November 15, 2024. Briarwood Estate and the County Sheriff’s office. All stories deserve a good ending, even the bloody ones…

My head was throbbing like a drum, beaten by a musician with no sense of rhythm. Two coughs later, I inhaled a decade of dust from the floorboards and carpet. Apparently, history tasted dry and bitter. Seconds later, my memory stitched back together.

“Right. Inside the Murder Mansion,” I mumbled. “Everything hurts.”

Voices swirled in the air like greasy smoke. Shouting. Nothing made sense. Strong hands grabbed me, pulling me away from the prone nightjar. I blinked, my vision clearing as I looked into Cassidy’s wide bat eyes. They shifted to her human green, still lit up with concern.

“Daniel?” Her voice cracked. “Talk to me. Are you…” Her breath caught. “Daniel, please say something.”

I coughed again, letting out another few years of dust. The sensation of being cooked alive faded into memory. “Need… need a moment. I’m pretty sure I’m all right.”

Cassidy hugged me with both arms, glaring a drawer of knives at the nightjar. Hugging her back, I struggled to get up. She frowned, eyes alive with a dozen rapid questions about my health. I nodded, drawing a slow breath.

“It’s okay. I won’t run any races right now, but I need to get off the floor,” I explained. She nodded, helping me to my feet, expression a knot of worry. Then I noticed she was wearing her workout clothes. Brain not in gear, I asked, “Are you all right? When did you change clothes?”

The moment those words left my mouth, the answer presented itself when I glanced down at the nightjar wearing Cassidy’s black Sabaton band t-shirt and stained jeans. My brain finally caught up to everyone else, as I remembered the ‘Cassidy’ who tried to kill me had been dressed like the Cassidy I expected. My wife’s glare at the nightjar was pure, searing poison.

“She. Amanda. That… stole my clothes!” Cassidy seethed. “I’m just glad I had my gym bag in the car.” She let out a hard breath. “That was my comfy t-shirt and jeans. Now I have to burn them.”

I let Cassidy guide me away as Sheriff Branham and Deputy Keene closed in on the creature. On the other side of the couch, Dorian’s entire body was tense as a snake ready to strike. Still wearing his bloodleech shape and needle teeth, Dorian’s void-black eyes flicked between me and the nightjar. It was concern for me, wary anger for the other.

The sheriff’s hand was inches from the bloodless skin of the nightjar’s neck when the creature moved.

It stood, still wearing Cassidy’s shape and clothes, auburn hair draped long over its face. A low hiss spilled out of the thing as it staggered sideways against the couch. Cassidy jerked me back a step as Branham and Keene raised their sidearms. Dorian crouched, unsheathing black claws from the ends of his fingers. The nightjar swayed drunkenly on its feet. My skin crawled seeing it wear my wife’s shape like a costume. Cassidy trembled right along with me.

“Don’t move!” Branham snarled.

A subtle change rippled over the nightjar’s hands. The skin was still the shade of a long-dead body, but seemed somehow duskier? Then I noticed the jaw beneath the long auburn hair gently shrink. I waved a hand at the others.

“Wait. Hold up,” I croaked.

“Daniel…” Cassidy whispered frantically, stepping between me and it.

“No, wait!” I said quickly.

Everyone froze, and I suddenly felt like I was on display. The nightjar remained where it stood, one long-fingered hand gripping the back of the abused couch. I drew a shaky breath, lightly rubbing Cassidy’s arm.

“Mr. Stewart, I presume?” I said to the creature. “It’s finally good to meet you. If my guess is right, you’ve got a lot of murders to answer for, along with some cursed pens.”

Cassidy looked between me and the nightjar. “… Stewart? The pens? He was from the writing contest over sixty years ago!”

The nightjar stood up straight. Auburn hair slowly melted away, like mist fizzing in the sunlight, shortening into close-cropped black hair. The creature’s face withdrew from its horror-melted look into something more human. Instead of Cassidy, this was a young, dusky-skinned man with glowing, algae-green eyes like lanterns. It—he—studied his hands as if seeing the concept of hands for the first time.

