To start things off, here is my entry. I could have continued to polish it for some time, but that might require the other 45,000 words of the novel that I think it wanted to be.

It was the spring of 1825, and Dushenka was eleven when she woke to
darkness. The fever had broken in the night; but when she awoke, the
exhausted girl had no sense of time, only of a dull ache in her limbs
and a dry, cracked throat. She heard movement in the room. "M-Mother?"
she croaked.

"She’s awake. Thank God." The voice of her father. A hand grasped her
face and opened her mouth. "Her tongue’s still bright red, but her eyes
look better."

 "Father?"

"Lie still, Dushya." her mother soothed. "You will be all right. I’ll bring you some cooled tea." Her mother bustled away.

 "Father?"

"Yes, daughter?"

"What time is it?"

"Morning, child."

"Please draw the curtains. Why are you sitting here in the dark?"

A sharp intake of breath from her father. "What do you mean, Dushya? The curtains are wide."

"Then why is it still dark?" she pressed.

A moment passed, then outside the door the sound of breaking china. "Oh, please, God! No!" her mother wailed.

 ***

Some weeks later, Dushenka was sent from the small house she had
known in Ulyanovka to her great-aunt’s home in St Petersburg. She was
guided carefully from the coach to the doorstep surrounded by the
sounds of a noisy street. Somewhere nearby was a market, with vendors
shouting the merits of their wares, and the rumbling of wheels and
clopping of hooves was incessant. All of these sounds intruded on
Dushya’s awareness, but aroused no interest. The despondent girl was
introduced to her great-aunt, Nadiya Krupkinova, a woman whom she had
never seen in her life. The thought that she never would was her only
miserable distraction from her despondence.

"Your parents could not be expected to care for a child in your
condition, my dear," a cracked voice said. "Here, I have some
experience. We will see what can be made of your life."

Over the next few days, Dushya resisted all efforts to rouse her to any
interest. Despite old woman’s words to the contrary, she knew that it
was only a matter of time before she was sent to one of the blind
schools to work. Her parents had certainly given her up easily enough,
a working family in a tiny farming village could afford little charity,
even at home. So she cooperated with the maid in the minimum, eating
and bathing, but remained resigned to her fate.

Her outlook changed, however, one morning when she was roused by a different voice — male. "Good morning."

She gasped and dragged the covers up to her neck. "Who are you? What are you doing in my room?"

"I am here to provide you with lessons." The voice sounded young and pleasant.

"Sir, I am not dressed!"

"Then perhaps before introductions, I should proceed to the first lesson. Getting dressed shall be your first lesson."

"I cannot. I must call the maid to dress me."

"Goodness me! Have you lost the use of your hands as well, then?" the pleasant voice purred. "Broken an arm perhaps?"

Flushing, Dushya stammered, "I-I can’t see m-my clothes. I’m blind."

"Hmmm… I can’t seem to find them. Do you perhaps know where they might be?" her new teacher asked.

At firs confounded, she thought a moment. "There is a wardrobe over
there," she said, nodding in the direction. "It has a squeaky door."
She paused, then resumed, "But I did not hear it last night, so the
maid must have lain my dress over the chair."

"Good. Your sense, at least, has not deserted you. Do you think you could find it?"

 "Sir?"

"Try," the man said emphatically.

"Sir, if I must dress, I beg you to leave me."

"There is no need, child. I am also blind."

With no response occuring to her, she complied. She rose and made
her way, groping in front of her, to the side of the room. She stubbed
her toe only once on the leg of what felt like a dressing table, then
reached to where the chair should be. Her hands met fabric, the plain
weave of a shift and the heavier texture of a dress below it. She
gathered them and carried them back to the bed. She turned her head to
the voice. "I have my clothes."

"Then dress."

"But I cannot see the buttons!" she complained.

"If your sense has not deserted you, then surely you remember how to
work buttons, child. The maid can correct any errors when she comes."

Blushing heatedly, Dushya felt the tears burning her eyes and sniffled in spite of herself.

"Damn it!" the man said exasperatedly. "If you are embarrassed, then
will you not take your own dignity in hand? Must you be dressed like a
child or will you be a lady?"

Dushya was not sure whether she was more mortified or furious.
Biting her lip, she removed her nightdress over her head, then
struggled to orient the dress. After a long battle with the buttons,
she smoothed the dress.

"Very well. In that case, introductions are in order," the young,
blind man said in a satisfied tone. "I am Mikhail Petrovich Strogolev.
You may address me as Mikhail Petrovich."

