achoo, I guess

A fanfare of wolves announced the rising moon. And in its overwhelming light, all bathed by it shuddered with unease. The moon’s eyes flickered over the valley, lips curling in deep satisfaction at the sight of sudden scattering and panic. No introduction was needed, everyone knew not to look it in the eyes…lest they wanted to face its judgemental wrath.

The foul light grinned artfully. “Cowards, the lot of you. I’ve hardly gotten a moment to deliver you a proper fright!”

Mocking laughter filled the night sky as the specters fled behind headstones and fence posts. But just as it had started up, the moon’s laughter waned quickly. Not exclusively from boredom, but something had caught its breath.

“Oh, it’s far too early in the night for this to start up again,” the moon scoffed and scrunched its wicked face into a scowl. Yes, the moon’s weakness, it’s increasingly-testy nose. If its reign of terror were to begin, so too must begin the sneezes.

It would be a lie to say the moon’s hitches were unpredictable. Everything in this world was bound to rhythmic frequencies—and that was where the moon drew its haunting magic from in the first place. Rhythm was power, and a force that every soul was subservient to.

“Hehh— hehH? hEHhk’sSHHhw!!” The first of doubtlessly many, measured into merciless monotony. Two hitches, one sneeze, evenly spaced to around eighty-six beats per minute. The sour moon blinked lingering tears gathered at the corners of its eyes. Reprieve was short, its nose was already twitchily priming for another: “Hih- hih! hHik’shh!!” That, a deviation: an anticipated eighth-note falling just shy of the fourth beat.

This was how the night was to go…fittish sneezes in clusters that didn’t dare to let up once they began. But with it came eerie energy, taking the form of swarming bats and swirling clouds.

“Oh, I simply don’t understand it,” growled the moon through its teeth. “Sneezing—why must it be sneezing? Surely laughter couldn’t have been where my magic is scyphoned from?”

Every vampire has their stake, every werewolf, their silver.

“Sneezing is not the stuff of night terrors, frankly.”

Perhaps the moon wasn’t putting the effort in.

“Hey!”

“I, for one, agree. I think the moon has lost its touch!”

A perplexed pause permeated the starry night. The voice belonged to a lonely ghost, standing in the open valley with arms crossed over their chest. Their head was turned away, and the moon took great offense to it.

“Wh..? Ahem, oh my, brave spirit, are we? Why part from your shivering friends behind the wooden planks?”

“They don’t see through your tricks like I do,” they answered simply, shrugging. “But soon, they will join me in troves, I bet!”

The seething moon’s eyes narrowed, and a crescent smile tore past its lips. “And why do you refuse to meet my gaze? Terror still claims you, doesn’t it? And so long as it does, I have power over you.”

“Not quite, moon. I only fear that your cruel machinations have grown less cruel and more…boring.”

The moon burned red with embarrassment. Its pupils trembled with stifled rage. “Snff!! What are you insinuating?”

“You’re hardly fearsome anymore. At least not to me. Your sneezes are far too predictable, I could evade your sight with my eyes closed if I so wished.”

There was a ticklish pause, “hHEH-kSHHhw!!” Lightning clawed across the partly cloudy sky, and the very ground trembled.

“Bless you.”

“A blessing?!” The highest offense of all, “who do you take me for?! To be blessed by a common specter, as if I were a siHh—hiH-!! Ikk’sshh!”

“Bless you again, a what?”

“Ik’sshw!! Hik’shh— hiH- hih! Ik’SSHh!!”

The ghost tapped their boot in the dead grass impatiently. “Take your time! Bless you.”

“D’uh- snFfle!! Oh forget it, rest assured I’d sneeze you away if I could…” but the moon couldn’t, of course. All it could do was hang helplessly in the night sky, a sniffling mess of itself. “You aren’t helping—who’s side are you on?! Pelting me from afar with your pathetic words!!”

I’m merely here to tell a riveting story. Pay my words no heed.

A defeated sigh. “Too predictable, you say…is that a challenge?”

“If you wish it to be, it is. I think you’ve been holding back.”

“C…caught, I suppose, this tickle’s been…pestering me a good moment, I’m afraid…snf!!”

“No, not like that, I mean holding back your skill! Switch it up a bit, if you’re looking to get a fright out of someone. Surely you haven’t forgotten that the element of surprise is a friend of yours?”

The pale orb pondered these words with great rapt. “…right. Where’s Werewolf?”

He had never been more eager to hear his name. A triumphant howl made his presence known from the nearby manor's courtyard, where a dark-furred canine shredded a power chord on a sleek electric guitar. Behind him, a handful of ghouls and beasts—skeleton on drums, zombie on keys, the works.

