The Stranger
A St. Jeremy Folktale
It is night. You are home. The fire is warm and the lights are bright. There is food and comfort; not luxuriant, but sufficient. Livable. Safe. Outside, the darkness looms just beyond the reach of the light, but that doesn’t matter, you are safe. It’s there, impenetrable on this moonless night, trying desperately to get closer, it fills every crevice the light can’t reach. On nights like these, all homes are islands. You stay inside, in the light; there is life within the light and monsters without. But you are home, and you are safe. The light and the walls will keep the darkness at bay.
The wind howls around you, screaming like the wailing phantoms said to haunt the ancient mounds deep in the Wood. They say their wails prophesy a death of a loved one to those that hear them. But it is only the wind, and you are safe. You have no loved ones left, after all. Last winter had seen to that. When the light had gone out, and there was no fire. Snowed in and desperate, you brought Evil home, inside, and paid the price. And so the Village had shunned you, and drove you here, to the base of the Mountain, to be closer to God.
The house shudders against the wind, betraying, for a moment, the fragility of the timber and the stone, briefly revealing what little material is keeping you from the darkness of the night. You realize you are but a delicate island in a wild river; the darkness swirls and eddies around you in the wind, breaking against your home. But you remember: while it may not be much, the Mountain stone is strong and sturdy granite — it’s God’s stone. Even if the light of home went out, the walls of God would keep you safe. But the light — the light is life. While most of the villagers scavenge the Wood for fuel, you get firewood from the Mountain itself. God’s wood. There is no holier light than that born of God’s home. You must protect it. You must not let it go out. You add a log to the fire.
But, fight as the light does against the darkness, it’s not always enough. Sometimes the darkness breaks through, crosses over. And, so, out of the depths of the night you hear a tap tap — a knock at the door, short and deliberate. A stranger in the night — a stranger from the night — is at your door. Suddenly your house feels small and fragile; the strength of the walls gives way to the nature they betrayed before, and the light seems dim. You are not safe.
You must let me in, croons an oily voice from the night-side of the oak door. In the name of custom, show me hospitality.
The voice is right, of course: custom demands that you do not turn away a stranger when they come to the door, you know this. And where would we be without custom? Lost in the Wood, you suppose. You move away from the fire and toward the door. The wind picks up — howling and shrieking — and the beams above creak and moan, as if in pain. As if in the throes of mortal combat. You slide the latch and open the door.
There is a man in your doorway. He wears a dark hooded cloak. Beneath the hood, you make out sharp, hard features etched into a pale face; you can just make out his round, dark eyes, as they hungrily drink in the fire behind you. He smiles. It is not a pleasant thing, thin and red, like blood; your stomach feels weightless and your bones ache.
May I come in?
You can’t find your voice, it seems. Somehow, without thinking, you are stepping to the side, with your arm out, gesturing welcome to the Stranger. He enters.
Let’s sit, my friend, he says; I am jealous of your fire.
He moves to the fire and takes a seat. You follow and sit opposite, both of you looking into the flames. He removes his hood to reveal a bald, pointed head; his ears are sharp, also, and stick out like a bat’s. His eyes are wide and alight with the fire. The fire dims and changes to a sickly green color, blending the one-room house into the surrounding night. Just the hearth, the two chairs, and you two men are illuminated. Men? No — you’ve already decided. There’s only one man in this house tonight.
You’ve no family. A statement. He looks at you, the flames still orange in his eyes. Are you lonely? The stranger cackles; it’s a deep, wet, throaty sound — chug-chug-chug. Mm, you think you are not, because you are by the Mountain and because you bring — he spits into the flames and they sputter and flash a bright white before becoming dim again — GOD into your home. But I think you need a friend. He stares into your eyes, with black beads licked by orange flame, smiling that red smile and laughs again — chug-chug-chug. His smile drops and he looks back into the green fire. Food, he says. You must offer me food.
You have some bread on the table. Wordlessly, you get up to find it. It’s a little stale, but it’s all you have that doesn’t need to be cooked. You bring the breadboard over to the fire, tear off a chunk, and offer your guest the rest. The Stranger takes the board from you slowly and carefully. He picks up what’s left of the loaf and tears off a small piece. He holds it in his hand and turns to look at you. He smiles and puts it in his mouth. His face contorts, as if in sharp pain; his forehead appears to sweat, but what beads on his brow is thick and oily, with a greenish color. The food passes down his throat and his discomfort seems to fade. He puts the breadboard aside and opens his eyes; they have a slick and fresh acidity, like poison-dipped needles. He stares into your eyes, and those needles seem to puncture deep into the hidden chambers of your mind. Probing, poking, prodding, searching; you look away to break the stare. Your eyes find the loaf of bread, which has turned moldy and black where the Stranger’s fingers touched it.
Come, let’s talk. You turn back toward him, but he is looking into the fire. You have offered me your bread and I have taken of it. We are now bound, you and I, by the sacred and ancient custom of hospitality, and now time has come to talk of worldly things.
He doesn’t look at you; his eyes are fixed on the fire. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. He begins to smile, still staring into the flames. You look, too. The flames dance in the hearth like green fingers — long and bony and unsettling in their agility. They flit about like a coven of witches performing a demonic rite, like in the stories your grandfather told you on nights just like this. The stories your grandfather was asked to stop telling. The stories that got him in trouble, because people said that Evil would find him if he courted it.
The flames change, though; soon they begin to take on careful and deliberate shapes. The shapes vibrate in and out of clarity and it is difficult to associate them; eventually, though, they begin to settle and become clear. Painfully clear. Three round, unmistakable shapes, staring at you with black eyes: the faces of your family. Chug-chug-chug, you see them, yes? Yes, of course you do. You see them every day — that great cost you paid on that dark night so many months ago.
The shape that was your partner — your love you had promised to keep safe — stares into you with pleading eyes. Why? it seems to say. Why did you let us die? The children, now, are pleading; your heart begins to burn like iron in a forge. Its heat is deep and destructive, aching and complete. You shut your eyes to the phantoms. You tell yourself that you have made your peace with what happened, and that your family had ascended to Paradise, but you know that is not true and so does the Stranger.
Do you know why I am here? I am here to repay you. You have given me a great gift. On that night, you had asked for my help, but I did not give it.
You turn to the Stranger. Still looking into the fire, his smile broadens. Of course he had helped you; you are only here because of that shameful and Evil plea you made. The desperate plea. The necessary plea. You did not do it for yourself, no; you did it to protect them — to end the pain and rudeness of their waking life. This is what you’ve told yourself over the months since, but you know it is not true and so does the Stranger.
Ah, but you know the truth already: that urge was already there, in your heart. You had helped yourself. And, in the process, you had offered me three beautiful souls — the most precious of commodities. And so I must repay you for such a grand gift. Long ago, I was cast from this plane, but your gift has allowed me to return, to walk the roads and between the houses once more; once more I will be free on this earth. Thank you.
He turns back to you, and in his eyes you see the orange flame that he has stolen from your hearth, and in the flames you see the faces of your family that he has stolen from you. No, you know he is right. He did not steal them, you gave them, freely, and without consequence; now the Stranger wants more, for Death will feed itself if it is hungry. And it is always hungry.
This is an entry in The Chapel on the Hill series. To see all entries, check out the Chapel on the Hill Medium page.
Robert W Loughlin is the manager of The Spring House. For more, visit his website or follow him on Instagram.