“It’s Jacob, if you please,” the nightjar replied in a soft, sultry drawl. “I suppose I do have a lot to answer for. More than I’d like.” He flexed his new fingers. “Some things I did. Others happened because of what I let loose. Sad to say, the distinction stopped comforting me a long time ago. Probably part and parcel of me taking the Dryad’s Bargain.” He looked toward Branham. “Sheriff? Y’all have no reason to worry. I… or this creature I’m possessing… won’t be hurting anyone else.”

Branham and Keene exchanged a stern look, then the sheriff pulled out a set of handcuffs. The nightjar, now Jacob, calmly held out his wrists. Deputy Keene kept her distance with her weapon aimed.

“So the dryads are to blame?” Cassidy asked warily, half in front of me.

“Never deal with a dryad,” Jacob said ruefully. “Only the dryads come out ahead.”

Dorian slowly reverted to his gray-eyed human shape. “What bargain? You bargained with dryads?”

“Mister… hm… Stewart? You’ve the right to remain silent…” Sheriff Branham said, but the nightjar shook his head, interrupting him.

“Sheriff, please. I appreciate y’all’s job in law enforcement, but bear in mind I’m rather dead, even if I’m caught in this creature. We both know how and where this goes.”

Branham opened and then closed his mouth, eyes clouded. “We do,” he said, snapping the handcuffs closed.

Jacob considered us. “Never really possessed anyone like this before, so not sure how long it lasts. Even still, now that I’m mostly in my right mind, I’ll explain what I can.” He locked eyes with me. “Provided Daniel agrees to collaborate.”

“What? No!” Cassidy snarled, practically a yell.

“Not like before,” The nightjar shook his head. “I mean the old-fashioned way. You see, Daniel changed the Dryad’s Bargain. He asked what I wanted. No one’s ever done that before. In fact, the dryads were sure no one would.” He continued as the sheriff searched him. “Ollie Hayes hired me as a ghostwriter, but stole my personal work as his own. I got a bit upset and turned to my muse, which was a dryad…”

Cassidy closed her eyes, her knuckles white. “Oh God, of course it was a dryad…”

Dorian folded his arms, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. “Well, one shouldn’t look a gift muse in the mouth…”

Everyone was talking at once, but I was lost in my own head.

“Yes,” I replied, and the room went still.

“I hate this,” Cassidy snarled at me, really the world.

“Not really fond of it either, beloved, but think about it. We need to see this through.”

“God, I know. I just…” She clenched her jaw. “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.” I hesitated, then sighed. “If I do this, Jacob, it’s on our terms. No possession. You dictate, and I write down your life story.”

The ghost looked surprised, considered it, then nodded. “Done.”

Branham nodded to Deputy Keene, escorting Jacob out of the room. “That’s enough for now,” the sheriff said. “We’ll have him in a cell we keep set aside for this sort of… situation. The Dryad Court doesn’t take long to step in once we’ve let ’em know. Now, if y’all want to go along with this foolishness, we’ll have a special room at the station set aside. Y’all need to get there tonight, though.”

Deputy Keene gestured toward the way out. “There’s a paramedic outside who’s in the know. He’ll check y’all over. In the meantime, Sheriff Branham and I will stay around until y’all are ready to leave.”

“Thanks,” Cassidy said softly.

I whispered to her. “Cassie? Just how many people know about… all this again?”

She rubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t know anymore…”

Dorian grinned, bright as sunshine. “This is such a delightful little town.”

A paramedic was waiting outside with the lights off to draw as little attention as possible. It made sense, but it sent my earlier question rattling around in my head—how deep did the secrets in Gloamstead actually go? I didn’t have an answer, and wasn’t sure I really wanted one. Nearby, the paramedic checked Cassidy over for bruises, cuts, or worse. She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and decided that maybe not having an answer was okay.

However, there were still a few things worth knowing.

Two hours later, we headed to the sheriff’s office. No one was thrilled, least of all me. Dorian amused himself by talking with Deputy Keene, who in turn made a valiant effort to put up with him. Cassidy stood guard outside a plain, tan interrogation room. Inside, I sat across a simple folding table from Jacob Stewart, who still possessed the nightjar’s body. This time, the collaboration was the old-fashioned kind, with less personal risk of possession.

