Odious Ghouls

Prologue

Twenty Years Ago

N ever go there.

The little girl looked up into the eyes of her grandmother and noted the spider-webbing cracks forming at the edges of the woman’s sapphire eyes. The cloudy gemstones gazed down at the little one cuddled up in the folds of a flowing, woolen, sweater, and softened at the confused, cherubic, face staring back at them.

Never go where, Grandma?

The woman bit her lip and winced at some hidden pain—perhaps long-harbored, perhaps long-denied—as she carefully considered her words. She pointed out the front-facing window, as the child had clearly not been paying close enough attention the first time she’d done so.

There is a trail up the road a pace leading to a meadow. A meadow you must never go near. A meadow you must stay far, far away from.

But—but, Grandma. The girl sat up a bit straighter and turned her body to face the window. Why? Why can’t I go to that meadow? Meadows—they can’t hurt you. Can they? Meadows are where butterflies live and bunnies hop and the red-tailed hawks glide low overhead—

"No, Tabitha. No. Not there. Not at this meadow. No butterflies live there, I’m afraid. There are no bunnies or birds or— she hesitated, clearly unsure of how much she should say or how far she should press. She steadied herself and decided, after a moment, to continue. In fact, nothing at all lives there. Nothing lives—at least nothing that can be explained—in Foul Meadow."

"But, Grandma—I know exactly where that trail is. Carrie and I have played hide and seek over there a bunch of times before. There are so many great places to hide in the grasses, underneath the tall, tall trees so leafy no sunlight gets through. It’s dark there, sure, and colder than the rest of the forest, but—you know where I mean? Don’t you, Grandma? Our favorite place is this little clearing with a bunch of stones and—and I even saw our last name—Fowle—listed on one. Can you believe that? Isn’t that so cool?"

The old woman gasped, clutching both hands around her throat as if the air from her lungs was suddenly trying to fly free of her body. "No, Tabitha! Please, no! Tell me this isn’t true!"

But Graaaandma, the child said rolling her big playful eyes, it’s no big deal. Really, it isn’t. Trust me, it’s just a bunch of woods and—

Tabitha’s grandmother put a finger to her lips, stood up unsteadily, and planted the girl onto the rocker she’d been sitting in. She paced to the window and looked out toward the fading horizon and the low-hanging, creeping fog. The woman squinted her eyes as if she were waiting for a reverberation or a reply—as if she were expecting someone or something to be watching her from the opposite side of the aged sheet of glass. On cue, the skies opened up and rain began to tap-tap-tap at the fingerprint-smeared window panes. Like tears, the fat droplets fell and reflected up onto the woman’s cheeks. She folded her hands.

"Tabitha listen to me and listen carefully. You must never, ever go there again. Never. Do you hear me?"

But, Grandma, the stones—

Tabitha!

A bolt of lightning split across the sky at that precise moment and illuminated both of their wide-eyed stares. Though Tabitha jumped and squealed, her grandmother made no attempt to soothe her. Instead, she took a deep breath and straightened the oversized, billowed sleeves of her olive green sweater.

Tabitha, she spoke again, this time softer, though no less direct. No less determined. No less agitated. "Hear me and hear me well, child. That place is full of rot. It is an evil place, a place that need not be reminded we exist. That earth needs no reason to again sink its wretched self between our naked toes, or quench our thirst with its poisoned waters, or—"

The little girl blinked. Or—or what Grandma?

"Or taste our blood. Our blood. Our Fowle blood."

Tabitha gulped and grabbed a handful of her blonde locks. She wrapped some of the golden silk around a finger and twirled, absentmindedly. She fidgeted restlessly in the old, wooden, cushionless, chair, and eventually pulled both of her knees tightly to her chest. She shivered. But—but, Grandma. Earth cannot taste our blood. It’s just...earth.

The woman’s bony, gnarled, hands began to shake and she clasped them tightly together again. No? the woman stared blankly through the girl. No, you say? Well, she laughed to herself uneasily. "Perhaps—perhaps this is true. In most cases, I should say, this would—even should—be so. But Foul Meadow is no ordinary place, with unordinary land, and unordinary soil. And we—we come from an unordinary people. This is why you must stay far, far away from it. No Fowle blood should ever set foot there again. We mustn’t tempt it. We mustn’t tempt them."