“Yes, yes,” the moon piped them down with a roll of its eyes. “Something in five, can you handle that?”

A big thumbs up answered, and a riff in 5/4 began. The rest of the band was quick to hop onto it, pushing 175 beats per minute.

Take heed, sneaky spirit! You’re in the realm of complex meter now, and simple sneeze patterns won’t fit here.

“Won’t this be a twilight trial for you..! HhHhope you’re a quick learner, I feel another fit coming on…”

5/4 was broken into 2 and 3 beats respectively—both too fast and too slow all at once. It worked perfectly for more dramatic build ups, sudden sneezes, polyrhythmic hitches, and other dastardly tricks that would have a common ghost melting under the pressure. Not our protagonist, however; they had been a musician in their living days, and the intensity was an appreciated spike in difficulty.

The moon had surprising control over its own sneezes. It was no easy task to sync your hitches to such a heart-pounding tempo. 

“HhH- hh- hh-! ht- aASShhew!! hHEHh! Hh…hEK’sschww!! Ik’SSHh!!” As the werewolf clawed up the fretboard with a diabolical riff. Yet the ghost held true, patiently waiting for the right windows to evade the moon’s ghoulish gaze.

Suddenly, a triplet: “hah-hHAt’iishhew!!” That was uncalled for, that was unrehearsed!! The poor spirit staggered into an exposed space, letting out a frightful yelp. A single miscalculation sent the skies into thunderous torment. So close to the end, too…

“Oh, shame, there goes that perfect stride~!” The moon scorned. “Goodness me, I’ve frightened you, still as stone. Unless you are stone, and my magic’s gotten stronger.”

One would imagine the sky would get brighter the bigger the moon is. Yet here, as it loomed closer, the stars flickered from the sky like a dying power grid. Inky black bled into the horizon, leaving only a thin halo of indigo around the moon’s wicked face.

No one could stare at those terrible eyes without recoiling in painful embarrassment and humiliation. It felt like dropping a cake at a birthday, or falling on your face in the snow. Perhaps fighting off a sneeze during a public speech…

Yes, the eyes of judgement were as red as they were dastardly. The ghost fell victim to it, and trembled with terror.

“Hhah, you—you got me there, I’ll admit,” the spirit shielded their little eyes, visibly embarrassed. The moon looked them over, lips pinched in thought.

Then, a melodramatic groan. “Ohh, fie, fie! There’s no satisfaction in this. I have to come clean: I lost myself around the end bit, my hayfever got the better of me. That last sneeze was hardly within the whims of my control.”

“Didn’t know the moon had good sportsmanship…bless you—if it’s any consolation, everything else was a pleasant surprise..!”

“Was it?” Sniffled the moon, before cracking a smirk. “Quite the interesting individual…bold, willing to push for a proper scare. I like your tenacity for terror, spirit.”

“Appreciated…don’t listen to the storyteller, I think your sneezes are plenty frightening.”

A strange means of bonding, but oh well. You can’t win them all.

White Water Point was no stranger to bad weather. The lighthouse had stood for over a century, and bore the scars of those many years of wild winds, crashing waves, and the simple passing of time.

For it to be raining inside the lighthouse, however, was a touch more than it had been designed to endure. And yet, endure it did, and rather frequently at present, as Crawford Seaver, the weather wizard who resided there, battled his way through a truly relentless cold.

Tarps had been strung up to protect the table, and the seat by the fireplace, and in a separate room, another covered Crawford’s bed. The bookshelf overflowing with books, and the masses of charts covering the walls, had all been treated with the waterproofing spells Crawford had learned out of necessity when his powers had first begun to run away with him all those years ago. Lightning rods had been installed, protecting the occupants from any sudden bursts of lightning Crawford happened to sneeze up. And yet, no amount of prevention and preparation could keep the chill, misery, and rain from the air as Crawford battled his way through his ailment.

Crawford himself stood before his wall of charts, frowning at one in particular, watching enchanted lines of ink move about, indicating wind and air pressure, forever shifting. He shivered constantly, despite the thick woolen blanket wrapped about his gaunt frame, the scarf wrapped around his neck, and the cup of tea clutched in both hands, sweetened with honey and spiked with rum. His prominent nose, red and raw from constant blowing and wiping, twitched with constant, useless sniffles, each one holding back the tide for mere moments. He desperately needed to blow his nose, but that would mean letting go of his mug and loosening his blanket, and Crawford had no desire to relinquish either.

Sniffling, however, could only serve him for so long, and before long, his bleary eyes began to grow hazy and filled with dread, and his chapped lips parted as his breath began to catch.

