There are those who, for unknowable reasons, work to pave the way for Their coming. “All throughout the hallow month, certain individuals practice their certain crafts, play their certain parts. “ There are rituals, of course,” Osseous continues. “- it’s all over,” Calcifer completes the refrain. And when the Things come out of the Dark-” “The Veil thins during the Turning of the Year, Calcifer,” they say.
The librarian stares at the crow for a beat, skeletal fingers steepled. “Anyway, what do They have to do with anything?” “I live in the middle of a forest, not under a rock.” He thinks then of the particularly fat, juicy insects that can often be found under stones and fallen logs in the surrounding woods. “ Of course I know the Maleficent Monarchs, Osseous,” the crow scoffs. “I assume you know of The Things in the Vicious Void? Of Those That Dwell in the Dark?” Have not been present for the Darkening of the Year.” They put their book and beverage on a table by the chair. “Listen,” he says, before getting too distracted, “what exactly are we doing here?”
It realizes that it is getting hungry and resolves to think of what to have for supper soon. “ These sorts of things take time, sometimes.”Ĭalcifer picks at his feathers. “ Should?” asks Calcifer, nettled at the prospect of a longer stay. “He should be leaving by the end of the month.” “ Fret not,” the librarian adds, as if reading his mind. “Currently,” they say, “a passage about a young boy being dragged into the darkness by malevolent forces.” But the librarian has no eyes, not in any biological sense. If the librarian had eyes, their crow companion figures, they would be closed right now. The librarian looks at the ceiling, inclining their head to the side as if in contemplation.
The librarian is sitting in a plump, somewhat shabby-looking armchair, reading a book. “ I suppose I wouldn’t want to, either,” says Osseous. Heavy raindrops splatter against it, and the glass panes rattle, occasionally, when hit by sudden gusts of wind. “There’s a noise I wouldn’t want to hear every day,” says Calcifer the crow, his dark, shiny feathers bristling at the noise. Somewhere beyond the woods you know, in a room deep inside a house that should not be there, someone is cackling.
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