still sitting on the stone when he returned hours later, at twilight. 

As each offering was rejected, it occurred to Kenneth repeatedly that this all might be one grand farce. That he was attempting to lure something into his service that did not exist. 

But no. He saw it in his mother’s rheumy, empty eyes: the Fair Folk were real enough. He just wasn’t thinking properly. 

He considered: what would creatures of blood and mischief want, in exchange for their favors? Not cake, not trinkets, not strong drink. 

No. Something even more precious still.

Something that cannot be replaced. 

*******

It wasn’t as difficult as Kenneth thought it would be, baiting Old Putnam into the big wicker picnic basket. The old cat was wily, but still mortal after all. A hungry stomach will lead any beast into ruin, and a small plate of fresh-caught trout—still reeking of the lake—drew the old knick-eared moggy’s attention into the basket with ease.

Before the cat could dart away, Kenneth had closed the lid and sealed the wicker basket shut with twine, leaving Old Putnam hissing and spitting within, juddering back and forth in his rage. 

Kenneth did not delay. He picked up the basket and carried it carefully across the grounds, careful not to trip. If the Fair Folk wanted anything, they surely would want flesh and fur, blood and bone. Something with the warmth of life within, the spark of soul. 

As Kenneth drew close to the woods, Old Putnam suddenly went quiet within the basket. Perhaps it was some sense of reverence—or even fear—that silenced the too-knowing cat. 

Kenneth crossed the threshold of the trees and entered the woods. At the flat stone, he set the basket down. He felt Old Putnam’s weight shift as he did so, but the cat remained quiet. As though listening.  

“Good Neighbors,” Kenneth said, brushing off his hands, unable to keep the fatigue and longsuffering out of his voice. “I bring you flesh and fur, blood and gristle. Fresh and alive, still warm for your bellies. Is this not enough?”

In the face of the silent darkness, the unstirring trees, his patience had worn so thin that he could not pretend to be polite. A whole week of false starts, and now this ghastly business. It almost wasn’t worth it. 

But he saw in his hungry mind the upturned face of Annabelle Jones, the light of heaven in her gaze, and he thought of her by the hearth, by his side, in his bed…

His resolve firmed. 

“You know what I want,” he said, at last. “Accept this bargain, or be damned.”

A sound, like a crunch of leaves under rapid feet, rippled quietly from the shadows. When he whipped his head this way and that, looking for the sound in the depths of the trees, Kenneth saw nothing. The underbrush shivered briefly, as if a small creature had skittered through it, then stilled. As he stared into the gloom, the scent of earth and moss thick around him, he thought he glimpsed a brief flicker of muted light in the distance. Bobbing, like a lantern on a dark sea, miles away. 

His mother’s voice echoed uninvited in his head: 

Follow not the lights. They’re only the glint of the devil’s toenails.

Within the basket, Old Putnam groaned, but it was a bewildered sound. 

Almost a human sound.  

It was too far, too far, and yet he could not turn back. Kenneth dropped his hands and backed away. Out of the woods, unsteady on his feet, until the basket disappeared from view. Until he was under the open sky, again, the scent of moss a memory. 

He turned, but before he could start across the grounds to the house, he heard it. Low, at first, but rising. 

A humming, hissing, an approach. 

A crunching of wicker like the snap of chicken bones. 

The sharp, angry scream of an old cat ready to die fighting. 

And then silence. 

As Kenneth stared at the trees, heart thundering, the basket was flung unceremoniously from the treeline and fell at his feet, tumbling in the grass until it rested. It was torn and crushed, bits of ginger fur clinging to the ratty weave, but otherwise empty. 

Kenneth stared down at the basket, as if unsure he was seeing clearly.

It’s done. 

He could barely believe it. A whole week of failure, and now—

A wild smile creased his face and, in spite of himself, he whooped a cry of victory into the stillness. He turned and ran back to the house, not minding the mud on his good shoes, feeling like a child again. His mother had been right all along. His mother had told the truth all along. 

Maybe Walter had his God, his shabby church and his shabby coat and his shabby life. But Kenneth had strength to match, now. Something beyond any of them, beyond this world.   

When he sat down in his study, flushed with victory, he peered into the armchair by the fireplace and thought that the corners of his mother’s lips twitched in a ghostly smile of something like pride. 

But it was difficult to know for sure. Her eyes were as hollow as ever.

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Click here for Part Two!