Elves, In Dalkeith Wood. Do Not Sleep There, Do Not Eat There, Do Not Linger.

Elves, in Dalkeith wood. Do not sleep there, do not eat there, do not linger.

Take the thing you love the most to a forest pool and leave it on the shore.

And perhaps you'll gain what you most desire, or perhaps new desires by the score.

Because in the having, the heart finds wanting, sometimes all the more.

There is a recurring fascination with the idea of using necromancy to solve crimes.

Makes sense, right? What better evidence could there be than the testimony of the victim themselves. Except the dead are rarely helpful.

Necromancy is more akin to fishing than hunting. You're not carefully selecting a target, more throwing your hook into dark waters and reeling in whatever bites. And that tends to be whatever has the strongest lust for life. Life the detective very much wants to keep for themselves.

Once the dead are back in the world of the living they'll do anything to remain. Best for everyone that those that go to dust, stay dust.

I found myself on the Dreaming Stair entirely by accident. I was climbing Fleshmarket Close - one of the steep, dark Closes leading to the Royal Mile - when I foolishly let my mind wander.

I didn't notice, at first, that the stairs went on for much longer than they should have done. Only subconsciously did I realise that the light had grown green and leaf dappled and the noises of the streets had fallen away.

It was the smell of honeysuckle that finally woke me from my reverie. So out of place, for an Edinburgh alleyway, that the incongruity brought me back to my senses. I realised I was wandering into the Wilds and gripped my iron amulet tight. It had turned so cold it burnt and the pain anchored me to the mundane.

Suddenly, I stumbled out onto the High Street. Blinded by the light and buffeted by the crowds, I shook myself, and continued with my day.

I saw a barghest, late last night on Grassmarket. It wore its hound form, black and huge and terrifying.

A funereal procession of dogs and cats had formed in its wake and crows watched from the eves. I followed for a while, curious to see who the barghest had come for, until I was seized by the idea that it had come for me.

I ran for home and bolted the door with iron.

New additions to my longer work: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57540415

The wind had got up, whipping the mist into strange and twisted shapes, but also granting the occasional moment of improved visibility. Alder was certain he could make out more details; the figure was definitely a man, dressed in tattered clothes and walking with a wounded shuffle. A woodsman had gone missing a week back. A good man, not much older than Alder, named Hamish. Rarely, so rarely, did anyone find their way back once lost, but Alder allowed himself to hope. He’d liked Hamish.

Hamish had been a vain sort and had always worn the same scrap of red silk around his neck, as a rough sort of tie. He thought it had made him look rakish. A few times now Alder had thought he’d seen a flash of red, as well as glint in the figure’s hand that might have been a hunting knife. Hamish would have had one of them on him for sure. The seeds of hope began to sprout in Alder’s heart, just as the figure reached the boundary stones and the wind finally swept the curtain of mist away.

It was Hamish, alright, but he hadn’t really come back. Not really.

The body had been dead sometime, long enough for the flesh to turn stark white and take on a waxy hue. The cause of death wasn’t too hard to identify either. A branch in full leaf had burst out of the side of Hamish’s neck, tearing the flesh back to form a sort of macabre flower. From rents in his clothes other twigs and branches protruded and his mouth was open in an awful parody of a scream. Rather than sound a clutch of roots dangled out, swaying against his chest.