All the Creatures A-Stirring

All the Creatures A-Stirring

By Sai Marie Johnson

Evangeline Rey Harbor, I thought it had a ring to it and so it became my nomme de plume. I’d been waiting for the better part of six months for the trip to Yule Write It. I just knew that this holiday retreat with fellow wordsmiths was going to kick me into a level of creativity that I’d been missing out on. Sure, I was driven – but I needed friends, and with a hopeful apprehension I decided to just go for it.

“Is this Eva Harbor?” a friendly voice murmured across the phone.

“Um, yes and this is?” I asked coolly – unsure of who I was even speaking to.

“Nicoletta Ricard. I’m the one putting together the booking for Yule Write It Writer’s Retreat. It says here you are interested in attending, and I wanted to confirm you.”

“Oh, wow – really?” Having been completely unprepared for this news I wasn’t quite sure I’d heard her right.

“Yes, unless you are no longer interested. The special rate lock-in ends today though, and I only have so many rooms available with quite a bit more interest than I had originally expected.”

“Well, that’s good news – isn’t it?” I asked.

“Yes, it is, but that brings me to your confirmation. The cost today is $175 and that’s for a four-day 3-night stay beginning on December Twenty-Second.”

“Yes, I’m good to pay that now, Ms. Ricard. If you’re ready?”

The drive to Heceta Head was long and winding, the coastal fog thick as wool. The lighthouse loomed ahead like a sentinel, its beam slicing through the mist in slow, rhythmic sweeps. The keeper’s house — now a bed-and-breakfast — stood nestled against the cliff, its Victorian bones creaking in the wind.

Inside, the air smelled of pine and salt. A hand-written sign on the wooden staircase read “Bunk rooms”, the ink oddly fresh. I decided to drop my bag off before meeting the others. The stairs groaned beneath me, each step echoing like a warning.

My room was small, cozy, and cold. A wreath hung on the door, its berries shriveled black. On the bed lay a leather-bound journal, tied with a ribbon the color of dried blood. I opened it slowly.

December 21st Father says the beam must never go out. He checks it every hour now. I hear things in the walls. They laugh when I sleep. They whisper when I wake. I told Father but he only wept.

December 22nd There are four. One speaks. One smothers. One gives. One watches. They come when the beam falters. They came for me last night. I did not open the gift. I did not breathe. I did not look. But they are patient. The cliffs are louder than the walls now. I think I will go to them.

Rue.

The name was etched faintly on the inside cover. The keeper’s daughter. The one who leapt.

Outside, the light beam flickered once. Then again. I shuddered as I glanced out the window and saw what appeared to be a shadow moving across the stark whitewashed paint of the tower. Once more the light flickered and there sprinted another darting and eerie figure as the sound of mischievous chuckling seemed to pierce my ears even through the windowpanes. I blinked once, closing my eyes tightly and then opened them intently to scan over the journal exterior. I ran my finger over the embossed lettering and pursed my lip curiously.

“Were all the creatures stirring?” I shuddered and shook my head, “I must be tired,” Spinning about face, I thrust my luggage in the corner haphazardly and scanned the ornate wood of my surroundings. It was honestly breathtaking, and I felt a sudden gratitude wash over me in being able to stay here.

“Jeeze, now this is the stuff that good writing is made of.” I mumbled aloud. My gaze slid over the polished wood framework and crown molding with an appreciation that I seemingly couldn’t enunciate. It was then I spotted it – the strange carvings in the wood that looked suspiciously Nordic. I couldn’t be totally sure, and was not well acquainted with runes or the language, but something seemed particularly etched in these markings, and it stood out in a way that none of the others had. I tilted my head curiously – it was moments like these one I asked myself what would I dare to do in the name of a good story? Well, it seemed that putting my nose into the framework of where I was paying to stay was definitely within the parameters of absolutely!

“There are four. One speaks. One smothers. One gives. One watches. They come when the beam falters.”

I furrowed my eyebrows spinning about face as the sound of a whisper brushed my ear,

“Seriously. This place will clearly get to you if you spend too much time alone up here. I can see why she took to writing.” I mumbled – I wanted, hoped and prayed even, to join the rest of my writing crew and hopefully make some friends to avoid that sense of hopeless isolation, but as I held the journal in my hands I couldn’t help but feel some sense of relatability with Rue and I hoped that didn’t make the entire trip a gigantic, regrettable mistake.