"I am pleased to meet you, sir," she said, still blushing. "I am
Dushenka Vasiliyevna Kulikovskaya. My father is of Ulyanovka."

"Well, Dushenka Vasiliyevna," the young man replied seriously, "it
is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I shall return when it is time
for your next lesson. Until, then, please excuse me." His footsteps
proceeded to the door, which opened. As Mikhail Petrovich departed, the
familiar, irregular steps of the maid entered. It was with utter
amazement that the maid found the formerly melancholy girl fully
dressed that morning, if with a few missed buttonholes.

 ***

More lessons followed soon after, with the young girl memorizing the
locations of objects in the room, then walking unaided around the room.
Mikhail remained a quiet but ever-present invigilator of the test,
while Dushya counted her steps silently and proudly pointed out objects
she remembered.

"Good. You have made a beginning," Mikhail Petrovich said simply. "Now
for the rest of the house." The girl’s heart sank as quickly as it had
risen from the praise.

First there was the hallway, and all the objects therein. She
identified an accent table with a basket of dried flowers. She explored
several rooms, including one which held an echo from the ceiling. As
she followed the wall, she ran her fingers lightly over the frame of a
small portrait. She delighted in recognising the strange textures and
shapes of the varied surfaces she discovered. The frame was gilded,
from the cold texture of the paint. The bed was large, with a thick,
laced quilt. She realised that this must be her great-aunt’s room. The
thought of being found exploring her aunt’s possessions dampened her
curiosity, but her joy returned as she realised she remembered the
precise location of the door and her hand found the knob flawlessly.

As she continued down the hallway, she realised that she must be
approaching the stairs. The sounds of the maid working downstairs rose
to her ears, and she concentrated closely on feeling her way along. A
hand gently fell on her shoulder. "Easy, child. You have much to
remember already. Do you think you can remember the number of steps as
you count them?"

Dushya nodded, then blushed as she remembered that Mikhail was blind too. "Yes, Mikhail Petrovich. I will remember."

"Then slowly, child. Put your hand on the rail. Good. Now as you
step down, feel back for the riser and count only those." And they
proceeded downstairs.

Once at the bottom, Mikhail turned to her and asked how many steps.
"Twenty-six," she answered proudly. "Twelve steps down to the landing,"
he corrected,"One forward, turn to the right, then fourteen more down
to the ground. Remember that, and you will not fall." She repeated this
under her breath until it was committed to memory.

"Farewell, little Dushenka," Mikhail said. "I must go until it is time for your next lesson."

"Wait, sir—" she began, but a sharp gasp distracted her.

"Stop there, child! Wait for me. Don’t move!" The maid rushed over. "How did you get down here?"

"By counting the steps," Dushya said proudly. The maid tutted over
her for several moments, then led her to the sitting room, where she
was allowed to sit quietly for an hour, listening to the sounds of St
Petersburg drifting through the open window, before being led despite
her protests back to her room.

 ***

Over the next few weeks, Dushya gradually gained more freedom as she
proved herself capable of things she had learned as a small child. The
maid continually fussed over her, but was firmly overruled when
Dushenka’s great-aunt witnessed her competent exploration of the
parlor. "Let the girl be, Zinaida. She must learn, if she is to have
any chance in life."

As Dushya’s hands brushed across a wide table at the side of the
room, they met several wooden object, stringed instruments. She traced
the shapes of each almost worshipfully. First, a lute. Next was a gudok
like her father played, whose hidden extra strings also sang to the
bow, producing a rich sound she remembered falling asleep to. Then — a
held breath — a violin. She lingered at the small violin, following
the strings with her fingertips.

"Do you play, child?"

"Yes — No. A little. Father was teaching me, Aunt."

"Then please do, dear. It will take my mind off this heat."

Dushya took up the instrument and paused. She could not see her
fingers. Knowing that her aunt was waiting, she thought furiously. She
placed the instrument’s base under her chin and felt the frets of the
neck, feeling for the position of her fingers. Tentatively, She stroked
the strings with the bow. Grimacing at the squeak, she adjusted her
position and tried again. This time a note sounded, not pure, but
better. Her aunt sighed, then rose and moved to the table. Dushya
paused and cocked her head, listening. A small wooden sound alerted her
that her great-aunt had picked up another of the instruments. Dushya
waited as the old woman labored back and sat upon the settee. A minute
later, a rich, mellow tone issued from the gudok, resonant and
poignant. "Can you follow what I do?" her aunt asked. "I will try,"
said Dushya. And as they played in turns, Dushya found a new passion,
hearing the music more clearly than ever before. She had found an
interest in life.