“Oh… Ehhh… Huhh… Oh dear…”

Neptune, Crawford’s scruffy little terrier, let out a whine, and retreated under the table, where his bed had been moved to protect it from the rain.

“Sorry, Neptune, I… HhhYUSSHOO!”

Occupied with both mug and blanket, Crawford merely turned away from his charts, narrowly avoiding catching them with the spray of mist that burst from his nose and mouth. Not that it would have mattered much; they’d been rained on enough already.

For just a moment, Crawford hoped he might have gotten away with a single sneeze. So long as he could keep it to just one, all would be well. His magic would remain at bay. The moment seemed to drag as he waited, eyes closed, lips parted, nose quivering, until…

“HhhuHHESSSHOO!”

And that was that. When there was a second sneeze, a third followed, as inevitable as the tide. And with it…

“HhuhhHAASSSCHOO!”

A crack of thunder sent Neptune whimpering and huddling into his blankets, as lightning struck the rods outside the lighthouse. Inside, a gust of wind swirled about the room, tearing a chart from the wall. The rain, which had slowed to a miserable drizzle, began to patter down anew, dripping from the light fixtures, the furniture, and Crawford’s long-suffering nose.

Crawford heaved a sigh that turned into a cough, and looked apologetically to Neptune.

“Sorry, old man. I am trying.”

Snuffling, groaning, rain splattering into his spiked tea, Crawford made his way across the room to collect the chart. It had landed dangerously close to the fireplace, and he hastily snatched it away from the reach of any errant embers. Sighing, Crawford dropped his rain-soaked blanket and settled into his chair by the fire, the tarp protecting both him and the flames from the sneeze-induced rain for now.

He stretched his feet out towards the fire, though only one could actually benefit from the warmth. The other, a wooden prosthetic, served as a grim reminder of the consequences of careless magic. Even over twenty years after the loss of the leg, Crawford still felt a dull ache where the limb ought to have been. It was always the way, when he was ill.

Wiping his nose on the back of his hand, shoulders heaving with the effort of an enormous snuffle, Crawford looked wearily over the chart. One finger came to trace a pattern of lines. A hurricane in its infancy, and in a region where no hurricane should ever be. His sigh turned into a cough.

“Again… Less than a year since the last… What’s going on there..?”

Neptune, seeming to trust that no further sneezes were imminent, ventured out of his bed and came to sit at Crawford’s feet, looking up at him and heaving a sad, doggy sigh. Crawford echoed it with a sigh of his own, and reached down to scratch the little terrier behind his ragged ears.

“No two ways about it, my friend. This one’s got me at a loss.”

For some time, Crawford sat and puzzled over the chart, turning the matter over with a mind muddled from both congestion and weariness. He sipped his spiked tea, the honey doing a little to soothe his raw throat, the rum not chasing the chill from his bones half as well as he had hoped. He took a sodden bandana from his sleeve, and gave his dripping nose a foghorn of a blow, wincing at the pain it caused deep in his sinuses. The more he puzzled over the chart, the more the lines ceased to make sense, until he felt ready to throw the damned thing into the fire and be done with it.

Not that he would ever do such a thing. Too much hard work had gone into those enchantments. Too much lost sleep…

“… Sleep… Gods, I need to sleep…”

Crawford’s eyes, having been growing ever heavier, suddenly opened, and he sat up a little straighter. Neptune tilted his head, and offered a questioning “wff?”, watching as Crawford stepped out from under the tarp’s protection, shivering violently as he went to rifle through a cupboard.

“Two heads are better than one, as they say, and I know of a head a lot older than mine. Let’s hope Thalassa is still asleep, hm?”

Neptune gave an uncertain whine as he watched Crawford fish out a glass medicine bottle, together with a dry bandana. Trembling and snuffling, Crawford brought both back to the fireside, carefully dabbing at his nose with the latter, and pulling the stopper from the former. Crawford glanced guiltily at Neptune as he poured a little of the bottle’s contents into the remains of his tea.

“I know. Awful stuff. But it’s the only way I’m getting any sort of decent rest right now.”

Neptune gave a noise of discontentment, his expression awfully judgmental for a terrier.

Setting aside the bottle, Crawford took the bandana and carefully blew his nose again. Doing so cleared out another flood of congestion, but ignited a spark of irritation as the blowing vibrated his raw nasal passages. Crawford frowned, wrinkling his nose extensively as he tried to sniffle and snort it into submission. It didn’t seem ready to become a sneeze, but nor did it seem to be going anywhere…

“Ugh.. Right, let’s get this over with…”

Taking the mug, Crawford took a deep breath and drained the contents, grimacing and shaking his head as he swallowed.

