Words & Wonders: Story- Before Dark
Ah, my afficionados of the aberrant, hmmm-yes, here is a creepy little tale about a young man who made a misbegotten foray into the blackwoods to visit his good friend. Inspired by an Appalachian haint tale my Pa-Pa spun years ago, it is a whimsical teaser into the stories the original TTRPG fiction, I call Häxanburg Horror.
Before Dark
by T. Glenn Bane
Scott let the beat‑up Mustang drift to a stop at the edge of the Blackwood, loud music blaring from the radio as the V6 finally died. He pounded his fists against the vinyl‑wrapped steering wheel, growling profanity through clenched teeth, then grabbed his phone and shoved the door open as he climbed out.
Across the road, on the porch of a farmhouse, a figure watched him, silhouetted against the sputtering glow of a single hanging bulb.
Scott stepped into the road and started toward the house. Without hesitation, the watcher withdrew inside and shut off the light.
Shaking his head, Scott raised his phone and sent a text to his friend, Fletch—a brief but impassioned explanation that he’d broken down but would still make it there somehow. Scott had a reputation for always being late. He wasn’t going to miss this visit for anything. He’d heard Fletch talk about this historic, old‑world city often enough. Now he’d see it for himself, show Fletch how to light the town up, and break him out of his too‑rigid, by‑the‑book shell.
The old porch‑dweller’s hound padded across the road, halting now and then to sniff at the abandoned car and the stranger loitering on the edge of its small world. Scott ignored the dog. What good was it?
He flipped to his maps app, glancing up in irritation as Molly Hatchet faded out along with the radio. One headlight was still on, but it flickered weakly. His phone buzzed—Fletch’s reply.
Don’t walk alone. It’s dangerous. Stay in the car. Where are you, exactly?
Scott checked the map again. He was five miles from Locking Road, but only three from the Häxanburg city limits if he cut through one of the bike trails. He smiled as he replied.
Like hell. I’ll call you back once I’m in Häxanburg.
He couldn’t tell if the message sent before the battery died.
“Well, there’s that,” he said, stuffing the phone into the pocket of his ragged blue jeans.
He jogged south along the road until he reached the wooden sign marking the bike trail, the hound following at a careful distance. Scott glanced into the woods.
Man, it gets dark fast in Appalachia. Still, it was a cool spring night, and the trail lights were on. Scott was never good at waiting around. He got moving.
A high‑pitched whine from the hound followed him as he turned onto the trail. When he glanced back, the skinny dog stood wide‑eyed at the trailhead, unwilling to move deeper into the darkness. Scott had the distinct sense the hound was staring at something else—something beyond him. Its tail was tucked low. Then, all at once, it bolted back toward the farmhouse.
“Weird,” Scott muttered. “Well, Fletch, I hope you’ve got beers in the fridge.”
He grinned faintly. Fletch never had anything but milk or fruit juice.
He picked up his pace, settling into a steady jog. Years of football told him this was nothing.
And yet—though Scott had never paid much heed to such things—he could not shake the oppressive gloom of the forest pressing in around him. A quiet fear crept up his spine, unfamiliar and unwelcome. He felt very small then, the way he might have as a boy, standing before something too old and too large to notice him at all.
The forest rose along the edges of the trail, invasively close. Great oaks stood like a phalanx of black‑robed giants, looming and watchful. The weight of their ancient presence bore down on him, their darkness pooling thickly behind their trunks. The bike trail stretched ahead between them—narrower now, less straight than it had first appeared. Twisted roots and loose stones snared his feet as he ran, each misstep threatening to cast him hard onto the ground.
For the first time, Scott understood how small he was.
He slowed. Then he stopped.
He should have been able to see the lights of Häxanburg by now. There was nothing—no glow, no sign of civilization.
As much as he hated to admit it, he might be lost.
Scott turned to retrace his steps toward the car.
Behind him was only a wall of black. Every trail light was gone.
He stood silent, staring into it.
That way was impossible—desolate, inky darkness with no bottom. He turned back. Ahead of him, a single trail light still glowed.
He ran.
After barely three steps, the light shifted—tilted unnaturally—and vanished into the woods.
Cold darkness collapsed in around him from every direction.
The Next Day
The young police officer glanced over his notebook at old Mr. Farnsworth. Farnsworth’s hound sniffed curiously at the officer’s freshly polished shoes.
“He came outta that car just before sundown,” Farnsworth said, answering Officer Frye’s question. “Cut’n a fool. Wavin’ his arms. Cussin’ man, God, and his mama’s good gravy. I wanted no part of it, so I went inside. Daisy‑Maisy here followed him a ways.”
Officer Frye nodded. “He should have stayed in the car. It isn’t safe to walk alone.” He crouched and patted Daisy‑Maisy’s head. “You never saw him come back?”
“Nope.” Farnsworth swallowed. “No tellin’ where he ended up.”
Frye straightened, checking his phone. “Well, that figures. A Fletcher Comstock called dispatch this morning. Says his friend broke down out here.” He looked toward the Mustang. “Black coupe. Name of Scott Mathews.”
The woods did not answer.
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