"The Imposter" by Mary K. Gowdy

Happy Spooky Season, y'all! Isn't this just the best time of year? I absolutely love it. Chilly days, chunky sweaters, pumpkin spice lattes, horror movies, spooky music, and, of course-- scary stories.

Did you know that the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest right now? It's true. The Celts believed that some of these spirits came back to visit family members-- while others were solely here to play tricks on us. To avoid any harm to these evil spirits, the Celts would leave treats out for them and disguise themselves by wearing masks and costumes. So, if you hear a strange noise at night or maybe see a shadow in the corner of your eye, don't be alarmed. It's probably just a lost spirit returning to the physical world...

Thank you to everyone who submitted their work in this year's Write or Die Ghost Story Contest. It was so much fun reading everyone's spooky stories, and it definitely got me into the Halloween spirit.

Now, moving on to the winner.

Drum roll, please...

Please give a round of applause to... Mary K. Gowdy!! Her short story is a chilling story that starts with a woman who wakes up in a casket.

"The Imposter" by Mary K. Gowdy

I cannot scream because my mouth is sewn shut. Every inch of me burns, and all I see is

darkness. The gods must have condemned me to Shargosh, the fiery pit of the evil dead. My

screams escape as muffled moans. Is there anyone there to hear me except for the other damned?

What did I do to deserve this? I was a good wife and mother. Cared for the home and hearth

when Rolft was at sea.

Two pinpricks of light materialize at eye level in front of me. As I lean forward, musty cloths

binding my whole body stop me from raising my hands. Outside, I see rows of wooden pews

facing me inside a humble hut that I recognize as our town’s meeting hall. Tapestries I helped

weave drape the walls while bearskin rugs from some of Rolft’s hunts cover the stone floor.

A few people have taken a seat, but others linger, speaking in low voices. Every few moments,

the large wooden door opens with a gust of wind and leaves as newcomers enter, stomping the ice

from their feet and lowering their wool hoods. The banquet table to my right is always laden with

food for meetings—large turkey legs, pig butts, and cheese—but today, it is empty. The only times

that table is empty where there are feeders is during. . .

Funerals.

It hits me. I’m not dead.

I’m in a casket.

I was at too many of these events a couple of years ago during the white plague. Old men,

healthy women, and young children found their ways into the ground just the same. I’d lost my

Iglak, barely turned seven. He’d be such a brave warrior if the sickness hadn’t taken him. His

casket had been so short, cut to size as to preserve wood because we are not wasteful people. A

straw caricature of him was painted onto the wood, as was our custom, with his clothes nailed over

it. The casket covers everything except for two holes for the eyes. That’s where the souls leave.

I scream. I’m not dead. There’s been a mistake.

A woman steps in front of me to pay her respects. A long veil of black lace covers everything

except for a sliver of jaw and blonde hair pulled into a bun. It’s a very fine possession; only the

women of the strongest men in the village would have something like that. I have one myself, and

so would Leka, our leader’s wife. But this woman is too young to be her.

The woman stares, not hearing my screams. Despite my bonds, I manage to knock my head

against the wood with all my strength, which is not much. Pain bursts into my skull, making me

blind. When I recover, I peer through the holes again to see if the woman heard me. She’d

stiffened, but I can’t see her expression. She turns and leaves without a word.

No, this can’t be happening. If no one hears me, realizes their mistake, then. . .

How long would it take for me to die? We bury our dead with heads above ground, so I won’t

suffocate. The spirits must have a way to escape. The heads of the coffins act as our tombstones,

the straw faces staring at us with their tiny black holes for eyes. I will have to wait for dehydration

to take me. My throat closes up with sudden thirst, and I force down every swallow like packing

hay into a mattress. When I cough, my lips strain against the stitches, digging further in with each

spasm. It’s not long before I can taste blood. With the way my heart is pounding, I’ll die before I

reach the ground.

When I press my eyes against the holes again, I search for Rolft. He stands beside a pew where

our three children sit, all in their nicest dark clothes of mourning. They sit calmly in a fine line

from oldest to youngest like they never would for our town meetings no matter how much I chided

them. Though Rolft does not look at them, his whole body is attuned to their movements for their

protection. He knows the weight of all’s attention on him and remains strong, his eyes staring into

protection.

