shapeshifter – Bekah Ferguson

A Short Story by Bekah Ferguson

(1 Minute Read)

It was late in November and I was taking a shortcut through the woods at dusk, when the trees were bare and skeletal and no snow yet on the ground. I’d taken this path to my house many times before in the daylight. But today I was late, the sun already set, gray quickly fading to black. When I reached the loneliest stretch of the woods, where the dirt trail narrows to single file beneath tree limbs that intertwine above like a cobweb, I could no longer see by moonlight.

I switched on my phone’s flashlight. Only the closest tree trunks were visible now, wherever the flashlight beam reached, and the gaps in-between were suffocatingly dark. Before I’d been hurrying, speed-walking, but now I had to slow down to avoid tripping over roots as the path zig-zagged. With a sudden jolt of fear, I became aware of crunching and scuffing from behind, like approaching footsteps.

My heart leaped to my throat and I tried to run, putting some distance between myself and the sound. I paused to look over my shoulder, flinging my flashlight beam behind me. Just an empty black path, walled in by trees. I listened, hearing only my pounding heartbeat, then the crunching started up again. Whatever it was was about to round the bend and come into view. I wanted to flee but couldn’t look away, transfixed. A fox appeared: eyes glowing white as it reflected back the light from my camera.

Relief coursed through my body and I hunched over, hands to my knees, laughing at myself. But when I looked at the fox again, my blood ran cold. Something wasn’t right, something was off. I peered closer. A flicker ran over its body causing a split second of transparency. Then its eyes turned vermilion as its whole body blackened and dissolved into a hairless, jiggling torso. Two skinny arms and legs with clawed digits grew out of it, and as it stretched taller and taller, its sinister eyes bore into me with a potent hunger.

I unfroze and ran from it in terror, sharp twigs whipping and stinging my face. I reached the back gate of my house, fumbling with the latch, and slammed it shut behind me, heart thudding against my ribs. I rushed toward my back door but skidded to a stop.

A fox sat on the step waiting for me, eyes narrowed and gleaming.

Image by Victoria from Pixabay

Read on Wattpad

As retold by Bekah Ferguson

(3 min read)

In 1829, in the Scottish settlement of Baldoon, Ontario, the John MacDonald family purchased a two-storey farmhouse and soon found themselves terrorised by a violent poltergeist. For reasons unknown, there was a land dispute over the sale; in particular, by an old woman who was very much opposed. Her threats and misgivings were left unheeded, however, and the MacDonalds moved in.

The hauntings began straight away: The lid of the kettle flying off as the kettle flung itself to the floor, the poker and broom in the hearth jangling in an unfelt gust of wind. Stones smashing through windows with no culprits in sight, and an Indian knife lifted from its mount and thrown at the window; piercing the casement firmly. Once John marked one of the stones with paint and threw it into a nearby stream, only to find it back on the floor of his house a few hours later. But the worst was yet to come. One day the house randomly caught on fire and burned to the ground. The family escaped unscathed, and after briefly living elsewhere, returned to the property to live in a tent, perhaps planning to rebuild.

At this time, a country witch doctor came along and spoke to them. He claimed that the Ojibwe who lived in the same Great Lakes area believed that it was not a poltergeist tormenting the family at all, but rather forest faeries. The house had been built on a faerie path and they were simply in the way: the hauntings were intended to scare them off. But as later recounted by John MacDonald’s son Neil, a local teenage girl with second sight had different advice for the family altogether. She told them to fashion some silver bullets and go in search of any unusual geese in the area.

John found a white goose with a black head near the river and proceeded to shoot at it. His aim was bad and he nicked only the wing; breaking it. So he chased after the wounded goose through the hillsides and forests until he lost track of it. It was then he discovered a cabin in the woods–the house of the old woman who had contested his purchase of the land. And there she sat in a rocking chair on her porch, muttering curses, and cradling a broken arm.

Sources:

Skeptoid

Mysteries of Canada

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Tag: shapeshifter

The Shortcut

Folktale: The Poltergeist of Baldoon, Ontario