A loud rumble shook the small Cape-style home once more and this time, when the girl cried out, her grandmother settled in again beside her on the rocking chair. Shhh, she soothed. Hush now, Tabitha. Hush now.

The girl shivered. Grandma. I’m scared. You are scaring me.

The woman clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Shhhh. There now. You’re safe here. Safe if you do as I say. Nothing to be scared of girl if you heed my warning—if you listen to what I’m telling you now."

Tabitha nodded. Her furrowed brow, however, indicated she had additional questions to ask.

What? her grandmother inquired. You still don’t believe? What more must I say to convince you? Must I beg? Must I get down on my knees and beg you to—?

The girl shook her head. It’s not that, Grandma. It’s—

What, girl? Tell me what troubles you. Please. What is it?

The girl pressed her face into her grandmother’s sweater again after another loud rumble. The rain was getting louder and she had to raise her voice to be fully heard. "I’ve—I’ve been there. Every night, Grandma. Every night I go... there."

The woman combed a hand through her granddaughter’s yellow, wispy, hair. Shhh, Tabitha. Shhh. Every night you say? She trembled and her upper lip twitched. If it is as you say it is—I suppose I—I suppose I shouldn’t be at all surprised to hear it. Shouldn’t be surprised to hear you finally say it aloud—

"In my dreams, Grandma. I go there in my dreams."

The woman swallowed and then nodded, knowingly. "Of course you do, Tabitha. Of course. I know it because—because I go there each and every night too. I have since I was younger than you. You and I visit the pernicious land our ancestors tilled, in our dreams—in our nightmares—just as all Fowle blood has. Just as they all will. I’d hoped our curse wouldn’t touch you too, but now I see how foolish and blind I was."

Tabby intertwined her fingers with her grandmother’s. The old lady gripped tightly back in response. Can it—can it hurt me, Grandma?

The woman rocked harder then and pulled her charge closer. To some extent, we’re all dream beings, child. Our minds are real and, if that is accepted as fact, well then—well, what happens inside them must have a grain of truth to it. Hmm? You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you? She kept rocking and combing her fingers nervously. "But, as long as you’re smart, as long as you know where your feet are really, firmly grounded and don’t succumb to the blackness—and as long as you wake yourself before going too far in, too deep into the shadows—you should be okay."

The response wasn’t nearly reassuring enough for the young child, but Tabitha nodded just the same. Confessing her lingering apprehension or curiosity would only have resulted in further exasperating her grandmother and, most likely, a reprisal of her ominous warning. In any case, there wasn’t much else to be contested. What rebuttal could possibly have sufficed? Alternatively, she held her grandmother tightly and made a promise right then that she immediately knew she’d never be able to keep.

I promise to stay away, Grandma, she said, discretely crossing a couple of her fingers. I promise to never step foot into Foul Meadow.

The old woman’s face sunk a bit as she stared knowingly—lifelessly—ahead. I know, child. I know.

1

Tabby Fowle

"T assste its flesssh ."

Tabby lifted her face from the ground and spat out black earth. The air was thick with rot and she crinkled her nose. Placing the back of her hand in front of her mouth, she forced herself to turn toward the voices—voices that she knew too well. Voices there were at once familiar and confusing. At once alarming and entrancing. She spun toward them and toward the door.

The door.

The blue door.

It was closed, as it always was. Locked, she assumed. Assumed because she could not possibly know. She’d never allowed herself to get close enough to reach for the handle.

She stood in her usual spot and waited.

Waited for the blood.

After a moment, it began to leak from underneath the weather-beaten entryway. It pooled down off of the front stone steps and within moments was large enough to catch her disinterested reflection.

Tabby checked her watch.

And right on schedule, a humming emanated from somewhere behind the door. It was pleasant enough. A woman’s voice—Tabby thought—sounding like it was focused on something. Perhaps some menial household chore—laundry that needed folding or a bubbling stew that required stirring. In any case, the voice was not perturbed, but rather at ease. Whatever was to blame for the crimson river did not seem to affect her.

It never does, Tabby sighed aloud. It never does. She lifted her eyes to the night sky. There weren’t any clouds or stars to be seen. Alright, she took a step forward. Let’s get this over with.

She stepped, with two naked feet, into the red ripples and let them wash over her toes. Submerged now, up to her ankles, she waited.