 ***

As summer moved on into autumn and then winter, Dushya found ways of
doing nearly everything she had ever done before, from feeding herself
in a way suitable to polite company (which was accomplished with the
collusion of the maid by placing the food in an agreed pattern, meat at
the bottom) to learning to assist with the cooking. Her aunt read to
her in order to educate her as much as was seemly anyway for a lady,
and even Mikhail Petrovich’s occasional visits involved discussion of
more interesting matters than counting steps and clicking one’s heel
against the floor to judge the size of a room.

Mikhail was very knowledgeable, and his apparent fondness for Dushya
meant that he could be persuaded to share information on various
subjects, even those "above a woman’s head, much less a girl’s." One
day while her aunt lay down upstairs nursing a headache, Dushya even
managed to draw Mikhail into a lesson on the succession following the
recently deceased czar. He balked only when Dushya’s questions turned
to the rumors of rebel republicans that she had recently overheard
through the window of the sitting room. "Why do you bother with such
things, little Dushya?" he asked, laughing. "You trouble yourself about
so many things you will never need to know. Be clever — not a stuffy,
old scholar."

"I have little enough to think about while I sit in the parlor each
day," she retorted. "Unless I wish to think about what will happen when
my aunt dies and I am sent to a blind school, Mikhail Petrovich, or
wonder what will happen when I cannot find a husband who will have me."
Her voice broke. "I hear them talk about me as if I were deaf as well
as blind, Zinaida and her friend the gas-fitter." And the tears began
 quietly.

His voice more serious, Mikhail leaned in close to her. "My little
Dushya, I’m sorry. Just ignore the fools. They are all afraid of the
darkness; while we unlucky few, we learn to walk in it. I was not
always blind. But I was always afraid of the darkness. Let me tell you
something." He leaned close and whispered in her ear. "In the end it
was not until I embraced it that I realized I had feared nothing."

After that, Mikhail’s visits became more frequent again, as
unfortunately did her aunt’s bouts of illness as the winter progressed.

 ***

Soon came the cry of "Revolution!" in the city, frightening every
sensible soul except the adventurous Zinaida. From what Dushya
overheard, Zinaida’s brother, instead of merely being a soldier
returning from the wars, must be a ringleader of the new Republicans,
who would overthrow the czar and begin new era of equity among all men.
But Dushya also heard the distant cannons a few days later and the
maid’s sobbing when she learned of the fate of her brother. The rebels
had been beaten, the survivors imprisoned or dispersed and the new czar
Nicholas reigned. The remnants of the discontent resorted to rioting in
pockets of the city when they could, then fleeing. The city was
beginning to forget about the Decembrists.

It was early in January when Dushya awoke again to Mikhail’s voice.
"Wake up, Dushya!" he cried. "Wake up. There is a fire. Warn your aunt!
Hurry!" Disoriented, Dushya shook her head, snatched up her robe from
the chair and threw open her door. She rushed across and pounded on her
aunt’s door. "Aunt! Aunt! Wake up! Fire!" she yelled. She heard a weak
voice, her aunt groggily waking. Dushya opened the door and yelled
again. Her aunt was struggling with something.

"What are you doing?" Dushya asked.

"I must — I must save it," her aunt husked, coughing. A banging sound.

"Save what?" Dushya cried.

"The portrait. I must protect it, it is all I have of him!" the old woman said. "You go on, Dushya. Get yourself out."

"I will not leave without you, Aunt!" Dushya yelled. The smoke was
thickening in the air, burning her lungs; but thank God, she felt no
heat yet. She groped, seized her aunt’s arm, and pulled her out of the
 room.

At the bottom of the stairs, her aunt was coughing so hard in the smoke
that they stumbled and fell. The old woman cried out in pain. Zinaida
righted herself, gathered the old woman to her and promptly almost
tripped over something. The painting had fallen against her leg.
"Please, hurry!" Dushya pleaded, forcing the words through the smoke
with her coughs.

"The portrait, child!" her aunt wailed. Seizing the portrait with her
other hand, Dushya realised she was disoriented. She heard a new sound,
the licking of flames at the old wood of the house. Suddenly a door
banged. Zinaida’s scream of fear was enough to orient Dushya. Clutching
both the old woman and the portrait to her, she made her way to the
front door, and opened it. She sat the old woman on the stoop, shoved
the portrait into her hands and turned to go back for Zinaida. The
flames were growing, she could feel the heat now.

