The Horseshoe Inn
an underside tale by Geneviève Laprise
Not to compete with the Super Bowl, for those of you in America or care about such things; or church, for those who believe in an other side, not just the underside; or sleep, for those trying to catch up on an off day. But! We have a story!
So, since it’s early, maybe we won’t interfere with the first two, and I promise you can catch up on your sleep while the Super Bowl is on.
Warning! Not for the faint of heart. Creepy crawlies and paranormals.
The Horseshoe Inn
by Geneviève Laprise
According to legend, the ghost town of Stadacona had been on track to become the region's metropolis, until the villagers vanished without a trace on the night of the summer solstice. Some said a virus decimated the population, while others theorised supernatural forces were at work.
Many people had come and gone trying to demystify the legend. Those who dared to venture into Stadacona on the summer solstice reported sightings of the weeping lady, Marie-Blanche, and have turned back. Those who have not heeded the ominous warning of the lady vanished.
All the books Jayssen read agreed that seeing Marie-Blanche thrice before sunrise would spell doom. So being a curious and fearless man, he decided to find out what happened to the wretched villagers on the seventy-fifth anniversary of the scourge of Stadacona.
After riding for half a day on his snow-white mare, Khione, Jayssen finally left the lush green forest behind. As they approached the village, the scorching sun was high in the midday sky. Small critters ran across the worn path, and birds sang in the early afternoon sun. While making their way down the small hill, the eerie stillness of Stadacona waited for them.
Even in the sweltering heat, Jayssen shivered when Khione stopped and stood stock-still. He was compelled to look back at the way they had come. His wide-brimmed hat kept the sun’s glare out of his eyes.
A ghostly figure appeared on the hillcrest as waves of heat washed over it. Then, it vanished as fast as it had appeared.
Jayssen hesitated just outside the village. He wouldn’t let an apparition stop him. He needed an explanation for this mystery.
Tick-tick-tick
Startled, Khione whinnied and pulled at the leads in Jayssen’s hands, breaking his trance. Then, rearing on her hind legs, she almost threw him off the saddle.
“Whoa! Hush now, Khione. Calm down. Everything’s all right,” he comforted the majestic mare, petting her affectionately. “I know, I know. I’ve come prepared. Don’t worry, my friend,” he added. “Let’s find a place to settle in for the night.”
The horse reluctantly pressed on, muscles twitching nervously as they continued into the village. Every house they passed was in various states of disrepair, with lawns littered with brush and twigs. The leafless trees cast long shadows in the street like bony fingers reaching for the travelers. Khione snorted her displeasure, walking where the ominous fingers could not touch her.
Jayssen pushed the heels of his brown leather boots into Khione’s flanks, who stopped in front of a large, two-story wooden building. A sign that read the Horseshoe Inn hung crookedly from a post above the door. It creaked loudly as it swayed in the gentle breeze, breaking the silence.
Jayssen dismounted and stroked Khione’s neck. The horse neighed nervously. Then, unhooking the saddlebags, he fetched a bag of oats, which he emptied into a bucket next to the water-filled trough. The horse eagerly lapped up the water, then started on her evening meal, while Jayssen removed the saddle and blanket from her back. Then, rummaging in the saddlebag, he found her brush and began brushing his mount.
Tick-tick-tick
Jayssen stopped and scanned the area for a threat. Khione’s head rose, ears flat, and she pawed at the ground. Then, as the sun’s light began fading, Jayssen gathered his courage. Better get inside before the night fell, and take advantage of the little light remaining. Tying the leads to a tie-down weight, Jayssen comforted Khione.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I’ll be right in there.” He pointed to the door to the building. “I have my shotgun and my hunting knife with me.” He showed the weapons to the mare, but it didn’t help her nervous pawing. “I’ll be back in the morning. If I’m not, go home,” he instructed Khione.
Throwing the saddlebags over his shoulder, Jayssen made his way up to the porch. The stairs creaked under his weight. Looking back to Khione one last time, he saw the apparition again. It was the weeping lady standing near his horse. Clad in a white gown, her ebony hair floated around her pale face like a halo. Her dark eyes bore into his soul. The apparition sighed and vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. Jayssen knew that he was on the right track.
However, concern knotted his brow as he moved to a dark, dirty window and peered inside. He saw the outline of a typical tavern. Walking to the old wooden door, he pushed it open and stepped across the threshold.
Khione neighed a warning, but it was cut short when the door swung closed behind him. A wave of vertigo hit Jayssen, and his heart hammered against his chest. A cold sweat caused his body to quake, and his knees threatened to buckle. Jayssen reached back to steady himself.
“What in the name of all the Saints?” he exclaimed.
