In the deep dark wood
Written for The Spook Me Multi-Fandom Halloween Ficathon 2018
My creature is the baba yaga. The fandom is Supernatural. But my true inspiration came from this John Wick scene.
Word Count: 615
Summary: Telling tales around the campfire turns to terror. The Winchesters strike fear into those that cause our nightmares. Outsider p.o.v.
on AO3
The wind howled through the barren trees, their branches rattling like bones. Clouds raced over head playing hide and seek with the moon. In a clearing stood a clapboard cabin that had weathered nearly two hundred winters. Inside three figures huddled by the fireplace for warmth.
Two were much older than they looked, for the passing of years didn’t age their skin. The third was younger, a mere lad compared to the others.
Like all males of a certain type, they were sharing grandiose tales by exaggerating their own importance.
“I heard that beast they drive, for there’s no mistaking that growl, and I got the hell out of there,” the oldest said as he finished the last of his ale.
The second one stuck out his chin. “I faced ‘em once.”
“Bullshit you did,” the oldest snapped. “If you’da faced them, yer head’d be separated from yer body.”
“No it’s true, I tell ya. In fact, I knocked the younger one out cold,” he argued.
“Bullshit I say.”
Being called out, he relented. “Okay truth be told, I got lucky and a heavy shelf fell on him. When his brother went to check on him, I ran as fast as my feet could take me.”
The three guffaw loudly. “That’s more like it. You surely did get lucky, then. No one who’s met them stays alive for long,” said the eldest adding another log to the fire.
A hunched figure approached them carrying a steaming pot. It’s gnarled spotted hand reached for their bowls and refilled them with a stew that contained the bones of a small child. It set the pot on the hearth and brushed strands scraggly grey hair out of its ancient wizened face. “Their father was just as bad. Chased me through two states. He’s why I have these scars.” A bony finger pointed at a fissure that ran the length of its face. “Left me for dead at the bottom of a mine shaft. I survived by eatin’ insects and vermin.”
The third one, the youngest one, scuffed his boot on the ground. “Why don’t we just go kill ‘em? There’s five of us, counting the women, and only two of them. You talk like they’re baba yaga.”
“Are you serious, boy? Haven’t you been listenin’? They are the deadliest creatures on the planet, ruthless and unrelenting. They’ve killed angels and demons alike. They are what is summoned to kill the baba yaga,” the old one bellowed.
“They’ve killed gods,” the second one added.
The oldest pointed at him as he proves his argument. “They even killed Lucifer himself. Surely you’re not thinkin’ you’re greater than Lucifer! Stay away from the woods by Lebanon. If you don’t, you’ll wind up as dead as every other poor creature the Winchesters have hunted.”
“Neither Heaven nor Hell can save you if you only kill one of them,” the old crone whispered.
Two figures crept through the barren moonlit woods, silently making their way to the cabin. The razor sharp edge of the blades they carried glinted in the moonlight. At the clearing they separated, one to the front of the cabin, one to the back.
Inside the cabin the old crone’s head jerked up as if she smelled something on the breeze. “Too late!” she screeched as the doors were shattered by the kick of heavy boots.
Machetes sliced through ancient flesh. Consecrated iron from shotgun blasts decimated bodies.
Moments later carcasses were heaped into a pile. The pile was doused with kerosene and set aflame taking their evil and leaving the cabin smoldering into ash.
The two figures made their way back to the black shiny beast and their home near Lebanon.