There was a groaning from within. The door shuddered. The humming continued. Somewhere, hidden behind a stench of decay, something was burning. She gagged and braced herself. She was ready when the cold, slimy hand with the flaking skin wrapped itself around her shoulder and when the gurgled voice, choking on its own decomposing vocal cords and fetid bodily discharge, said what it always did. What it always had.

Helllo, Tabithaaaaa. Welcome hoooome.

TABBY FOWLE OPENED her eyes. She yawned and stretched, reaching for the backboard of the creaking motel bed. Lines of bright sunlight creeping in from between a few broken blinds decorated her face and she moaned. She reached for her phone on the side table.

8:00 am? Already. Shiiiit. Slept in. Well, that’s a bad start. Come on, Tabs.

She threw her legs over the side of the bed and pulled on a crumpled pair of jeans that were exactly where she’d left them the previous night, having stumbled in late after a few too many with the crew. Her shirt—a black Metallica tee with the sleeves cut off—reeked of stale beer and staler cigarettes, so she quickly tugged it over her head and replaced it with a—debatably cleaner—white buttoned-down dress shirt and a black, goose-down, vest. Fall in New England was nothing like fall in L.A. and, though she recalled that day’s temps were to be fairly moderate, given the season, she still felt a need to protect herself from the chill. Maybe it was the temperature, but she knew an even likelier explanation was that it’d be her first time returning to the place that’d haunted her dreams since childhood.

Sorry, Grandma. I know, I know. But—I mean—come on. What choice did I really have? I’m running out of options and this one—this one was just way too good for us to pass up.

Tabby stood in front of the mirror and gathered the strands of blonde that had formed a halo around her haggard face. She tied them hastily back into a messy bun and then let her arms drop limply by her sides. She shook her head.

"Jesus. Come on, Tabs. Get your shit together. You came all the way back here for a reason and it wasn’t just to get drunk and feel bad about yourself. Right? RIGHT?"

She put a glob of minty paste onto her toothbrush and hummed to herself. The tune was a jingle from a recent commercial she’d filmed—for one of those awkward, regional, car dealerships that’d been reusing the same dated song for God-knows how long. It was the sort of earworm that’d burrow into a person’s skull and take up residence for the lifespan of the host. That her team had decided to even take such an embarrassment of a job was a sign of how meager their lineup of gigs had truly been as of late.

Hey, it paid the bills. Didn’t it?

She knew the others would be waiting outside—Tabby was already a half hour later than the time she’d asked them all to be ready to go—so she really did have to rush. No doubt, as things already stood, she’d have to listen to them bitch and moan that they were all on time and she wasn’t. Typical. She could just put her makeup on in the car. Not like it’d be the first time that happened. Metal would be driving anyway, so she’d definitely have her hands free.

This is your big break, Tabs, she said as she wiped green paste from the corner of her mouth. The town that left you with years upon years of therapy bills is finally gonna pay you back. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep, breath.

Sorry, Grandma. It just is what it is.

Hollywood had been good to her, to her entire team, but just not quite good enough. And not recently. She’d had some minor success directing a few commercials that’d gained national exposure and a number of—far less successful—indie horror films, but none of her projects had even come close to jump-starting her career in the way she’d expected. Or hoped. Or dreamed. Less than a year away from thirty, her agent wasn’t getting any calls, and no one—even the unknown, desperate, indie writers—was sending her scripts to look at anymore. She knew it was going to be up to her to make her own magic and, for a while, had been flat out of ideas on how to even scrap together enough work to pay her rent or college loans.

And then—then the idea of a lifetime hit her. A bright lightbulb over the head. Her eureka moment. Her first time ever hitting BINGO.

Just staring me right in the face the whole goddamned time.

Tabby knew the legend of Olde Stow Towne and Foul Meadow. Hell, everyone did. Even if it was just a stupid old folk story contrived by adults to scare children out of their minds—

Like it repeatedly did to me, thank you very much. Grandma, I’m looking at you.

—she truly felt she could manufacture something that one of the major streaming services would pick up. Shit, they picked up everything nowadays. With the sudden thirst for ghost hunter type documentaries and urban legend stuff, she felt the market was ravenous for this sort of thing.

Low-hanging fruit. Easy pickings. Dollar signs.

And with her family name attached to the project, she thought—no,