November 01, 2020

You sigh in relief. The storyteller has ceased his prattling, ending the endless spill of words with a simple joke. He leans back in his armchair, disappearing into darkness, and you can only see the puffs of smoke from his pipe, drifting across the library crypt, illuminated by the fading fire in the hearth.

"Good stories," you tell him. "Ok, well, I've got to go."

"How do you feel," he asks. "Have the stories brought you comfort? They are, after all, only stories. Do their conclusion bring you a sense of relief?"

"Um. They were very scary, thank you, but it's November now, and I really should be getting back. This was very, uhh... illuminating."

The storyteller says nothing, smoking his pipe in the darkness, the tome on his lap. "Do you feel," he says, at last, "That the horror has alleviated? Do you feel now a warm autumnal glow, a sense of family and friends surrounding you, the smell of basted turkey and... cranberry sauce?"

"I don't... no, obviously. I'm still here."

"You're still here... intriguing," says the storyteller, and you can hear a wicked smile in the form of his words. A chill hand of recognition clutches your spine, and you shout:

"You said you'd let me out. You said it was just Spooktober, and then I could leave!"

"I said no such thing."

"Let me out!"

"Go fetch a log from the corner, traveler, the fire grows cold. I do not wish you to catch a chill. I have so many wicked and wonderful things to tell you..."

You shout, and howl, shuddering, weeping, gnashing your teeth, but you find yourself unable to disobey the sickly, even tempered voice of the storyteller, your feet dragging your unwilling body to collect wood for the fire.

Welcome, traveler, to SPOOKVEMBER STORIES.