Midnight’s Fables

The Shadows of Tidby

Midnight leads you to its ‘bittersweet’ story, the artefact for which is a simple porcelain teacup with floral patterns glazed upon its milky white surface. It is covered in warning labels, saying things like ‘Fae-Touched’ and ‘Poisonous!’.

Like every other exhibit, this is in a glass box, though it is unique in that its case is firmly bolted to the white pedestal upon which it sits.

“Bittersweet, you asked for,” Midnight muses, an air of derision in its tone. “Happy and sad at once. This one might do…”

***

Everyone in Tidby cast a second shadow. No matter the time of day or where they stood or whether the light came from the Sun, the Moon, or something man-made, always a second shadow could be found, pointing directly north, like a personal compass of darkness. Anybody who came to the village, whether to visit or to live, would acquire a second shadow the moment they crossed the Threshold, and anybody who left would lose it at the same boundary. Long ago, unknown denizens of the village had used this to map the exact border of the Threshold, which was a meandering, squiggly line which roughly followed the shape of a circle five miles wide, with The Old Stone at the centre.

That being said, hardly anybody ever visited Tidby, and fewer still moved in. Almost nobody left either, and the only way most people ever moved away from the village was by moving on from the living world.

Objects cast no second shadow, nor animals or buildings or trees. Even the dead lost their second shadow; only living people were granted this stranger property.

For most, it was a mild curiosity, a strange little phenomenon that the village held, but since it had no meaningful impact on day-to-day life, and seemed to have no quantifiable explanation, it was left as just that; a curiosity. Life continued as normal, ordinary people going about their ordinary days.

That is, until Emma arrived. She had heard tell of the strange village with the second shadows, and had come to see for herself if the tales were true; if indeed the people of this place all had impossible shadows.

She arrived from Durham, journal in hand, ready to research her hypotheses and prove to her tutors at the university that she was a serious student, and that the investigation of supposedly fantastical phenomena was indeed a worthwhile cause.

Having mapped out the village and its farms already, and drawn out exactly the course of the Threshold, she prepared herself as she walked down that narrow country lane, lone suitcase trailing behind, and stopped on the edge of that inexplicable boundary.

In just a moment, she would take a step forwards, and when she looked north, so she hoped, a second shadow would be beside her.

Excitement and trepidation battled with turmoil in her heart, anxiety and whimsy mixing and colliding, and with a single step, eyes fixed on the ground to her right, she stepped forth...

And nothing. No shadow. The one pointing roughly north-east, which had followed her all the way from Durham, cast by the Sun in the afternoon light, that was still there of course. But the new second shadow?

Nothing.

No... no, it couldn’t be! The stories were all lies? A local legend that was just... categorically untrue? No!

She almost dropped her journal and collapsed to the ground in disbelief. Head hung in shame, she turned to continue her trek into town. She would stay in the lodgings she had booked for tonight, and then cut her trip short and leave in the morning, empty-handed and ridiculed.

And as she turned, she saw it.

Not pointing north, as she had hoped.

But south!

With a gasp she jumped back and really did drop her journal. She couldn’t believe it!

She had... she had a second shadow! But... why was hers pointing the wrong way?

Was it because she was an outsider? Was it because she was here to research the phenomenon? No... there had never been any tale or legend in any of the literature she had read about a southward-pointing shadow. She was, to her knowledge, the first.

She picked her things back up, straightened her back, and set off down the lane. Just another question to add to the heaps that her research was set to answer. Time to find the truth of this strange little village.

***

Emma received a suspicious look from everyone she met as she walked into the village. At first she thought it was perhaps her city clothes, signalling her status as an outsider to the people of Tidby, but there was an element of worry and confusion and... fear... in their eyes. She wasn’t just a city girl and an outsider to them, she was something completely alien.

It had to be her shadow. These people were so used to the impossible northward-pointing shadow at all times for everyone they met that her southward one must have stuck out like a sore thumb! It wasn’t until she reached the inn, where she had a room booked for the month, that anybody actually spoke to her.

“Emma Crane, I have a room booked for the month?” she said with a smile to the innkeeper.

