The Annual Ritual Set Forth
by the Apparition of Baron Willoughby
written by: Lisa H. Owens
The apparition of Baron Willoughby floated above the dilapidated staircase. He emitted an eerie glow as his good eye blinked, clearing a fine layer of attic dust, before assessing the mutated villagers cowering at the foot of the stairs, their wares on display. The stakes were high; therefore, he couldn’t be hasty in his decision-making—yet, he must not dawdle. The neglected grandfather clock was aroused, its clipped tick-tock instilling urgency in the ancient ghost as it did every year on the celebratory eve that opened a door into the spirit world.
The baron’s milky left eye gazed skyward, as it often did, aloof, a thick gob of gray crust collecting in its clotted tear duct. His right eye, the good eye, the wizen brown one, swept across the wide array of contenders.
Its dark iris, flecked with amber, gleamed as it considered the merits of each youthful peasant, hunkered and quaking before the hideous form of the Baron’s manifestation.
The good eye paused, momentarily focusing on the werewolf. Though small in stature, it had strong, sharp teeth and toted a hefty package, but the creature’s aura was cloudy, its head befuddled with childish nonsense. Poisonous inner-workings, the brown-eye reckoned.
It blinked again, refocusing, in turn, ruling out each candidate for one reason or another. This late in the evening, the pirate’s sack should be overflowing with spoils and bounty, yet there it hung. Limp and flat, resting upon the seaman’s splintered peg-leg.
The brown-eye continued its quest, critically viewing the vast array of detail in each and every villager.
The shriveled mummy stood in a slump-shouldered stance, abashed, his gauze-wrapped hands hanging limp at his sides. How dare this flaccid, loosely preserved human present empty-handed.
“MUMMY,” Baron Willoughby shouted, “SCOOT!”
The roar of displeasure, emanating from deep within the apparition of Baron Willoughby’s core, caused his thickened lips to split and dribble rivulets of black ichor.
The mummy jolted as a heinous breath washed over it. Gauze unfurled, streaming behind the departing figure, as it stumbled across acres of warped hardwood floors covered in the feces of vermin and debris wrought of hundreds of years of neglect. The ear-piercing screech of rusted hinges, followed by the slam of a warped oak door that was once considered the grandest entryway in the land, finally announced its exit.
The brown-eye came to rest on the wiry cowboy, and the lips spewed, “You!”
The baron outstretched his withered arm, gnarled index finger accusatory as tattered silken sleeves fluttered in the October winds sifting through crumbling walls of stone.
“Show me your candy, Cowboy,” words, thickened by disuse, cajoled.
The cowboy stepped forward, his silver spurs jangling, and upended his jack-o-lantern bucket. Candy flowed unencumbered, forming a colorful pile of sweet-sweet treats and one undesirable green apple, its flesh bruised by the harsh conditions on the long trek from the outlying village to the castle.
“Aaah, yaass,” the lips whispered as the stomach growled its approval.
The milky eye finally stirred, its clump of goo dislodging to plop on the third riser, as it rolled forward to focus on the towering bounty. Its slow blink affirmed what the brown-eye suspected. A good haul, indeed. Enough sweet-sweet treats to get them through another year.
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