HALLOWEEN SHORT STORY - “A CROW IN NIGHTSTONE” - PART 1
The mists came rolling off the Ardeep Forest by dusk, gray sheets curling over the low fields like restless spirits. Corin “Crow” Hale tugged his cloak tighter and tasted salt on the wind — not the sharp brine of the open sea, but the ghost of it, carried inland from the Sword Coast. It mixed with the smell of wet earth and rotting leaves, that faint perfume of the dying year.
He’d been on the Trade Way for three days since leaving Daggerford, the coin in his purse heavy enough to slow his step and lighten his conscience. After a successful pickpocket season in Baldur’s Gate, he could afford to vanish for a while. Nightstone, the trader at the crossroads had said, was a quiet place — no Watch, no guild, no questions.
Perfect for wintering over.
The village came into view as the light bled out of the sky — a cluster of rooftops on a low rise, encircled by a shallow moat where black water mirrored the bruised sunset. A wooden bridge led toward the gatehouse. Beyond it, the silhouette of the keep rose on its separate island like a crouched beast, its single tower marked by that strange, faint glow locals had whispered about: the Nightstone itself, set in its courtyard, forever humming a note too low to quite hear.
Crow stopped on the bridge. The water below caught his reflection, warped by the ripples — the tilt of his hood, the dark hair escaping it, the grin he gave himself before moving on. “Still handsome enough to fool a few barmaids eh,” he muttered, and the rippling figure mouthed the same words back at him, a half-second later.
The guard at the gate barely looked up, just nodded him through with a lantern. The streets inside were narrow, slick with frost that penetrated the cracks between the cobblestone. He passed shuttered windows leaking candlelight and caught laughter behind one — thin, brittle laughter, like glass about to crack.
By the time he reached the square, the dark of night had crept in between the dwellings. A few villagers were still about — a woman carrying a basket of turnips, and a boy sweeping fallen leaves from a stoop — but they all did something odd when their eyes found him. A small hitch of breath, a slow blink, and then a faint frown. Almost as if they were recalling a memory they couldn’t quite place.
One old man stopped entirely, leaning on his cane.
“By the gods, you’re back from the west road,” he questioned in a rasped voice. “Didn’t expect you’d make the trip twice in a night.”
Crow frowned. “I’m sorry?”
The old man squinted, then chuckled softly. “Never mind, never mind.” He shuffled on, muttering to himself.
Crow watched him go, unease pricking the back of his neck. He was used to stares — new faces always drew them in small towns — but there’d been something else in that look. Recognition, maybe? But how could that be.
He turned toward the Troll and Tankard, the only inn in sight. The sign creaked on its chain, the painted troll’s grin fading in the lamplight. Inside, warmth and a wave of pipe smoke greeted him as he pushed the heavy door open. He had to twist out of the way as the barmaid was wiping down tables right at the door, and came to the bar as the innkeeper was drying a tankard.
Before Crow could open his mouth, the innkeeper smiled wide. “Back already? Your room’s upstairs, same as before. You leave something behind?”
Crow froze. “You must have me mistaken, friend. I just rode in, and I’m not from here.”
The innkeeper’s brow furrowed, the smile faltering. “Strange jest sir. You were here not two hours past — paid for a night and a hot meal. Even said you’d be back before the moon rose.”
The barmaid laughed nervously. “He does look the same, doesn’t he?”
Crow forced a smile. “Lucky guy to be my twin I suppose.”
Luckily, his joke broke the uneasy tension and he sat down, but inside, something cold began to unspool. A slow realization that every eye in the room was looking at him. He could almost hear them all thinking, trying to place him, attention he was so fiercely trying to avoid.
Outside, the wind had picked up, rattling the shutters. Somewhere beyond the bridge, the Nightstone hummed — a deep, pulsing note that seemed to come from the bones of the earth. And for the briefest instant, Crow thought he heard his own voice whisper his name back through the glass. This “break” seemed less and less likely to be the one he sought.