At the door she heard Mikhail. "No!" he bellowed through the smoke. "Don’t come back in! I have her! Wait there! Wait!"

"Hurry!" she cried. Listening intently, she heard stumbling progress
towards the door. Coughing and spluttering, Zinaida emerged. "Are you
all right?" Dushya asked.

"Yes, thank God." the maid said.

"See to my aunt. Where is Mikhail?"

"What?" asked Zinaida, puzzled.

"Mikhail! Where is he?" Dushya flung herself to the door as the
flames leaped higher. "Mikhail!" she sobbed. "Mikhail Petrovich!" She
rushed to her great-aunt. "We must get someone! Mikhail Petrovich is
still in there!"

"What?" the old woman asked bewilderedly. "No he isn’t. You saved him. You gave him back to me, here. See?"

"What?" Dushya cried, her turn to be bewildered. "What are you talking about? We have to save him!"

"Enough!" Zinaida cried, galvanized, silencing them both. "We have to save ourselves!" She seized them both and led them away.

 ***

The house was saved, but damaged. Two days passed and they were
visiting in the home of Mr. Filischkin, the magistrate and a friend of
Dushya’s great-aunt, before Dushya was able to explain what had
happened to the extent that anyone thought her other than deranged.
Even then, her great-aunt only explained that night, when they were
 alone.

"Mikhail was my brother, your great-uncle, my dear," she said. "He was
four years older than I. He was kind to me, and I loved him dearly."

"He was studying to read law for the university when his eyes became
dim. He had for some time had difficulty reading by candlelight, but
soon even the brightest lamp in the house could not help. He struggled
vainly to study by day in the sunlight, and when that failed to, he
despaired and gave himself to the inevitable. As his dreams and
ambitions faded, I was unabel to even persuade him to eat. Our father
tried for a time to convince him to live, but he simply no longer found
any joy in anything. My father spent large sums of money on doctors,
but nothing could be done."

"He was not as strong as you are, Dushya. I have watched you, child,
and I knew that there was hope for you. You have your music, you can
cook, you can do anything you want. But poor Mikhail, he never found
anything. Finally he stole some laudanum from the doctor’s bag and took
his own life. He left a note, which he must have written already under
the influence of the drug, which said simply, ‘May God forgive me, I
was always afraid of the darkness. So now I embrace it in the only way
I can.’"

She crashed through brambled vines and low-hanging branches as the man chased her. She knew these woods deeply, but had no idea where she was going, or how this would end. She could feel him, as if he were more than a person, as if he was the very air that surrounded her. She would breathe him in and suffocate. No! She thought and fell to the ground. He doesn’t know this! She reached inside herself and sent the prayer up to her goddess. Give me wings, she prayed, and as she did so, she felt her body rise from the ground, away from her attacker who was still earthbound. But, no, still, he owned the air. It shimmered and was golden and so, so heavy that she could fly no more and she fell, as if through dark honey towards the earth, and her death.
Diana awoke gasping for breath. He is coming, she thought.
I must call the sisters. But as the day wore on she felt foolish. There were no ill omens in the sky, no ravens perched or black beetles crawling. Toward evening her spirits were lightened. She stood in the field behind her house and praised her namesake, the goddess Diana, for her bounty and her blessings this day. She returned to her hut and lit white candles for protection, and put them about room to give her light to prepare her dinner loaf. She sat at the carved oak table and ate her meager supper with deep gratitude to Mother Earth who had provided the wheat for the bread, the cows who had provided the milk for the butter, and the bees from which she had obtained the honey.
Feeling strong, like the huntress she was, Diana rose from the table with a decision. I will do a revealing spell, she said. For something is troubling me, and my dreams will not tell me what it is. Perhaps my magic will show it to me, instead.
She walked to the spring near her hut underneath a waxing moon and gathered pure water in a silver bowl. She returned home and sprinkled fresh sea salt in the spring water to purify it. She dipped a linen cloth into the water and cleaned the large wall mirror, deosil 9 times.

