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The Pale Tree
🕑 Added 2022-08-31 06:14:21 +0000 UTCThis is a short horror story that I narrated. Not my regular thing, but it was an enjoyable short project that I did for myself. With that in mind, any criticism is welcome. I've posted a few questions if you're up for answering specifics, but about the story, voice, or sound in general would be useful.
1. Did the tone of voice suit the story? What do you think would be an improvement to how it was read, and how the voice could better work with the text?
2. How was the pacing for the story, especially with the ending? I wanted it to read like an old folk tale, so it's a very different storytelling style.
3. Is voiced writing something that's interesting to you? I honestly don't mind you being blunt if you don't care, this is just curiosity. If I decide it's something I enjoy, I'll do it for myself either way.
The Pale Tree
There was something out in the woods.
We knew, because Nicholas had not returned. And we knew it was no beast, because Nicholas was a hunter. The wise woman had read his bones, and she said he still walked. But he did not come back.
After three days, the hunters met. Twelve stood in the firelight and spoke of small things, because we were afraid to say more. Until the silence sat like a stone upon our hearts, and the only thing left was to speak of Nicholas. A hunter does not die alone, Radek said. We nodded, for his bones were ours to find. Ours to bury, lest the frost claim them first. But no man wished to be first, for Nicholas had been the best of us. Had ranged furthest beneath the pines, till the needles lay so thick you could not hear your steps and the branches blocked the moon from view.
Yuri said that we should travel as three, for perhaps it was a bear. And we knew it was not a bear, but still we nodded. Twelve men. Four days. To travel swift beneath the light, and turn before it fled. Before worse things came to prowl and we burdened the rest with our bones.
I was first, because I could not abide the wait. And Branis, because he was young with most to prove. And Yuri, because he feared shame more than death. The others agreed. The fire went out. We slept, and prayed that morning would not come.
We left at first light, warm in our furs. Yuri carried his gun, hard-won from a trader three winters past. Branis carried his bow, each arrow thrice-blessed by the wise woman’s hands. I carried only my ax, and I said that old ways were best. But in truth my hands would shake, and I did not trust their aim.
We knew we would not find him. But the bones must have their due.
There is a certain cold beneath the pines. Your breath is a ghost that haunts you for moments, silent beneath a strangled sky. The light is weak. It has no bow, and cannot press far beneath the boughs. Lanterns shield their flame against the chill, nurtured with oil, borne unwilling into the gloom. Trees rise like old gods beneath the midday night, each root a grasping hand, each branch a reaching claw.
It was Branis who saw him first. The wind rose, drowning his words, but I saw the name on his lips. Branis turned and we followed, three flames in the twilight, till the trees swallowed Branis and we could only follow the wind.
It was I who saw Branis: white and cold, his blood soaking the pines. There was a feathered shaft in his throat, and his light had gone out. Yuri saw him next and cried out. But we were not looking at Branis. We were looking at her.
There was a pale woman beneath a pale tree, her hair like fine silk, long down her back. She was singing a song I could not hear, but I knew she spoke my name. Her breast hung curved and supple, bare as winter soil, but I knew she was not cold. Her left hand held a long, red thorn. And at her right knelt Nicholas, pale fingers tangled in his hair, faithful as a hound. I met his eyes once and he did not see me.
Yuri fired. I smelled the smoke and cinder, watched for her to fall, but the shot went wide. I fled, so I did not see his fear. Nor Nicholas raising his bow, nor the shaft that grew like a winter rose. Nor the red that stained his furs.
I told them it was a bear. That the three were dead. That they were buried in the pines, and their bones would rest. They all knew I was lying, but only I knew the truth. That at tomorrow’s rites, when the questions come, I will not be there.
There is something out in the woods, and I can hear her singing my name.
