You’d always been a night owl. Which was a fairly odd habit to have in a house full of early risers. You’d be warming up your cup of milk to drink before you finally attempted to rest, just as your mother was rising to make her first cup of coffee for the day. While your parents had never tried to change you, it did worry them.
“It’s just so unhealthy, staying up so late. What do you do all night? You can’t go out!”
You’d heard it so many times, from so many people, that the response was basically tattooed audibly on your tongue.
“I’m perfectly fine. I just keep myself busy. No, I never go out.”
Of course you’ve never gone out. Everyone in the village knows that you couldn’t go out after dark. For as long as you can remember, Grandma and the other old ladies had prattled on about the dangers of the dark, and made sure that everyone stayed inside after sundown. They sprinkled the doorways with salt, rubbed lavender all over the outside walls, and during the summer solstice would always sacrifice a goat to the dark.
Funnily enough, everyone listened to them. All the adults took the old crones’ words for gospel. They’d never seen anything out during the night, but they never questioned them either. They didn’t know any better.
You really wanted to know. You needed to. What was it that had everyone so afraid to go outside in the evenings? What creature was behind you being banished to your rooms on those long, insomniac evenings?
Could it be nothing at all? Could you be free finally to roam the night, instead of hiding inside?
It’d been a long day. You’d woken late, as usual, but still made it to school, which started at midday during these winter months. There was no light until near ten, the sun struggling to reach over the mountains and through the thick, chilling fog. And heavens, kids couldn’t be out until the dark was gone, right?
You rub your eyes, trying to work the weariness from them, as an old lady preaches to the group, her every movement rattling her strings of beads, made of bone and time. Every other child huddled around you, wrapped in blankets and thick furs, listened with interest, taking the crone’s words for law.
You knew better. These old ladies were probably crazy, not to mention creepy enough to wear bones for jewellery.
“No don’t forget kids, tonight is the blood moon, and if you don’t want to end up like ol’ Tom down by the river, you’d better stay inside tonight. Sleep with your parents close, and don’t dare rise ’til late.”
Ol’ Tom wasn’t quite what everyone thought he was, really. You were quite sure it was just a stack of stones that the old ladies had arranged to scare kids into listening, the same way they warned of Father Frost or the leshens in the forest. All just lies to get you to behave.
You were so tired. So sick of having to come to school in the day after not sleeping. So sick of the lies. What really crept about during the night?
After lunch you go to visit Ol’ Tom, down by the river. The water runs quickly, cold as ice, glinting in the sun as it passed over the smooth stone bed. Ol’ Tom is stacked up, resting in the shadow of the mountain tops. He’s made of smooth stones too, and you trace the face with your fingers lightly.
But you’re doing something. You tough the creases that may be his eyelids, and water rushes from them, icy as the stream. Surprised, you jump back, and Ol’ Tom raises an accusing finger at you.
“Don’t you go doing what you’re planning!” he says, the voice carried by the wind. It sounds old, like the old shaman of the village, and wise.
Spooked, you head back to your house.
That night, you couldn’t sleep. You can hear the howls outside, of the village dogs, and could almost hear the pitter patter of small feet. You’re so sure someone is out there, but no one else in the village would be awake, or brave enough to go outside.
You’re brave, right? You could find what’s outside, if there is anything at all? The old wives’ tales were simply that, right?
You pull on your big coat, and slip into your rough leather boots, lacing them tight. It definitely felt as if you’d be running tonight. You grab your father’s woodcutting axe, and head out into the night. Right before you open the front door and think for a second. Are you so sure you’re going to do this?
Of course you are. There is nothing to be afraid of.
You step outside, and are greeted by the cold winter night. You look around, trying to see anything out there, but there was nothing. Walking the village, looking for something, you’re disappointed. There was nothing out here! The old women were telling everyone lies.
Disappointed but victorious, you turn to go back home. Reaching the safety of your garden, you put down the axe and try to open the front door to get inside. But you can’t. You can’t even touch it, your hand passing through it like it was nothing.
You try to bang on the doors, but you can’t. You try to bang on the windows. Nothing. Not a noise could be made. You try to yell, but the wind just blows louder than you could scream.
Upset and confused, you curl up on the ground, content to just wait for someone to arise in the morning. You stand vigilant, waiting for something to emerge from the night. Nothing does.
The villagers begin to stir early in the morning. They’re so happy to have survived another night, in fear of what may have come. A mother walks outside to grab some firewood, day not quite having broken yet, and notices a new pile of river stones, neatly stacked up against her fence. She squints at it. It looks awfully familiar. Approaching it, she realises what has happen, and opens her mouth to scream.
She shouldn’t have come out so early. It wasn’t day yet.
The thing that emerged that night took her, a face being added to the pile of stones. They almost resembled Ol’ Tom now.