Jayssen rummaged through his saddlebag, pulled out a small torch, and lit it with a match. Then, looking at the wall behind him, he gasped.
Gone. The door and windows had disappeared, replaced by a solid wooden wall. There had to be some magic at play.
Having planned for anything, Jayssen pulled out a jar from his bag. He popped the cork, dipped his index finger in the viscous liquid, and drew the rune for reveal and open on the wall.
Nothing.
Tick-tick-tick
Jayssen spun around, illuminating the Inn holding the torch in front of him. Large bulbous cocoons covered every corner of the room. Some dangled from the ceiling like giant chandeliers lit by hundreds, if not thousands, of tiny golden eyes.
“Aww, shit,” mumbled Jayssen, raising his shotgun before him. He gulped, watching the tiny creatures crawl around their chrysalis as they swayed gently to an unheard melody. Although he felt more confident with his shotgun and knife, he still trembled in disgust and fear.
Lowering his gaze, he found a thin film of dust covering the area and long dried puddles of liquid scattered throughout. A bar stood at the far end of the Inn, and to its right were wooden stairs, no doubt leading to the rooms.
A beautiful translucent woman clad in gowns of white, her dark hair falling over her shoulders, stood on the middle step of the wooden staircase. The apparition’s delicate hands rested on the railing. She looked identical to the images he had seen of her in his books. The one they called Marie-Blanche mouthed the words I'm sorry as tears rolled down her cheeks. The spirit pointed across the bar.
Following her gaze, he saw a vintage piano standing on a dais. A tall bald man in a tweed jacket sat on the bench before the instrument, his shoulders hunched forward and head hung low.
Beads of sweat began forming on Jayssen’s brow. If the legend were true, he would die here, before sunrise. He had seen Marie-Blanche thrice already. He gulped the fear down and cautiously weaved through the Inn, avoiding the puddles and overturned tables and chairs.
A floorboard creaked. Jayssen stopped and winced, keeping his gaze on the back of the piano man. Then, confident he had gone unnoticed, he continued, avoiding shattered porcelain plates as the hairs on his arms raised.
Tick-tick-tick
Shadows of spiders cast on the walls moved quickly about. Jayssen tightened his grip on the shotgun, thankful he had brought it with him. Taking precautions, he had pre-emptively filled the silver shells with salt and dipped them into holy water. Then, finally, demon traps were carved onto each one. One could never be too careful, especially in his line of work.
Tick-tick-tick
Tss-tss-tss
Drops fell from the cocoons. Jayssen watched the liquid as it bubbled and burned a hole through the floorboards. Then, bringing his gaze back to the pianist, he thought he saw him shift in his seat.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
The man seemed to straighten out as his brown tweed jacket began undulating.
“Aw, damn it,” muttered Jayssen, as he cocked his shotgun. “Turn around slowly. No funny business or I'll take your head off!”
The pianist did not turn nor show any sign of understanding the instructions. Instead, Jayssen was met with a grunt, whisper-like sighs, and a frantic ticking sound as the pianist lifted his head.
Plunk
A dark sound emerged from the piano. Was the man going to play him a tune? he wondered. The pianist’s shoulders had not moved, nor did the pale hands hanging limply by his side. How was this possible?
Stealing a glance from whence he came, hoping to find an exit revealed, Jayssen cussed. Trapped. There had to be a way out!
Tick-tick-tick-tick
The sound drew his attention back to the man. A shiver ran up and down Jayssen’s spine as he went through his mental checklist. Not a ghost or evil spirit, as the room was not cold, and the man was not translucent. Possession? Or a demon? Nothing he couldn’t handle; he had the demon trap and holy water.
Plunk, came the sound again. The tweed jacket stretched across the man’s shoulders until the seams pulled dangerously across his back and finally ripped.
The pianist’s head turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. Jayssen felt a wave of nausea wash over him. His fight-or-flight instinct kicked in, once the pianist’s fluorescent green eyes opened—all twenty of them.
“What the hell?” muttered Jayssen.
He stumbled back. The creature hissed, its long white fangs dripping venom and snake-like tongue tasting the air. Two pairs of spindly, razor-sharp appendages burst from its bare torso while one pair danced across the piano keys.
Instinctively, Jayssen fired the shotgun. Unimpeded by the massive hole in its middle, the thing stood from the bench as its spindly legs moved across the piano keys. Not a demon, not a ghost, not possessed and clearly not a zombie. Another whimper escaped Jayssen, and his hands trembled with fear as he tried to reload the weapon. The shells clattered to the floor.
