Every year, the tower fills with the souls of the dead.

Every year, the city throws someone living in to lead the dead to the afterlife. Few succeed. Most join the dead.

This year, it’s Freya’s turn.

A very short story about confronting your fears—and discovering hope.

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Tower of Souls

Adrenalin frissoned from stomach to fingertips as I landed on a cold, cobbled floor, the foot-thick door slamming shut behind me, blocking out the festival sounds as suddenly as if I’d died. I hadn’t, though; my panting gasps echoed in the absolute darkness of the Tower—until I stopped to wet dry lips and realised someone else was breathing too.

My heart leapt. I scrabbled backward against the door; the long, rattling breaths drew closer. 

Something touched my foot. I screamed, flinging myself at the spelled wood that separated me from life. Long splinters tore off in my fingertips and blood soaked my nail beds—and something touched my shoulder.

I froze. I screwed my eyes closed, little panicked breaths my only movement.

“Greetings, Wreath-Bearer.”

The whispered voice scraped over me like bones rattling in the wind, and I huddled my face against the door. “Please,” I whispered, chest heaving. “Don’t hurt me.”

Cold fingers trailed down my spine. “We will not hurt you, so long as you bear the wreath.”

My fingers convulsed against the splintered door. The wreath. I’d dropped the wreath. I whirled around, slamming my back against the wood. Where had I dropped it? It could be anywhere in the dark, it could be—