I wrote down another set of notes based on what Jacob dictated, then watched the ghost a moment. “So, this bargain. The curse. Muse or not, why did you agree to deal with a dryad?”

Jacob sighed, resting his handcuffed wrists on the table. A faint glimmer danced along the chrome; not the usual shine of fluorescent lights on metal. “Anger. Mr. Hayes stole my personal writing, then took it a step too far when he used the money to help fund the Nighthunter Society. Money they used for murder. So I turned to my muse, a wisteria dryad, for something Hayes or the Nighthunters couldn’t steal.”

Nodding, I wrote that down, then set aside the pen. “A story they couldn’t steal?”

He nodded, glowing etheric eyes alive with memory. “Something like it. I asked her to let my words survive. To breathe. I asked for my finest story to get finished and live past them.” He scoffed. “Which she did from a certain point of view. Only the ‘story’ wasn’t the one I had in mind.” Then he grinned, shaking a finger lightly at me. “Remember that, young man. Anger and desperation often lead to very bad decisions.”

I raised my eyebrows, thinking back over my previous job as a software engineer and its road to burnout. “You’re not kidding. They do.” I studied the handwritten notes in the notebook in front of me, then the shadowy ink stains still on my fingers. “Is that why you’ve not tried to leave tonight? I’m no expert, but you’re a ghost. It seems you could if you wanted.”

Jacob regarded me with a sad expression. “Yes. I suppose I could, but my time’s done, young man. More than done.” He gestured at himself, no longer wearing Cassidy’s shape, but still wearing her stolen clothes. “This… creature? A nightjar? It’s very dangerous and angry. There’s been too much anger. This is the one little thing I can do to help before I pass on.” He shrugged again. “It won’t balance the scales against what I’ve done, but… maybe… it’ll tip things in favor of something better.”

“Maybe,” I echoed. “Any idea what the Dryad Court will do?”

Jacob shook his head. “No idea. Might be the end of the road for this nightjar, might not.”

I picked up the pen, then tapped the notebook. From the corner of my eye, I saw Cassidy peek through the tiny square window in the door. Worry lines crossed her face as she raised her eyebrows at me. I smiled.

“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I mouthed back. She looked a little less worried, but stayed right where she was outside the door.

For a moment, I let my thoughts wander as I scanned what I’d written. “Why do you think the dryads bothered?”

Jacob chuckled dryly. “Self-interest. It took me thirty years, but I figured it out. Deaths ‘added’ to my story. Those murders somehow fed their court. The pens? That was my anger, obsession, pain, and betrayal. One in each pen, tied to the pen’s plant designs.”

I wrote that down. “What about the inkwell?”

“Oh, that…” He leaned back until the chair creaked in protest, then tapped his chest. “That was me, what was left anyway. My joy of storytelling. When you put them together, you put me back together one last time. Like I’ve said, the dryads didn’t think anyone would.”

I snorted. “Desperation is the mother of invention.”

Jacob grinned for a moment, then it faded. “True, but y’all best be careful. Y’all broke the curse. The Dryad Court will be powerfully angry over this.”

“Thanks. We’ll be careful.”

“Good,” the ghost replied. “Before I pass on, thank you for offering to write my true life’s story, including what happened with the dryads. Brilliant idea, Daniel. Still… won’t that reveal too much to the world?”

I considered everything so far and barked out a laugh. “Mr. Stewart—Jacob—whoever reads this will swear it’s just fiction. Even if it's telling your story. Your side.” I thought back to some of what Dorian and even the sheriff had said. “People will believe what they want to believe.”

Jacob laughed, a haunting sound that echoed off the walls. “True. Truth is always stranger than fiction. Now, where were we?”

I scanned my page of notes. “The part where you murdered Professor Martin Altamont through the pens, hoping to kill off the Nighthunter Society.”

Jacob nodded, pursing his lips. “Oh that. Yes. That was when I learned, rage or no, an idea is like a story. They’re both damn hard to kill.”