Good evening young ones. On this eve of Halloween, I would like to share with you a story most foul. Those who believe know few have survived encounters with the infamous Grey Lady, the witch known as Gamall who haunts the shrouded forest of Duskwood. Below is an account by one such soul, who insists on her existence due to the trauma he experienced as a boy…
The “Horror of Duskwood”, said by many as though it were the sole horror in this accursed forest, only ever compelled me to the recollection of a memory I was incapable of putting to rest. Fear was driven into the hearts of everyone I’ve lived alongside in the town of Darkshire, but my own fear came to me at a much earlier age, all beginning with a children’s play I attended long before the First War within the neighboring ivory tower of Karazhan.
It was the eve of my birthday in my youth that I was brought along to the mysterious castle with my family. We traversed the canyon cliffs far beyond the edge of the forest, which now dissipating in the fog behind our carriage looked homely in comparison. The jagged stones and dead trees were numerous, waiting around every sharp turn as if to warn us of the unknown we plunged ourselves into. My mother Moira seemed stressed during the trip, attempting to bury her emotions in an excess of genteel manners and quaint attempts at conversation to my father Artemus. His responses were quick and caustic though, each word spoken as if annoyed or impatient. Her attention then turned to me in curiosity of my presumed excitement, and despite my manners at the age of thirteen being adept, I ignored my mother’s efforts at conversation and peered almost helplessly in worry at the blackened stone tower which loomed defiantly over the gnarled fissure that was Deadwind Pass.
We arrived at the entrance to the tower, crossing through a hamlet that stood at the foot of the castle almost as a novelty. The smiling folk we passed were especially spirited in comparison to anyone I’ve met at the time, their joy being palpable as we waved back to them. A quiet and reserved man named Berthold showed us from our carriage to the entryway of the tower, and offered to take our overcoats before showing us to the event shortly after. We began traversing the halls alongside him and several other guests, and all the while I couldn’t help but feel as though several-hundred eyes were all fixated on me. It was a tense feeling that sank into my heart fast, but worse then was that I seemed alone in having it, for none around me had any change in expression as we proceeded. Another swift discomfort came when a stir of words and music poured through the grand ballroom, the dancers acting as a sieve of sound drowning out the possibility of any silence I so desired. We then reached the opera hall at last, and I began counting down the hours and minutes to when I could finally be home, finally away from the strangeness of the tower and it’s denizens. My perceptive father soon noticed my agitation, and began to lecture me on appreciation for attending. I dared not provoke his frustration, thus agreeing and trying my damnedest to dispose of my delusions. The hall then roared with applause at the arrival of a man who introduced the show. He spoke of the play passionately, and although the name of it left my mind, I remember vividly the excitement the other children showed in his announcements. Surely a tale of a girl and her dog finding their way home with the help of their friends must be an enjoyable story to any child. While it seemed the night would be joyous however, the feeling of being watched never left me, and solitude slowly became something I craved no longer.
The story moved along quite steadily if I recall, a strange tale that later included other characters of equal interest to children, such as a man made of tin, and one made of straw. There was a lion too, one that stood up on two legs and spoke with cowardice and klutz. Many laughs were heard, and even I joined in on the fun for a time, pushing aside the paranoia that gripped me. However, it wasn’t until the play neared it’s end that the joy began receding once more, for something seemed amiss. It was almost as if I was being pulled away from it all, a creeping feeling that perhaps I was in the center of a crowd of oblivious fools, that we were all nearing some kind of trap that was set accordingly along with the event. The actors on stage soon appeared to play along as well, almost acting as bait for whatever awaited us. It was absurd to consider, but impossible to shake from my mind. As everyone watched and laughed on, I began to recoil in horror as the show climaxed. Suddenly the eyes I had felt earlier returned in a flash, watching me from unseen balconies and peering with anticipation. I looked around profusely at everyone in the crowd, praying that I’d see some other man, woman or child that had been feeling the same way as I have, feeling the same terror that clawed at my mind over and over again. How sudden these delusions were no longer mattered, for I was certain that I must be alone in having them. And as overpowering as the feeling was, nothing prepared me for the arrival of what was next. In a flash of smoke and sparks that quickly cleared, a sinister figure in a black tattered robe and pointed hat appeared on stage. A foul green complexion adorned her crooked face, and worse still, glowing blue eyes as bright as the stage lights. And for a moment in her twisted and vile speech that poured from her with such wickedness, she turned her head slowly towards me, almost unnaturally, and shouted words that were screamed in my mind, so invasively as if she had me by the throat: “IT WILL ALL BE OVER SOON!”
Immediately my head filled with hundreds of displaced voices, all laughing and mocking me as I dashed from the theater, palms pressed against my ears and eyes welling with tears as the audience stared ahead in complete absence of my terror. The laughter however was grossly overpowered by the witch’s cackling, endlessly screaming as though she was right behind me. I grew thankful that my legs had the strength to carry myself through the crooked halls of horror that seemed to grip me with every turn I made, for no matter where I moved or how fast I ran, that maniacal voice incised me with intense influence. The thought of my parents left me, the thought of embarrassment left me, and I finally made it out of the tower, bathed in moonlight with several stewards peering in concern. The voices stopped, the horrors that followed me recoiling as if they were pulled back inside. My parents soon dashed behind me, my mother with a face of worry and my father disgusted and eyeing around nervously for any onlookers he could reassure that nothing was wrong. And even with all the passion I could muster to recount to them what I truly felt in that tower, it was lost to them, all of it replaced with a disappointment that lingered for a long while soon after. We all left that tower with dispersed feelings, and I had many nightmares the following nights that I never dared recount to them. From then on I knew I’d always remember Karazhan, and I’ll always remember that hag and her shrill voice ringing in my head.