The Haunted Glade
By Hayden Thorne
Published by Queerteen Press at Smashwords
An imprint of JMS Books LLC
Visit queerteen-press.com for more information.
Copyright 2012 Hayden Thorne
ISBN 9781611522273
For more titles by Hayden Thorne at Smashwords visit
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/haydenthorne
* * * *
Cover Credits: justdd
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America. Queerteen Press is an imprint of JMS Books LLC.
* * * *
The Haunted Glade
By Hayden Thorne
It was a haunted glade; no one was welcome. Local tongues wagged, and twilight tales were spun within decrepit cottages and throughout the bleak countryside. Intricately woven tapestries of sinister origins turned into tradition. A man who practiced the black arts was exiled there by a long-forgotten saint. A man who had mortgaged his soul for the sake of his beloved met his end there, but as to how, no one really knew. A demon was born to the village whore, and there he was abandoned by his mother, who promptly vanished with not much left to her name but a clump of torn and bloody hair on her bed of filth.
Weathered faces leered behind the shadows of the hearth, toothless mouths working busily to fill the bleak evenings with newer, more outlandish versions of ancient legends. Youthful faces stared back, enthralled, those humble fireside lessons slowly woven within impressionable minds. Children paid terrified heed to their elders. Adolescents listened and secretly swore to prove these tales a falsehood. Young adults, on the cusp of greater responsibilities, catalogued them for future use should their own children dare to step beyond the line. They received some much-needed support from the village potter.
“Legends wouldn’t be what they are today had they not any basis in truth,” Irwin Blythe said as he loaded his cart with his pottery in preparation for his weekly trip to the market.
“And what truth would this be?” some of the boys demanded in exasperation. “We’ve heard so many stories about the glade!”
“I’ve heard so many, myself, which only convinces me that something real holds them all together; otherwise, they wouldn’t sound almost alike, would they?”
The girls sulked and restlessly tugged at their shawls or aprons. “That doesn’t sound very convincing at all.”
“Sometimes we’ve got nothing to go by but blind faith.”
Around him a small group of awestruck children and skeptical adolescents gathered to see him off. He’d always been a great favorite of the locals, having won them over with his good nature, irrepressible humor, humility, and wealth of stories, the last point being regarded everywhere as a rare gift, for none of his stories fell along ordinary lines. His tales, no matter what the length, were all intricately plotted and full of fantastical foreign elements. A good number of people were convinced that elves or fairies whispered them in his ear as he lay sleeping at night. And Irwin Blythe would have suffered the indignity of superstitious gossip had he not been shielded by collective pity.
The potter, after all, was thirty-six, and he’d never married—nor did it seem as though any woman was keen to cast her net on him anytime soon or, indeed, ever. He courted a couple in his younger years, but he was thwarted, and he’d given up in spite of people’s encouragement. Oddly enough, women were repelled by him though when asked, none could think of a convincing answer to their immediate and strong refusal to attract his attention. He was tall and shaped by years of hard labor, his complexion browned by the sun, his hair always powdered with dry clay or dust from the road. He bore scars from his work, but he wasn’t a disagreeable-looking fellow by any means; in fact, the children liked the way he smiled, for when he did, the vibrant hazel of his eyes always vanished into cheerful slits edged with creases.