The woman in the veil passes him, their hands clasping for a second so brief only I would

notice it, and walks down the row to sit beside our eldest, Thornwe, laying a comforting arm

across her shoulder. Like I’m supposed to be doing. Thornwe acts like nothing’s amiss and Rolft

who would never infringe upon my honor by cavorting with another woman. Had he moved on so

quickly? I couldn’t be gone for more than a few days.

That veil she wore isn’t just like mine. It is mine. She’s wearing my clothes. Touching my family

like they’re hers. This has to be a nightmare if only I could wake up. But the dream keeps going. I

stay bound in my coffin, and the woman’s arm remains across my daughter’s shoulders.

Someone is impersonating me. A face changer. The gods have gifted our people five powers

from the beginning of time—some hold all five or three, and some hold one or none. But who

would impersonate me? Is it someone from a warring clan trying to get close to Rolft to kill him?

I have to get out of here. For the first time, I wish the gods had blessed me with more power.

I’m only a voice changer, a humble power, perfect for a wife, though most believe it is better for

women to have none at all. I’d always chide my friend Askele, born with no power when she

envies the men and their chance to cultivate their abilities. It isn’t a woman’s place.

Then why did the gods bless any at all?

I’d never cared to come up with an answer. It was silly talk, and I had a house to feed. But in

this moment, I would give everything to be a splitter or a ghoster, able to create another version of

myself outside this coffin to tell them I’m still alive.

But they don’t think I am dead. Who am I supposed to be?

I scan the crowd for anyone missing. There’s Njard and Trigja and their children, our clan’s

leader Drenn and his wife Leka. Most of our friends are here, but there’s a whole side of the hall to

my right that I can’t see.

I struggle against my bonds. My skin is raw—I don’t know from what—and I groan, wanting to

but unable to scream. I forgot about the pain in my fright, and it has only worsened.

The bonds tying my hands thread through the wood of the coffin’s back and into a knot on the

outside, and the same to my feet. They’re tight for keeping the dead in one place, but I can move

my hand bonds slightly up and done against the wood. The ties are made of straw. I don’t know if

I can wear them down, but there’s nothing else I can do.

As I attempt to saw the bonds, straw fibers fill the air. They make me sneeze, and my mouth

again struggles against the bonds to open. My lips are inflamed, swollen twice their size. If I force

my mouth open, my skin might give in first.

Irritation makes my eyes water, so I can’t see anything. It could take hours or days for me to

break free. I might succumb to weakness and death first.

How did this happen? The last thing I remember was taking care of the laundry while the

children attended school. Rolft had been helping build a house for a new couple on the other side

of the hill. It’d been a cloudy day, the air chilly, foretelling the first snow. I washed the clothes

outside, the water and the cold making my hands go numb, but the laundry had to be done. I

would have to tell Rolft to bring the water basin into the house for the winter months, for it was

too heavy for me. The reason we hadn’t already was because it was early for the wind to run this

cold.

It would be a harsh winter, many nights before planting season, and many days of icebergs

floating in our seas, hungry for ships. But our clan would have to sail across the channels to pillage

the others for food if we ran out. Rolft would lead them. I worried for him as I did every winter.

But it was worse that day. It clouded my mind as much as the sky. I had grieved with Askele when

her husband hadn’t returned from a pillage. Our village did our best to support her and her four

children, but it was hard without a man to catch game or repair the house during the blizzards. She

needed a new husband but refused anyone who gave her attention, for they didn’t meet her

standards.

I moved my wet laundry into my basket and settled it against my hip. The clotheslines were on

the other side of the house. And that was the last I remembered.

The coffin jerks to the side as someone removes it from the stand. As it moves, I’m able to see

the flash of another coffin through the peepholes. I’m not the only one at this funeral. It happened

so fast I couldn’t decipher the depiction of who it was. Now, only the wooden beams of the meeting

hall leer over me as the rocking of marching men carries me to my grave.

As the roof gives way to a clear blue sky with the low winter sun, I pray to the sun god to free me.

