In the shadowed dining hall of Morrig Manor, the air was thick with a damp and sour stench that clung to the throat. Marc stood with his posture firm and hands folded neatly behind him. In servile silence, his eyes traced the moth-ravaged tapestries of forgotten wars, their heroic figures fading into obscurity beneath mildew’s slow encroachment, as rusted sconces cast dancing phantoms across the long dining table like a mummer’s shadow play. Lord Morrig sat hunched over the table, goblet in one hand and crumpled letter in the other, as he too fixed his silent gaze on the once proud tapestries. Upon the old Lord’s shoulder perched his prized pet, Crimson. Named for its bulbous, blood-red eyes, the corpulent fly had long since swollen beyond nature’s mercy, its thorny bristles fraying Lord Morrig’s robes and twitching faintly as it dreamed. The silence between them was cleaved clean by a howling wind, which carried with it the keening knell of the cathedral’s bells.

As if awoken by the toll, Lord Morrig suddenly straightened his back, a movement which sent Crimson into a pained and droning flight. “They slight me again, Marc!” he spat. “The Bishop dares write to me that he will not christen my blood! Instead, he writes that the heir to House Morrig is to be christened by some fresh from the seminary altar boy, still wet from his own baptism! And why? Because of this plague, this tempest in a teacup that does nothing more than scour hovels of their hermits! As though pestilence would dare lay its hands on my blood!” He slammed the goblet down, the dregs splashing like spilt blood…

Interested in reading more? You can find the rest of ‘Toadstone’ on Amazon! Only £0.99 to buy, or free on Kindle Unlimited!

I’ve regretfully allowed this blog to fall to the wayside once again. But as you can see, I’ve been busy! I am thrilled to have finally self-published ‘Toadstone’ and make it available for people to read. And hopefully it is just the first of many more short stories to come! – R.K. Lightfoot

In the shadow of the plague-stricken city of Beelswick, despair festers as fast as the disease itself. But whispers of a monstrous toad dwelling deep within the dark woods, and the curative wonders of the toadstone within its head, give some desperate folk a hope to cling to. This dark fantasy short story blends grim medieval atmosphere and plague town horror into a tale of blood and superstition. At around 3,900+ words, it delivers a concentrated, and plague doctor-prescribed, dose of fantastical dread. A quick but haunting read, this story lingers like a fever dream long after the last page!