Hearsay Horizons

This work is the sole property of its writer, and it may not be reproduced, quoted, referenced, or otherwise alluded to without express written permission from its author. Any attempts to quote or alter this work in other texts without the author’s permission can and will result in persecution including, but not limited to, monetary fines, lawsuits, and banning of the offending party’s works in the Netherlands. Alternative interpretation of the words in this piece astray from what the author meant is thought-theft and punishable to the highest extent of the law. In addition, betraying the integrity of this piece by providing alternative viewpoints or perspectives on the issues inside it garners up to a $5000 fee or up to 1 year in prison. Alterations to this piece by the original author are valid canon and violations of the proceeding statements retroactively incur the penalties for any works that have taken liberties with the new content prior to its inclusion in the text.  ...

Calla tried to move as quietly as she could, but her feet, in the guardsman's big boots, thumped on the stone. Where was this? She'd assumed a guardhouse, but they'd black-bagged her when they saw the skeletons. There were more rooms here than there should be. Too big a jail for a village like this. Thicker walls. She paused when she... felt... the shape of a person up ahead. This was a T-junction; the person and light that played on the walls up ahead. Nothing but the cells behind. Calla turned left, onto a carpet that muffled her footsteps. Good. The floors were still stone, under the carpet, but it was looking less prison-like with every turn. Maybe underground? No, there'd been a window in her cell.             There were windows here, too. First they were up high, like the one she couldn't reach in her cell. Then, thin arrow slits that showed her glimpses of greenery. Maybe a drawbridge. A smudge of... city....

Braithe frowned down at the hamlet nestled among the trees. Smoke coiled from cottage chimneys; a scattered constellation of lit windows pushed back against the eternal dusk. Children’s shouts and dogs’ barks echoed off of the hills. People milled around in the town square. Braithe spied an inn—the sign depicted some kind of insect—which meant the town would welcome a traveler. And yet, the cart remained where it was. She slid her eyes over the homes, the slivers of gardens she could see, the busy square, and then she could no longer put off looking at the mansion across the valley. Even in this twilight, the building managed to overshadow the town. Ah.           “What do you think, Caë? Are we going to pay a fey a visit?” She glanced over at her traveling companion, but the diminutive girl was wholly cocooned in her quilt. The shape grunted at Braithe, and the woman sighed. “Sure, mother. Let’s, mother,” she murmured. Caërra grunted again, ...

The living room lamp is still on in the house when Victor pulls into the driveway, pale and weak against the curtains and the predawn light. Victor remains in the car, seat belt cutting against his neck, legs slightly too tense in the Sentra’s small footwell. The discomfort isn’t enough to drive him from the car; it certainly isn’t isn’t enough to push him into the house with its peeling paint and overgrown yard. Victor watches the lamplight grow dimmer and dimmer against the morning. Two of his hands grip the steering wheel.            Eventually, the birdsong and his beeping watch force him out of the car. Victor moves stiffly, automatically, his leaden steps leading him to the back door. He has the key in a hand, but the door isn’t locked. Victor tilts his head. When he steps inside, it’s with caution, eyes scanning for anything out of place, with two of his hands balled into fists. But there is nothing out of place--no more than usu...

Sarah Keaton theoretically made her living as an insurance investigator. Empowered, and researching empowered incidences, but just an investigator. The number of times her door had been burned down, broken open, displaced to a different dimension, or turned invisible was too high for any civilian citizen, though. Even if the last one had been a prank. Now Sarah stood at the bottom of her stairs and frowned up at her porch. The screen door--always squeaky, never to squeak or be oiled again--had folded almost in half, ripped off of the top hinges and propped up on the bent metal rail. It had been torn and mangled by the heavy wooden door that was no longer a door, was now a tree with roots that clung. The lower branches pushed their way out through the windows to either side of the had-been-a-door. The upper trunk shoved through the doorway and the wall above it, up to grow fierce and glad through a hole it made in the roof. Sarah cursed as she kicked aside a dislodged shingle. There...