I’d always been a devout woman, but in my current state, it seems silly that a god with the power

of the sun would care enough to free me. Many men, women, and children die during each season.

I will also be beneath the gods’ notice, my only mercy is that I will ascend to the paradise of Jordjen

and not Shargosh. But my death would be slow before then. I don’t want to feel my life slipping as

the dehydration kills me. Or will it be the cold that does it? It bites at the casket, eager to sneak

inside. As I wait, my family will eat in our house without me. With that impostor. They’ll never

know that they could have saved me.

I begin to cry, my nose dripping snot. I would’ve sobbed with my full chest if I could’ve

opened my mouth. I’ll never hug my children again—see Thornwe marry and my sons grow into

the warriors they’re meant to be, their eyes alive with adventure just like their father. I want to feel

Rolft’s strong arms around me. Breathe his salty musk in as we lay together by the dying fire, the

few rare moments we get to be alone with one another, the children asleep. His beard would tickle

my forehead. I would complain that he needed to trim it more often. But I loved it. I loved him.

I’m sure that impostor means to kill him. Why else would someone impersonate me? I’m of

now great value other than the honor of my husband. I have to stop whoever they are. Rolft can’t

save me, but I will save him.

I resume sawing at my bonds, twisting and tugging to get any space to slip a hand through.

Eventually, the men carrying me stop, and the world goes sideways again as they deposit me into

my grave in a standing position, only my head above ground. Right in front of me is Rolft and the

impostor. She hugs my two boys close, their faces wet with tears. I want to claw her arms off of

them so badly that I jerk my right hand free, the bond ripping with the cackle of hay.

I didn’t believe I could really do it till now. When I try to pull my left free, the skin burns every

inch that the rope scrapes down it—from wrist to knuckles and the length of my thumb. The

pain is so much that I grimace, and one stitch in my mouth pops, unleashing a new pain.

The bagpipes’ song begins outside to signal the start of shoveling the dirt. The crack of a

shovel against the hard earth precedes the soft pattering by my feet—the falling ground.

I bang against the coffin, but it is too late. No one will hear me over the bagpipes’ screech, and

all will leave before the musicians finish their song. I have to escape on my own.

Crouching down, I pull at the binds around my feet. They’re even tighter than the ones around

my hands had been. I can barely reach a fingertip between the ropes and my legs to stretch it.

Before me continues the thumping of piling earth, nearing my knees, my face. They’re going to

bury me whole, leave no room for my soul to escape, though it is our custom. I’m sure of it. The

dirt will slide through the peepholes till I’m forced to swallow it, and I’ll cough until there is no

space, and then. . .

I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts. There’s no reason for them to break tradition. I

still have time.

But what if I can’t claw myself out?

It takes forever to loosen the bonds enough to slip my feet out. Tugging each one free sends a

new fire of agony from my ankles to my toes. The skin is as dry as the wood of the coffin, ridges

of cracked skin like the shapes melting snow leaves in the winter. What happened to me? As I

straighten, my feet now free, I slip a hand underneath the rough spun dress they put me in to feel

the skin. It stings just to touch it. Every inch of me has been stripped of its softness and replaced

with this tight pain.

Outside, the attendees begin to leave, the burial almost done. My family is the last to say their

goodbyes. Each grabs a handful of dirt to pour on the coffin’s head—first my boys, then Thornwe.

When it is finally Rolft’s turn, I scream with every ounce of strength I have left, ripping the rest of

the stitches over my mouth. Blood coats my lips and tongue like pus from a popped boil. I scream

harder, but he turns away, those blasted bagpipes masking everything. If I get out, I am crushing

those things to pieces.

My screams transmute into sobs as he turns his back to me to head back to the village with our

children. Will I ever see that face again? He can’t move on without me. But he doesn’t even realize

I’m gone.

The impostor says something to him, and he nods solemnly, taking the children away while she

stays. She remains even after the bagpipes strangle out their last note, and the musicians follow the

rest. When even they are out of sight, the woman takes off her veil. It’s so surreal to see my face

staring back at me that I forget to pound on the casket now that the dirge is done. Her nose is long

and thin, tipped up at the corner exactly like mine. Her dirty blonde rests in a knot at the base of

her neck but with two wisps loose on either side of her face, exactly as how I like to wear it. When

she kneels in front of me so I can get an even better look, I see all the freckles that I so hatefully

studied in my youth—everyone in the exact right place. I’m not familiar with face changers and how

accurate their powers are on their own, but I am sure that this is not an assassin from a neighboring

clan. This person knew me. Deeply.