“Gods, that stuff is more vile every time! Still, let’s hope it works.”

Settling himself into his chair once more, Crawford wrapped his arms around himself, trying to rub some warmth into his aching muscles and joints. Leaning his head back, he gazed into the fire, watching the glowing embers, trying to breathe deeply, listening to the sounds around him. The howling winds outside the lighthouse. The slowing pattering of rain within. The gentle crackling of the flames…

As the potent cough medicine began to take effect, Crawford yawned, and Neptune echoed with a yawn of his own, stretching out by the fire and resting his head on Crawford’s foot. As Crawford’s eyelids began to grow heavy, he raised his hand to a thin strip of leather around his neck, drawing a peculiar amulet from beneath his jumper. An odd sort of coral, worn smooth from years of handling, a dull red in colour. As his breathing grew slower and deeper, Crawford turned it over in his hand, running his thumb over the lumps and ridges, calling to mind the one who had first pressed it into his hand. As sleep began to claim him, his last thoughts centered on a vision of silver eyes, and a mighty form stirring in ocean depths.

His nostrils gave a warning quiver, but before his nose could be satisfied with a sneeze, his head slumped to one side, a congested snore emanating from his lips instead.

When Crawford opened his eyes, it was to bright sunlight, and sand and stone beneath his mismatched feet. Looking about, he found himself on a sunlit shore, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs. A place he had never visited in the waking world, but in dreams, many times. He took a moment to close his eyes, listening to the gentle lapping of the waves; a far cry from the wild seas he had heard as he slept. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost make himself feel the warmth of the sun, chasing away the fevered chills.

A lingering prickle nagged at his cold-ravaged sinuses, a reminder of the state his body was in. Pawing clumsily at his nose, Crawford made his way further up the beach, where great pillars had been carved into the cliff, standing on either side of the door of a temple long since abandoned. Crawford bowed his head respectfully as he stepped inside, onto cracked tiles half-buried in sand.

An altar stood in pride of place, and behind it, covering one wall, the faded remains of a great mural. It depicted a line of robed figures on a cliff, one in front raising a staff, as the others bowed their heads in worship. Depicted in the sea beneath the cliff was a figure not unlike a stylized dragon. A mighty leviathan, with a mane of flowing kelp, and great branches of red coral for horns, and great fin-like wings.

Crawford was not alone in the temple. A woman knelt before the altar, gazing up at the mural in quiet contemplation. Her robe looked to be made of tattered sail-cloth, and the silver hair that spilled over her shoulders was topped with a crown of red coral. Though plainly not young, her age was difficult to guess; though her eyes were creased at the corners, and laugh lines framed her mouth, there was something oddly ageless about her. Crawford knelt quietly beside her, and nodded up at the mural.

“Memories of happier days?”

The woman turned to him, smiling, warmth in her strange silver eyes.

“Memories of sunnier climes. I thought it might appeal to you. I could feel the chill and heaviness about you as you called to me. You are unwell.”

Crawford tried and failed to suppress a shiver at her words, and turned away briefly to scrub his nose on the back of his hand. The itch still lingered, and he longed to give a good hard sniffle to try and quell it. But not here. Not in Thalassa’s presence.

“It’s nothing worthy of your concern.”

“And yet, I am concerned. I know you do not rest properly when you call on me. And if you are unwell, rest is what you require.”

Crawford felt his cheeks warm a little, and he cleared his throat, wrinkling his nose again.

“I’m perfectly alright. It’s barely a sniffle.”

Thalassa chuckled, shaking her head.

“You admit to a cold like some might admit to a mistress. So be it. So, why is it you felt the need to call on me, when you should be sleeping off your sniffle? Loneliness, perhaps?”

Crawford quickly shook his head, and turned away to scrub at his nose again, growing a little more flushed.

“I would never bother you for something so trifling!”

There was a certain sadness in Thalassa’s eyes as she watched him try and fail to discreetly deal with his troublesome nose. She sighed softly.

“And yet, I wish you would. It pains me, to see a friend lonely.”

Crawford avoided her eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly.

“You needn’t trouble yourself over such things. Especially not over me. You… I’m a mayfly, in comparison. Why worry, over someone who, to you, will be practically gone tomorrow?”

“You are here today, are you not? Here, and ill, and troubled. If I can ease your troubles, I want to. Besides, do you see no beauty in mayflies?”