She didn’t even look at her books, simply staring in confusion and horror at the stranger. “No, you don’t.”

“I do,” Emma said with a frown. “I called ahead weeks ago, you sent a response. Emma Crane, one room for the next thirty days, booked and paid for in advance.”

“Wrong place, love,” the innkeeper just said, eyes not daring look away for a moment.

“I... you didn’t even look at your books,” Emma pouted.

“Don’t need to. You have no room here,” the innkeeper said forcefully.

Emma glared at the woman.

“I’d like to speak to the owner of this establishment,” she said anxiously through gritted teeth. She was in the right place. She knew she was. She had checked and triple checked in her communications, possibly with this very woman, that she had indeed booked accommodation at The White Fox Inn, Tidby.

“I am the owner,” the woman said coldly. “And there’s no room for you here.”

Emma bit back a retort. “May I please then book lodgings, at least for tonight?”

“Can’t, we’re fully booked,” the woman said, terrified stare still maintained.

“Yes, and one of the rooms is mine,” Emma grumbled under her breath. “Well, this is entirely inappropriate conduct. I’m going to report this, may I take your name?”

“You most certainly may not take my name,” the woman replied a little too quickly. “It’s mine and you can’t have it! There’s no room for you here, none at all, now be on your way, good day!”

Seeing no further point in continuing the conversation, Emma decided simply to leave.

“What a strange thing to say,” she murmured to herself. “You can’t have my name. Who says such things?”

“Pay her no mind, dear,” an older woman greeted her, approaching seemingly out of nowhere as Emma began to trudge away from the inn.

“Oh, good afternoon,” Emma greeted the stranger, curtsying politely. The woman raised a gentle brow, but did not question the greeting.

“May I ask what your name is?” the strange woman asked, “and, if you should happen to know, why your shadow may point in the wrong direction?”

“I am Emma Crane,” she smiled, “and I confess, I haven’t a clue why my shadow should point in the wrong direction.”

“Would you like to?” the old woman asked, and Emma’s eyes widened as the opportunity for research began so readily to present itself.

“I would very much like to know, both why my shadows may be different, and indeed every other detail of this village and its unique phenomenon!” Emma grinned ear-to-ear with excitement.

“If you would accompany me?” the old woman invited, and Emma followed eagerly as they began to meander through the village, eventually reaching a quiet cottage near the edge of the settlement. The old woman unlocked and opened the door, and Emma politely waited to be invited in.

“Please, come into my home,” the old woman said, and Emma dutifully did as directed, crossing the threshold, and leaving her suitcase in the corner as indicated.

Her host led her into the front room and quickly went to make a pot of tea, which she brought back within mere moments, sitting down in an armchair, while Emma perched on the edge of a settee, notebook and pencil in hand.

“Why does my shadow point the wrong way?” Emma asked excitedly, fresh notes already scribbled upon her pages.

“I cannot say for certain just yet, my dear,” the old woman hedged, “but if I may ask you a few questions, I have my suspicions and I would like to confirm them before I say anything for certain. May I ask you a few things?”

“By all means,” Emma smiled.

“Your shadow appeared as you crossed the Threshold, yes? And you’ve never had a second shadow before then?” the old woman asked, and Emma nodded vehemently. The old woman nodded slowly and smiled, then continued, “if I may be so personal in my asking, were you... for lack of a better word, different as a child? Or perhaps... your parents noticed a sudden change in you as a toddler?”

Emma frowned. What a peculiar question to ask. She didn’t see how it could help answer her own questions, but she also didn’t understand how a whole village could have magic shadows, so she just trusted in this old woman to be able to help. “I’m afraid I don’t know. I was adopted when I was five, and nobody knows where I came from before that. I was given up to an orphanage at the age of three. I am told that I begged for my mother, that I said she had abandoned me there, but... I cannot remember it. I have no idea therefore what I was like as a young child, or why I was given up.”

“If I may be so rude as to speculate,” the old woman said slowly, “is it possible your mother found that you had changed suddenly, becoming like a different child altogether, and that is why you were given up?”

Emma tried to mask her great offense at these intrusive questions, and nodded slowly. “I cannot say if it is so, but certainly that is possible.”

