The Witching Hour

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The buildings belonging to the towns and cities on the horizon are so small, and the light they exude barely reaches the eyes of little Herbie at all as he takes a peek from behind his trembling paws. He’s certain that he’ll fall; that X will let go of him sending him hurtling to his doom, but she keeps her claws on him good and proper, and as she lets out a shrill cry, they glide above the forest on their way someplace he’s not so sure of. To him? Yes, they’re on their way to him. Herbie’s uncertain as to just who he is, but he knows she seeks him out with all she has, and that it’s through the love of this other that her transformation changed her from flesh to feathers. And those feathers, how they catch the moonlight. How they spread themselves so wide against the sky. Looking up at her, he lets out a squeak, but she doesn’t hear. With her beak turning from side to side, she appears to be searching. For a sign? Yes, for a sign. Those distant lights are not what she’s after, so she takes them deeper into the forest, away from the hand of man and closer to what lies beyond. At first, he doesn’t believe it, but above the swirling winds that rush past his ears, he swears he can make out what sounds like music. Looking at her, he sees that she hears it too, and with that, she takes them towards the source of that strange melody. He can sense it in the way the branches of the trees sway, and how far below, the faint cries of the animals spark like wildfire. With his eyes searching the darkness, he sees the orbs rising from the damp and muddy earth, seeking out the same thing as them. In this hour when the rest of the world is sleeping, it seems to him that there are those trying to find a way back home. A band of lonely souls for whom the witching hour is when their calling can be heard loudest of all.

A Journal for Damned Lovers UK

A Journal for Damned Lovers US

Anthology UK / Anthology US

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