Chapter 5: Here We Are.
Sons of the CullOut of everything that goes bump in the night, ghosts are the neediest. Pay attention to me, they bellow with breezy whispers and creaking staircases. Paranormal activity is a plea for, “Help — I’m bored.” Regularly used phrases include “Play with me” and “Why won’t you play with me?” They’re naïve souls stuck bumping elbows for space amongst the living dead.
So England's Wychwood Forest boasting a witchy population of zero is an unexpected twist.
“The pointy hats high-tailed it that way!” an inhuman shrill vibrates inside translucent chests. “No, no, no, Chanwoo! They tip-toed this way!” another head roars, snapping forward for a friendly hello. “Then they’d be here, Yunhyeong!” the first voice argues back, unseen; it’s common for souls to latch onto each other in the afterlife.
Take Hanbin and I for example. “Care to explain for your monsters in arms?” Hanbin pulls “charm” from his infamous bag of tricks.
“What’s got a witch running scared from Wychwood; this forest is witchy holy ground,” I mention for Junhoe’s benefit. Decades of poaching in fairyland disenchants the best of us. Raw elf changes a vampire’s definition of “gourmet” — or so I’ve heard.
“I’m hungry,” Junhoe reminds us he’s learned absolutely nothing.
“Pointy hats against pointy hats!” Yunhyeong shudders at the nonsensical matchup, and Chanwoo’s face flips back around to elaborate, “Magic beats magic!” How helpful. Spend enough time with the same soul, and a two-faced ghost starts to echo.
Hanbin deduces, “Which witch has ‘em spooked?” Intelligence’s fruit lies in the diet.
Possession of great power necessarily implies great responsibility. Witches and genies-turned-witch alike uphold a Pledge of Neutrality. “I solemnly swear to ignore mass cullings of goodly creatures” — or something to that effect. Lending magical assistance to change the course of Nature’s will is tantamount to treason. Vlad III dabbled in immortality, Nature took offense, abra-off-with-his-head-cadabra.
And here we are. Counting seconds in the 19th century. Neither impaling nor spreading the glory of God — no, God’s sent his angels to smite us for a single sin. Death comes equally to us all, and makes us all equal when it comes.
“Which witch? Which witch. Which witch!” Chanwoo and Yunhyeong chant, evaporating into a wisp that tangles under and over barren tree limbs. The twin souls disappear, but disembodied voices carry their echo into repeat. Junhoe bares his stained fangs to unseen enemies.
“Got a craving for air now?” I lightly mock. My humor doesn’t stick; Hanbin’s not convinced it’s safe here. A steady influx of humanity’s outcasts in Wychwood reminds us we’re too hungry to leave.
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