Now backed into a corner, the creature moved toward him, all eyes unblinking focusing on their next meal. The music kept playing even though the beast was halfway across the Inn. Jayssen used the empty shotgun like a club, trying to break through the wooden wall as the pianist approached.
The shotgun was useless, so he dropped it and waved the torch before him, hoping to keep the creature at bay. Then, with his right hand, he unsheathed his hunting knife and wrapped his hand around the hilt, his knuckles turning white.
The chrysalis on either side of him bulged, and tiny spiders busily strung silk filaments that stuck to his vest and loose cotton shirt. He was trapped like a bug in a spider web. Jayssen squirmed and struggled to free himself but made little progress, only succeeding in aggravating the spiders.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick
Suddenly the music stopped. Thousands of spiders swarmed Jayssen, tiny needle-sharp legs stinging through his buckskin pants and shirt. Some crawled into his mouth and ears. Finally, he blew hard through his nostrils, sending arachnids flying.
A cold sweat formed across Jayssen’s body as he cried out in pain. His skin stretched excruciatingly as his body started swelling. Jayssen choked and coughed as his throat began closing up.
So this is how I’ll die, how they had died before me, he thought. He had seen the lady thrice already. He didn’t want to know what came next.
The piano-man smirked as it stood before Jayssen and sent a razor-sharp, acid-dripping appendage flying toward him. Jayssen threw the torch at the beast and sliced the creature’s leg off with his knife, before it met its target. The appendage fell to the floor with a thunk.
Shrugging his white cotton shirt off, he crouched down low, freed from the silky filaments. The creature wailed as it caught fire.
The ticking sounds were replaced by unnerving shrieks from the tiny arachnids bursting into flame. Jayssen cried in pain, as they burned on his skin and inside his nose and ears. His heart thundered in his chest. Yet, even over the cacophony of cries, Jayssen could hear the rhythmic ticking of the beast moving toward him.
The immolated creature roared with glowing rage-filled eyes as it lunged at him. Jayssen’s gaze fixed on the inhuman spider-beast as a sense of defeat and hopelessness washed over him. The thing’s lips curled into a terrible snarl as two new appendages replaced the severed one.
This creature, whatever it was, couldn’t be killed. Not by him. Tonight he would die. He resigned himself to this simple truth. With tears in his eyes, Jayssen curled into a foetal position on the hard wooden floor. Hands wrapped around his head, he squeezed his eyes closed and waited for the death blow. But the final blow never came.
Instead, he felt hands grasp his shoulders and tug him back. A bizarre tingly sensation spread through him as though he had been dozing and awoke suddenly from a nightmare. All his pain was gone, and silence surrounded him. His ears adjusted to his new surroundings, and he heard familiar heavy breathing. Cautiously, Jayssen opened his eyes.
“Khione!” he cried joyfully as he saw his mare standing where he had left her. The horse whinnied in response.
“You're safe now,” came a female voice.
Jayssen’s attention turned to the woman in white standing next to him on the porch of the Horseshoe Inn. Marie-Blanche, who usually wept, smiled gently at him. She extended a hand to help him to his feet. Reaching for it, he expected his hand to pass through hers, but it was solid. He grasped it and stood.
A sense of peace washed over him as he watched her.
“I am so very sorry, Milady. I should have heeded your warnings, but—”
“It’s over now,” she answered.
Then, as they made their way down the stairs of the Horseshoe Inn, Jayssen hesitated and started to look back.
“Don’t look back, Jayssen,” she warned.
This time, he heeded her wisdom. The events of the night were best left forgotten. Walking over to Khione, he stroked the space between her eyes, and her knowing blue eyes closed in delight.
“Hey girl, it’s all right. I made it to sunrise. We can go home now.”
With a snort, the horse whinnied and trotted away, the light tie-down weight dragging behind her.
“Come with me. Your torment is over,” encouraged Marie-Blanche.
Jayssen smiled at her, and together they walked, hand in hand, to the hillcrest where he had first glimpsed her. As the new day awoke and the sun slowly began its journey across the sky, it painted the heavens pink, orange, purple and blue. Holding hands, they smiled at each other as a tear rolled down her cheek. With his index finger, Jayssen wiped it away.
Marie-Blanche sighed as a gentle summer breeze caught her hair. The world awoke, the sky burning bright orange. Then, looking into her calm dark eyes, they disappeared together.
Meet the author:
Geneviève is a writer, mother and military wife who lives in Canada. She has published three short stories in 2022, Osparama, Behind the Veil, and Our Song on Coldopenstories.com, where she volunteers as the community lead and proofreader for the anthologies. She is studying editing at a Canadian university.
Geneviève has found the underside through her love of fiction, mythology, and the supernatural.
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