Poe's Nightmares

The Curse Of Fellwinter

Aldridge sat enthralled as the tale unfolded, telling of the wolf kings dragging villagers to their mountain fortress. Of arcane rituals to appease their demanding gods. Of pits filled with bone and ash, overflowing as winter dragged on. He envisioned the desperate villagers, starving and shivering as screams echoed out from the mountains. The nameless storyteller wove a gruesome picture.

A particularly fierce gale slammed snow against the windows, making them both jump. The man peered sharply around before continuing. “Finally, as the year turned towards autumn, a band of heroes emerged. Great warriors and cunning rogues. Mighty wizards wielding elder spells. Together they led the villagers in a righteous crusade against their tormentors. Oh, the legends say they fought for days and nights without end within those dark mountain halls!”

His voice dropped, as though imparting some secret truth just for Aldridge. “In the end they cast down the Fellwinters and cleansed their fortress with fire and steel. But all was not finished! Even as the first snows began to fall, the wolf kings returned from hell itself to have their vengeance...”

A mournful bell tolled then, long and low through the stormy veil enveloping Winter’s End. Aldridge shot upright in sudden fear as the flames slowed their dance. A bone-numbing cold emanated from the very stones at his feet. In the shadows, half-seen shapes flitted and capered.

The ancient villager smiled. “Ah, the witching hour begins...” 

Lord Aldridge cast his gaze about the now-sinister room, eyes wide. “Surely these are but stories?” he uttered in a breathless rush. “Ghost tales to frighten children?” Fear constricted his voice to a strangled croak.

The man tipped his head back to drain the last drops of his ale. “The Fellwinters care not if man names them legend or nightmare...they live yet in the endless blizzard, their power waning and waxing with the storms.” Once more his unsettling gaze arrowed toward Aldridge. “Their wrath ever seeks fresh fuel for the sacrifice pits...”

With a sudden shriek of wind, the dying hearth fire guttered completely out. Shadows leaped and capered manically as an eldritch light suffused the room. Lord Aldridge recoiled as long-taloned hands reached for him from every corner. The last thing he saw was the villager’s horrific grin as foul magics took hold, plunging him into darkness...

~*~

Aldridge jerked awake with a strangled cry, heart racing as adrenaline flooded his system. Frantically he groped at coarse wool blankets heaped over him, struggling to sit up and make sense of his surroundings. Weak winter light filtered through square panes of rime-fogged glass. The small room held only a narrow bed and nightstand, with a rough hewn armoire in one corner.

“Easy now, milord. You’re alright.” A weathered but kindly face peered down at him, lined with concern. Aldridge grasped at fleeing memories...the inn, the storm, ghosts in the darkness! But no, here stood naught but an older woman, dressed in humble village garb.

“Just old widow Garron, sir. I keep the inn when Master Talbot can’t be here. You’ve had a nasty turn in the night it seems.” Her eyes narrowed. “Let’s get you up and we’ll see if we can’t chase off these shadows, eh?” 

~*~ 

The simple porridge and weak ale restored Aldridge greatly as he sat near the hearth in the Frosty Hearth’s common room. Despite the unrelenting storm he felt worlds better beneath bright lantern light with others nearby. Indeed, a few stooped farmers braved the weather for a brief pint, speaking quietly among themselves. Of the ominous villager or his chilling tale there remained no sign.

Widow Garron clucked over Aldridge’s condition, muttering about fever dreams and storm shadows. But her gaze carried a hint of...fear? Wariness? Before he could ask further she bustled off to tended to clattering dishes.