Spectres at the Feast

The Dona Sgáile

From the #CampfireGhoststories challenge

~*~*~*~

I shiver as the sun dips below the horizon, and the darkness begins to creep as close as it dares. The flickering light from the campfire is keeping it at bay, for now. The others gather near, as much to ward off the chill in the air, as the chill from something far more sinister.

I glance around at the familiar faces reflected in the warm glow, waiting patiently for all to settle, huddling close, wrapped in sweaters and sleeping bags and each other. We've been coming up to the highlands since we were teenagers, for the last decade. We were nearly twenty the first year, but now, we are just ten. Next year we will be absent another.

The darkness presses in, the shadows cast from the ancient stones around us, loom and sway ominously.

It is time to begin.

Pulling the top from the aged Scotch, I take a long pull, hissing out a ragged breath as it burns down my throat and into my stomach, eventually spreading warmth throughout my body. Passing it to my left, I wait until everyone has had a drink, and only then do I speak.

"We come, as we do every year, to honor the sacrifice of those who have come before." Meeting the eyes of all those gathered around, I continue in a low voice, "Beware the Dona Sgáile."

"Beware the Dona Sgáile," they chant back eerily, it is barely a whisper.

The fire gets a little lower, and everyone shifts forward an inch, none wanting to be swallowed up by the pressing darkness.

"Some say," I go on, just as low, "'Beware of the full moon, for that is when evil reigns.' Some say, 'Beware the things that creep and hunt in the darkness.'" I pause, "But we know, there are scarier things than those, more evil, and more dangerous." All eyes are riveted on me. "Beware the moonless night. When even the stars go out, and darkness reigns. It is not what hunts in the darkness, but the darkness itself." My voice lowers to a mere whisper. "Beware the night that steals your breath, suffocates, and prevents you from screaming. Beware the shadows! Beware the Dona Sgáile!"

"Beware the Dona Sgáile!" they chant a little louder.

We lapse into silence, and several begin dozing, as close to the fire as they dare. I wonder if this will be the year the curse is lifted. I shiver, and huddle closer to the dying embers.

My sleepy mind wanders back, ten years, to a camping trip much like this one, but far less somber. To kids playing on the cliffs, daring and reckless, drunk on our parents' liquor. To a boy with chestnut hair and chocolate eyes. A push, a foot slipping, his laughter morphing into a scream of pure horror as he fell. His body torn apart by the jagged rocks below, and battered by the sea.

Just like that, the witch's son was dead, and none of us could say how it happened. Or would say.

In her grief, she cursed us all. A spell was cast, and we were all marked.

Yes, we are compelled to return on the anniversary, each and every year. And every year, the shadow comes, a living thing, voracious in its appetite. The Dona Sgáile: our executioner. Choosing a sacrifice, seeking to satisfy an endless appetite.

If we don't return... well, if we don't return, the consequences are far worse.

Ben was the first to sneer at the witch's warning, refusing to return. Each member of his family fell ill and died, until the same illness ravaged his own body, and he also died in agony.

So we come. We remind ourselves of why we're here. And then we pray that we will be spared for another year.

The murmurings of my fellow accused have quieted now, the only sound is soft snoring and deep breathing. Some have brought small lanterns or flashlights, a useless effort to keep back the night. It is so heavy, the only thing that can really save us, is the fire that burns through the thick, suffocating darkness. Our hope dwindles. We've nearly burned through all the wood we brought, and our pyre is quickly becoming ash.

I try to stay awake, but sleep pulls at my eyelids, making them heavier and heavier. Suddenly, I start! I can feel it, slithering ever nearer.

A cool breeze makes the embers of the fire glow to life, but it is not enough- I know it is coming for me. Cold, chilling fingers of deepest, darkest blackness slide over my ankles, creeping up my legs, over my torso, seeking out my face. Ice fills my heart and I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I'm choking on nothingness. My vision goes dark and I can no longer see even the faintest shadow. I feel it, insinuating itself inside me—seeping into my nose, mouth, an ears. Even into my pores. Choking me, suffocating me, pulling me into a deep, dark abyss. Shredding me from the inside out.

Now, it isn't just terror that fuels my desire to scream, but excruciating pain. The pain of being ripped apart, just as the witch's son was, all those years ago. But no sound comes out, it's all in my head.

A fleeting thought runs through my mind. Tomorrow I will be gone, and the others will breathe a sigh of relief that they will survive another year. But I will not. I wonder briefly if the excruciating pain will ever stop, or if I will be stuck in this torturous existence forever. Then it comes to me, I can feel it. We are the Dona Sgáile. We are the shadows that devour.

I feel the vestiges of my humanity being ripped away. I become the darkness, the shadows: hungry and starving, until all I can think of is the hunt.

Beware the darkness! Beware the night! Beware the Dona Sgáile!