O goddess Diana,huntress of might
reveal what is worrying my soul this night
For the good of all and harm of none
Let this simple spell be done
By the power of three
So mote it be

Diana took a fresh white candle from her cupboard and lit it by the fire from the hearth. Thanking Mercury, she took the candle and sat before the mirror in the darkened room. She held the flame under her chin, so that it cast disfiguring shadows over her face. She stared at the image in the mirror until her vision grew clouded and white.
He is coming!
Her heart leaped in fear.
He is coming!
She stared at her distorted face but saw nothing.
He is coming!
Diana struggled to control her breathing, her heart.
He is Here!
Suddenly with a flash the face transformed in the mirror. It was no longer her own, it was that of a man, the man, who had chased her in her dream. His hair was black and matted, and streams of blood ran down his face, into his beard, dripping into the air below him. His eyes were brown and hollow, and his cheekbones gaunt from what looked like starvation.
Join me, Witch.
No, I will not! I will never join you! Begone demon! She shouted at the face, her own, in the mirror.
You can not cast me out, Witch. I am no mere demon. And I have come for you.
Diana stood bolt upright and began to pray to her goddess for protection once more, as she had in her dream.
The battered face in the mirror disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, but he was near, she could feel it, as easily as she could in the dream. She felt it- him in the air around her, as if a weight was bearing down on her as he grew closer. She moved to barricade the front door, but knew such meager measures would not keep him out. She knew who he was. He was not a mere demon. He was far, far worse. Demons had sway over individuals, but not over whole towns, whole countries, whole continents. Yes, she and her sisters had heard of him and feared him more than they could say, but they trusted the goddess to protect them from this creature that would have them join in unholy rights of eating his flesh and drinking his blood.
I will die before I let him profane me and my kind.
By the power of three, I must get to my sisters.
Diana grabbed her athame and a bundle of sage. A flint stone to burn the sage, and a bottle of sacred oil infused with the power of the moon. She moved quickly through her home, gently snuffing the protection candles, save one safely encased in a glass lantern. This candle had her name carved on it in and was specially blessed by the goddess. It had far more power than the rest, so she left it burning for her safe return.
Diana quietly exited the hut and began running into the dark night. She had no doubt the thing knew her every movement. She could feel him in the ground beneath her, in the trees she darted past, in the wind that surrounded her and the dark sky that seemed to seek her out. Before these things had all been part of her, of the goddess, of Diana, but now they all seemed sinister and false, claiming allegiance to Him.
And He was behind her.
She crashed through brambled vines and low-hanging branches as the spirit, now in flesh made man chased her. She knew these woods deeply, but had no idea where she was going, or how this would end. She could feel him, as if he were more than a person, as if he was the very air that surrounded her. She would breathe him in and suffocate. No! She thought and fell to the ground. He doesn’t know this! She reached inside her cloak and pulled out the athame. Give me wings, she prayed, and as she did so, she drove the athame deep into her belly. As the pain subsided, she felt her body rise from the ground, away from her attacker who was still earthbound. But, no, still, he owned the air. It shimmered and was golden and so, so heavy that she could fly no more and she fell, as if through dark honey towards the earth, and her death.

Okay, looks like it’s just you and me Icon. Time to duke it out.

*cues theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, which coincidentally happens to be my ringtone*

Rock, paper, scissors to the death!

Stepp and Jenny may have somethign to post later tonight.

We are spending the afternoon with her father, but do have a couple things almost completed.

OK, I’ll hold it for you.

I sincerely apologize, guys, for holding you up. My story’s not going to get finished. I have worked and worked on it, and it has morphed at least twice, into a different story. I finally passed out last night, trying to watch all three versions play out in my head.

Darn it. Guess I’ll have to vote, then. lol

Stepp is crazy, by the way. I asked him to tell you guys that I wouldn’t be entering…and he asked for an extension. Which of course, made me try. Sigh. Anyway, he doesn’t have anything ready, either. Carry on with the rock, paper, scissors!

Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaappppppppppppeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrr!

One month a year, it seems really appropriate to have a horror competition, just for fun. So bring us your ghosts and ghouls, your hooded hobgoblins and mangling monsters. This competition is an open competition for the best we have to offer in horror. There is no word limit or minimum, the pieces will be judged by enjoyment, so thrill your readers. You can submit a recent previous piece, if you don’t think you can top it by Friday, October 26, when all entries will be entered into a ranking poll for the members of the site to judge the scariest. The point here is to have fun and celebrate the adrenaline of fright!

Please attach your entry to this article as a comment by the end of October 26, 2007.

OK, I flipped two coins, and the result is Paper. So if we don’t get any votes by tomorrow (and it works, I tested it), I guess we can call it a tie for gold, which is only fair since we both passed the true test — posting something.