The CLAWS biannual writing competition took place earlier this month, sparking pieces of writing that showcased the talents of our members. Amongst the submissions emerged a winner: Azrael's Embers, based on the image prompt of a key dropped in the woods.
As the winner of the competition, Azrael won not only bragging rights but also a Dymocks voucher valued at $20 and the publication of their work on our site. So, without further ado, CLAWS presents the first-place entry to the Semester 1 2022 Writing Competition...
Embers
by Azrael
CW: horror, gore
Sullivan pinches the key between gloved fingers. It’s fairly ordinary, as keys go: three eyes, two teeth, one loop, old-fashioned yet unadorned. To anyone else, it would look like brass, maybe bronze. Not to Sullivan. When he brings the key into the wan light, to his eyes the metal comes alive with emberglow. The entire surface is brimming with shifting fires, like the key was cast from molten coals.
The witch-door is close.
Taking care to keep it from touching his skin, Sullivan slips the loop over his finger and lets the key dangle. As it sways, its emberglow migrates to the right. Sullivan tilts his head to beckon James. His partner has been standing off to the side, keeping watch, but at the signal he rouses.
“What direction?”
Sullivan points. “That way.”
James huffs. Then, with a shake of his head, he turns to the indicated direction and begins to walk, falling into a quick but steady pace. Sullivan follows, eyes locked to the key.
He doesn’t know James very well – or at all. They’d been introduced this morning by a tired-looking ranger after several members of the township reported witchlights above the woods. Sullivan, unfortunately, made his name identifying witchery, and so he was the first clairvoyant they called. When he arrived, he was given a powerpoint presentation on witchfinding, a witchkilling weapon, a powerpoint presentation on the witchkilling weapon, and James.
There cannot exist a lock with no key, nor a key with no lock, and so every door that forms from the otherworld forms its matching key nearby. Bring the two together, and the doorway will close. If they’re lucky, no witches will have come through yet, and they can seal
the door for good. If they’re lucky.
And so they walk. And walk. And walk. Every few minutes Sullivan calls out a course correction for James, and they pivot to keep the emberglow facing forward. It’s exhausting. James doesn’t seem bothered, but Sullivan’s feet are starting to ache, and his shoulders are stooping lower with every step. They’d been in the woods for hours before they found the key; now, the sun is dipping precariously close to the horizon. With it, the emberglow is starting to fade.
James calls it first.
“Camp. Now,” he says.
Sullivan obeys without complaint and tries to disguise his collapse as more of a controlled fall. Nearby, James is deconstructing his pack. He sets aside several cloth-wrapped items before producing the tent with a flourish, like a magician with a rabbit. By sunset, the tent is up. Their ‘food’ is salty as jerky and soft as hardtack, but James doesn’t voice any complaints, so Sullivan bottles his.
Dawn is ominous. They break their fast under bloodred clouds, outlined in the same unnatural orange as the key.
Bags packed and tent stowed, they march onwards. With every minute that passes, however, the sky seems to get darker. Sullivan risks a look upwards and almost stumbles. The sky is red, filtering through low-hanging clouds that cast the woods in an unsettling, pinkish hue. Sullivan puts his head down and keeps walking. Whatever it is, it has to be natural; witches don’t control the weather. It’s superstition, nothing more. It doesn’t help the pit in his stomach, as every step takes them closer to the witch-door.
The sky is still red when Sullivan’s skin begins to prickle, residual magic needling at his exposed skin. He takes a breath to comment on it, but some primal instinct quashes the sound before it can escape. An endless second passes before James halts and lifts one hand.
They stop. Carefully, James draws his falchion from its leather scabbard, then looks back.
Sullivan blinks, then checks his key. The emberglow is pointing directly left. Sullivan’s head whips up. On their left, peaking between red-tinged trees, is a door. A glance from James has Sullivan unshouldering his pack and pulling out his only charge: the witchkiller. With hurried movements, he unwraps the crossbow, nocks his first bolt, and cranks it. Elderwood shaft, iron head, fletched with swan feathers and sanctified in witch-ash, at least according to the ranger. It feels flimsy in Sullivan’s hands.
Together, they walk towards the witch-door. In no time at all, the trees fall away into a wide, circular clearing. In the middle stands the door. Bare wood placed in an antique but uncomplicated pattern, inset with a brass doorknob and a firey lock, and unnaturally, impossibly upright. Swallowing his nerves, ignoring the burning on his skin, Sullivan steps up to it. He doesn’t bother trying the handle. This close to its door, the key’s emberglow is constant, no matter the light, glowing like a little coal against his glove. With his crossbow ready in one hand, he directs the key into the lock and twists.
With a click, the door vanishes.
Sullivan laughs; he can’t help it. “That’s it?”
James doesn’t answer, and Sullivan turns to look, crossbow dropping.
There’s no one there.
“James?”
A wind brushes through the woods, tossing the leaves. The red light has only grown deeper. Sullivan looks around again, searching for James – wonderful James and his military training and his trusty sword. He finds nothing.
Backing away from the place where the door used to be, his back hits something solid, and he spins.
“James! You –”
It’s not James.
The witch smiles with too many teeth and plunges her hand into his chest, claws tearing through muscle and organs. The crossbow clatters to the ground. Sullivan feels her fist close between his ribs and then with a tearing, squelching yank, she pulls out his heart. Sullivan slumps to the ground, vision growing dark. Distantly, he hears a wet crunching as the witch begins to eat, but it barely registers to him. As the life ebbs from his body, Sullivan is more interested in the sky. The scarlet sky, filled with flames instead of clouds. The impossible, incredible, hellfire sky.
The sky that belongs to the otherworld.
Thank you to everyone who entered. The CLAWS biannual Writing Competition will be back in Semester 2 and we look forward to sharing more work from some of our talented members then.
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