“I… erm… I suppose I…”

Crawford shifted awkwardly, avoiding Thalassa’s eyes. Somehow, she always did have a way to wrong-foot him. He cleared his throat, and sniffled. The irritation in his sinuses was spreading, moving forward, just begging him to…

He forced himself to speak, refusing to let his voice waver.

“There’s a hurricane forming off the coast of Altir. Hurricanes have no business forming there, and yet this is the second in the space of a year. I can find nothing in my research to explain it, and no history of anything similar occurring in the region. I thought… As you…”

He trailed off, rubbing his nose again, cheeks burning as he felt Thalassa’s silver eyes upon him.

“As I predate your written histories, you thought my memory might offer something your research cannot?”

“I… I did wonder…”

Crawford grimaced, feeling almost lightheaded with sheer irritation. He held his breath, and bit down hard on his tongue. His nostrils flared, and he scrubbed beneath them urgently with his fingers. Completely against his will, he gave a tremendous snort, loud and congested and completely revolting. Cheeks now positively flaming, he buried his face in his hands, bowing his head, mortified.

“I… Please, forgive, me, I… This wretched cold… I shouldn’t have called…”

 Though he refused to look at Thalassa, he heard her laughter, soft and warm with amusement, and felt her cool hand on his wrist, forcing him to lower his hands. Chancing a glance at his companion, he found her looking at him with fondness and concern. She raised her hand to cup his cheek, and Crawford only barely stopped himself from leaning into the touch, scrabbling back to some semblance of decorum at the last moment.

“How unwell you must feel, to be in such a state even here! You have nothing to apologize for, my friend, and there is nothing to forgive. I only wish I could do more to set your mind at ease. Alas, I’ve never known the waters in question to be home to such weather.”

Crawford groaned, bowing his head once more.

“I thought as much. I apologize for disturbing you. I should…”

“You should be gentler with yourself. And allow me to help. When I awaken, I shall go there myself. Perhaps I may see more from the depths than is visible from above.”

“I… I never meant for you to awaken, I… I can’t ask you to…”

“And you haven’t asked. I have offered, and will do as I say. In the meantime, I believe you have weather stations in the area? People shall receive warning of the conditions?”

“I… Well, yes, but I…”

“Then for now, you have done all that can be reasonably expected of you.”

“Yes, but I…”

Thalassa shook her head, and reached out, resting a cool fingertip on his lips, silencing him.

‘Go back now, my friend. And sleep properly, without seeking out solutions even in your dreams. Call on me again when you feel well, and I shall tell you what I have seen.”

Crawford sighed, and closed his eyes. His nose threatened to drip, and he snuffled pathetically.

“… May I not stay a little longer?”

Thalassa’s smile widened.

“I would be glad of the company. But I suspect you may not have a choice. Here. Let me help you along, so you can get to your bed sooner.”

With that, the cool fingertip left his lips, and instead flicked lightly against his nose, teasing the raw skin of his septum. The tickle flared to life in response, and Crawford’s breath caught, his eyes opening wide in alarm as he pulled back, covering his nose and mouth with both hands.

“HaaAAhh! Ahhh…”

“Bless you, my friend, and I hope to see you again soon.”

Crawford caught one last glimpse of Thalassa’s smiling face, before his teary eyes closed, his chest expanding with a great, urgent “HhaaAAHhh…”

“HhAASSHOO!”

Neptune, having perched himself on Crawford’s lap, leapt back with a yap of surprise as Crawford was jolted from his slumber, lurching forward with a tremendous, spraying sneeze. Crawford, disoriented and looking borderline drunk from both slumber and sneeze, had no chance of stopping the next, only managing to clumsily bring a hand up in time to mist it with spray.

“Uhh… HhhUHHhhRUSHHOOO!”

Neptune heaved a sigh, and crawled beneath Crawford’s chair as he helplessly gasped in a breath to fuel the inevitable third.

“HhhYYYFFFfffsssSSHHOO! Ughh…”

With a tremendous clanging and clattering, hailstones began to rain down, pinging off various metal instruments and the glass of the windows, and covering the floor in tiny while balls of ice, ready to melt into the puddles of rain already gathered. Crawford groaned miserably, taking his bandana and blowing his nose until he was out of breath. As Neptune emerged from beneath the chair to give him an admonishing look, Crawford reached down to scratch his ears.

“Alright, old man. Let’s go to bed. We can see cleaning all this up in the morning.”

Groaning and snuffling, limping slightly, Crawford hauled himself to his feet and made his slow, shuffling way to his bedroom, Neptune at his heels. As he changed for bed, his thoughts lingered on the beach and temple from his dreams, and the ancient being within. Next time he sought her out in his dreams, he hoped, she might meet him on that same beach once more.