The old woman nodded thoughtfully as she poured a cup of tea from the pot and handed it to her guest. “Do you know if you were born here?”

“I do not know where I was born, but I grew up in Durham, and it has always been presumed that that is my birthplace. Please, what is the point of these questions?” Emma protested, growing impatient as she sipped her tea.

“Then I know why your shadow points the wrong way, child,” the old woman sighed. “Allow me to tell you a story, if I may. It will take but a moment, and I hope will illuminate for you many answers to your questions. You are familiar with the Threshold and The Old Stone at its centre, yes? We do not speak often of these things, but there are legends and old stories, that The Old Stone casts the shadows as a warning to us. Friends’ shadows point northwards. Foes’, south. I had a daughter, a number of years ago now, named Edith. When she was seventeen, she was foolish, and found herself with child. In time, she gave birth to a little girl, my granddaughter, whom she named Emma. Emma was a sweet child, a bright little thing, all shy and yet curious. One day, three years or so later, Edith took Emma to the edge of the Old Woods for a picnic by the stream. For a few moments, Edith lost track of her little girl, but found her again, playing in the mud, singing and talking to herself. Panicked at the thought that her infant could have drowned, Edith came straight home. It was only as they came inside, however, that they realised it. Emma’s shadow now pointed south. We tried to dismiss it, tried to pretend nothing was wrong, but the shadow was not all that had changed. Emma’s temperament, indeed her entire personality, had changed. She was loud now, and anxious, easily disturbed by many things, and quick to anger, yet slow to calm. In time, we knew the truth. We could not deny it any longer. Emma was gone. The thing my daughter brought home was not my granddaughter. A Changeling. I took Edith and the creature east, to Durham, where we left it at an orphanage in the middle of the night. We could not bring ourselves to harm the child, but we could love it neither. Guilt, all the same, consumed Edith, and four years later she... my daughter, my Edith, she... grief-stricken, I made a vow. I would find the thing that replaced my granddaughter, and took my little girl from me, and I would destroy it. Yet, that very night, I suffered a stroke. I have not had the strength to leave the village since. Until today, I thought my vow could not be fulfilled. But then I heard rumour, of a foe, of one calling herself Emma whose shadow pointed the wrong way. You may not remember what you are, or what you did. But I remember, Changeling. Fae! I made a vow. And now it is complete. By now, I am sure your stomach has started to turn. Your breathing will fail in a few moments, then your heart, and then you will join my Edith and my Emma in the next world, if your kind are permitted to do so.”

The old woman stood, poured herself a cup of tea, and sat back down.

Emma couldn’t speak. She could barely breath. As the stranger had spoken, she had felt the invisible knives twisting in her stomach. The tea... she’d been poisoned. Her... grandmother? Her birth grandmother?

Bile and the stench of blood rose in her throat, and Emma had to fight not to vomit. Her lungs closed themselves, refusing any longer to take in air, and her eyes pleaded with the old woman, who downed her own cup in one.

“You can rest now, Emma, Edith. You are avenged. I killed it,” the old woman smiled, closing her eyes and leaning back. “I killed it at last.”

Emma collapsed forwards, vision fading. Except she wasn’t Emma, was she? Somehow, what the old woman said... it had made sense. Memories had returned to her as they were spoken and she somehow knew... the old woman was right. She was right...

Emma... wasn’t Emma.

And she never had been.

Her mind faded away, and she felt her body fall still.

She had no idea who or what she really was, and now... now she never would...

***

You turn away from your captor and narrator as you return to reality, if this endless nightmare is truly reality.

“Please,” you ask, “for God’s sake, that wasn’t bittersweet, that was just sad!”

“But she finally learned who and what she was,” Midnight said, seemingly confused. “Bitter for her death, sweet for her revelation. No?”

“No!” you shout at it. “Just… no!”

Midnight seems to almost hang its head in shame. It seems incapable of finding happy stories, and yet it does want to please you.

You almost feel bad for it. This eldritch horror that gathers nightmares. Almost.

“Come,” it says eventually. “Let us walk and speak.”