I don’t have to wonder who, for she changes her face to her true one, and I gasp.

Askele.

My best friend. Why would she do this? An assassin would make more sense than this.

“Rest in peace, Islorne,” she said. “I wish you no ill in the next.”

The rage hits me with full force, and I scream like the men on their hunts as I bash my hands

against the casket so hard it cracks. Askele scuttles away like she’s seen a wolf, tripping on my

dress and ripping the fabric. Good. I can’t wait to burn it.

I hit the casket harder and harder till there’s a crack big enough to slip my fingers through.

Then I bend the wood planks till they break, using strength I didn’t know I had. Grabbing the

weeds in front of my burial plot, I pull myself through the hole. I didn’t make it big enough, so the

broken pieces cut my body. My screams sound like that of a wild boar caught in a trap.

Askele watches in horror, her round face slack with dread. When I stand over her in the

sunlight, I see my body for the first time. I am red and crusty with burnt skin. I look like a corpse. I

should be a corpse. I bring my hands up to my face. To my hair. There is none. My nose doesn’t

feel the same as it is half burned away. I scream again, my throat now as raw as the rest of my

body.

“What did you do?!” I yell at her.

She doesn’t answer.

I grab her collar and begin ripping the dress off of her. This wakes her from her horror. She

shoves me away and stands.

“What did you do?!” I repeat. “Why?”

“You never appreciated what you had,” she replied, keeping her chin raised like that murderer could claim high ground if she acted well enough. “You didn’t care as the winter drew closer, knowing my children and I would starve. Even before Jord died, I was always your charity case.”

“I brought you vegetables from our garden.”

“Scraps. The smallest ones, already bruised and decaying.”

“If you didn’t spit in the face of someone’s kindness, maybe you’d have another husband by

now.”

“That’s your problem. You’re too simple-minded. Only caring about the hearth and home and

not using your power to make change.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re a voice changer, married to one of the most influential men in the clan. That man

worships you. It’s almost revolting. You could’ve made things better for us women who have

powers.”

And that’s when I stopped to get a better look at her. She was shorter and fatter than me, but she

still wore my leaner body with her original face. I never knew Askele to have any powers, and a

woman with one of the greater abilities would’ve been killed as a young girl. Women were more

susceptible to corruption. They couldn’t be trusted.

“How are you. . .” I gesture wildly at her, not knowing how to structure my thoughts. It’s

unthinkable. Blasphemy.

“My mother taught me how to keep my power hidden when I was thirteen, but nothing else. I

taught myself how to use it. I’ve been practicing changing into you our whole lives, wondering

what it would be like to be the pretty one, the beloved one, a matriarch of our clan. As you, I’m

going to change things around here so no girl has to fear like I did.”

“This shows that all our teachings are right. Your power turned you bitter.”

“You’d never understand.”

“What about your children?! Who will look after them?”

Askele cocks her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. She glances to my side, and I follow

her gaze. There wasn’t just one other casket at the funeral, but four. All designed with the faces of

her children. My body trembles at the sight, and I almost faint. I’m going to be sick. A mother

killing her children. I can’t imagine. My children are my life, my flesh. It killed me when Iglak died

of the plague.

“I burned our house down with all of them and you in it,” Askele said. “I hated my life. It was

only ever a burden. Everyone thinks it was an accident. A log slipped from the hearth in the night

while we were asleep.” No sadness rings in her voice. She must have no soul to do something like

this. Will she kill my children? She’s mad. I have to protect them.

I charge at her, not sure of what else to do. We fall to the ground, and all I see is grass and the

sky as my fingers blindly claw for what? I’m not sure. Am I going to kill her like she tried to do to

me? She was my friend. I loved her. She was like an aunt to my children when all that time she was

a monster.

She presses me onto my back, one hand on my throat and the other grabbing something above

my head. A rock. The last thing I see.