Blackstone’s Curse

This month, the Crew is proud to present a spooky story from none other than our very own Anita Dickason! When Anita mentioned that she had never before published short stories lying around, I was intrigued. Blackstone’s Curse quickly captured my imagination—and I informed Anita that I was not ready for the story to be over.

You can listen to an audio version of this story via our YouTube Channel.

Blackstone’s Curse By Anita Dickason

Atop a craggy tor, a tall, slim man tugged his brat, the thick-woven cloak in the tartan colors of the Donegal clan, pulling it tight across his shoulders. He shivered, more from his thoughts than the cold, damp air. One consuming question circled in his mind, an endless litany—could he survive?

His bleak gaze bespoke a grim determination as he scanned the landscape. The moon’s light, chased by rolling clouds, would soon be gone, deepening the dark shadows on the moor. Aye—that’ll make my task more difficult, he thought.

In the distance, an unearthly sound, ominous in its intensity, resonated. Terror clawed at his body, sucking the air from his lungs. Destiny—his destiny—drew near in the shape of a monstrous animal. Spawned in the bowels of hell, the demon wolf was the fulfillment of a curse laid upon his ancestor, Ian Donegal, the Laird of Blackstone, hundreds of years ago.

As a child, when other boys learned of knights and glorious battles, his was a solitary tale, this Blackstone’s Curse. A grim preparation for the fate that awaited him. Robert still remembered the night, seated at his Gran’s feet, when he first heard the legend.

It was an eerie night. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the wind howled as it swirled around the stone castle. Flickers of firelight had cast harsh shadows across the old woman’s weathered face, who was seated in a rocker. The earthy aroma of smoldering peat mixed with the curling smoke from her pipe. A gnarled hand rested on his head as he leaned against her leg. Her voice, crackly with age, began the strange fable.

“Once, there were two sisters, Morna and Elspet. Both were powerful witches. Morna coveted your ancestor, Ian Donegal, for her mate. But Ian loved Elspet. Angered by his rejection, Morna cast a spell to destroy the Donegal clan. Aye—a fearsome curse, it was. A demon, in the shape of a gigantic wolf, would rise and slay the Donegal heir on his twenty-first birthday. The fiend could not be killed—by man or his weapons. Helpless, the heir could not stop his death.”

The old woman shifted in her chair, taking another puff of her pipe. “Morna’s revenge was diabolically clever as future generations would suffer her wrath, knowing the day would come when the clan would be extinct. Now, Elspet—well, a bitter rivalry already existed, and Morna’s curse deepened the rift between the two. Morna was a wee bit more powerful, but Elspet was the smart one. She didn’t have the power to remove the curse, but she found a way to give the doomed man a chance to survive. A man could not kill the beast but a wolf could. She cast a counterspell. On the eve of the heir’s twenty-first birthday, at the stroke of midnight, he would become a wolf with extraordinary powers of strength and speed. Her magic, though, would only last for three hundred years. If the demon wolf wasn’t destroyed, the clan would forever be doomed.” A sorrowful look crossed her face as she stared into the flickering flames.

Believing it was just a myth and eager to hear the outcome, he had asked, “Gran, how did it end?”

The sorrow turned to despair when she gazed at him. “It hasn’t. Robert, you are the last hope before Elspet’s counterspell ends.”

Over the years, he’d studied the chilling accounts of the conflicts waged and lost, hoping from the mistakes of the past he would find a way to defeat the monster. Previous heirs had used the castle as their battleground, believing the edifice provided an advantage. Instead, the wolf had stalked them, passing through the very walls meant for their protection. Nothing stopped the deadly hunt. Even as a wolf, his ancestors were unable to overcome the brute strength of the fiend. Wolf to wolf, a ferocious battle had been fought but in the end … each of the heirs had their throats ripped out. Deciding to change tactics, he’d take the fight to the moor. His plan, unlike his ancestors, didn’t depend on strength.

A dense, green fog began to build. Its tentacles curled and twisted as the silent, shifting haze slithered toward him over the rough terrain. Robert had lived on the moor all his life, but the unnerving glow was an eerie sight he’d never seen.

Another spine-chilling howl echoed. Within the supernatural mist, golden eyes rimmed with red gleamed. A sinister sight, as seemingly unattached, they moved through the mysterious mist, ramping the paralyzing foreboding that coursed through him. Every heartbeat was a hammer strike in his chest.

In the distance, the faint sound of the castle’s steeple bell chimed the stroke of midnight. Carried by the night wind, a woman’s voice softly murmured, “I am she that cast the saving spell. This gift I give to thee. Use it well, Robert Donegal, or all is lost.”

The air shimmered. An inexplicable energy flowed through him and pushed back the crippling fear. With outstretched arms, he chanted, “To this day, I was brought. A spell made, a promise granted, gifts of power and strength for the battle to be fought. One chance I am given or the banshee’s wail will echo and mourn my death. I call on the vow made to my ancestors, let me rise to defeat the evil spawned in the bowels of hell.”

Black smoke swirled. His body dissolved into the churning cloud until man became wolf. Robert’s mind spun, dizzy from the violent surge of his enhanced senses. When the black vapor vanished, amazement shot through him. His gaze easily pierced the thick green haze. He could see the animal’s enormous outline, hear it panting, and smell the vile odor of rotting flesh.

Despite his new powers, his body quivered with trepidation as he watched the monster emerge from the fog. Black fur, tipped in red, rippled, and its fiendish eyes blazed with malevolence. Lips curled back from huge, yellow fangs. Two monstrous fangs curved upward for the easy thrust to tear out his throat.

Suddenly, he sensed the animal’s thoughts, the triumph it felt. An image flashed in his mind. He lay on the ground with the monster astraddle him. The creature’s head swung upward, thrusting the fangs deep into his neck. He expects to kill me as quickly as he did my ancestors.

The animal flung its head and another blood-curdling howl rang out. It started toward him with a relentless pace, easily scaling the hill. Robert waited until the beast neared the top, then crept backward with cautious steps over the rocky ground. He stared into the demon’s eyes, enticing it to follow as he backed down the hill.

Once his paws hit the path that weaved across the moor, Robert pivoted and ran. Exhilaration shot through him at the power of four legs propelling him forward. Air rushed over him at an incredible speed, flattening his fur. The scents of the heath filled his nostrils.

Behind him, the thud of massive paws echoed like a second heartbeat, but the creature didn’t close the gap. It’s a game of cat and mouse. He’s letting me run to savor the thrill of the hunt. I need to make him believe he’ll win. Robert lured him—slowing down, followed by a quick burst of speed. Each time he allowed his pace to falter, he felt the animal’s certainty he would soon taste Robert’s flesh.

He played the deadly game until he neared a sharp twist in the path. Robert lengthened his stride, increasing the gap as he raced around the curve. The moment he rounded the bend and was out of sight, he leaped from the dirt track onto a dry mound in the quagmire that bordered the trail. Then, mound to mound, he jumped until he stood near the far side. When the wolf burst into view and saw his prey motionless, the baleful glow of its eyes intensified.

The demon’s conviction he’d won flooded Robert’s senses as it rushed toward him and onto the bog. The massive body began to sink. In a futile attempt to escape, it twisted and turned. Jaws snapped, and slime dripped from the fangs. Despite its immense strength, the beast was no match for nature’s quicksand. As the creature was sucked into the viscous depths, Robert hurled his thoughts into its mind. I am the Laird of Blackstone. Today, I avenge the deaths of my clansmen. May you rot in the hell from whence you came.

Triumphant, Robert threw back his head and howled. The victorious sound echoed in the night air as the monstrous head disappeared beneath the surface of the bog.

“Well done, Robert Donegal, Laird of Blackstone. You have destroyed the demon wolf. The curse is broken,” the soft voice said.

The air shimmered. Precariously, he stood on two feet. His body trembled from the transition to human form and overwhelming relief. He had survived when he was prepared to die. An unseen arm wrapped around him, steadying him until he reached the safety of the path.

In awe, he gazed at the surface of the bog. Not a ripple remained. His strategy worked. For months, he had hiked the moor in search of the right location. The only uncertainty was his ability in the wolf state. Would he have the speed to outrun the beast until he could lure it into the mire?

A gentle rain began to fall, and Robert lifted his face to the cooling drops. This was his birthday. A day for celebration, though his family still waited, uncertain whether to mourn or rejoice. As he contemplated the long trek back to Blackstone Castle, the memory of that incredible speed filled him with a curious desire to again run like the wind.

A woman’s laughter rang out, and he felt a quick jab of the shimmering energy. The soft voice warned, “Be careful with what you wish.”