RuneScape:Wiki Post/Fan fiction/Witching Hour - Part 1

“Witching Hour” - Part One
By Mr. Garrison

“No, no, no!” snapped Mr. Hammond.

He flicked the bottle of ink off of the table in anger. The grandfather clock chimed midnight, and he had but twenty minutes to finish what he was doing. On the table before him lay a vicious looking sword which he hoped to dispose of. Every time he touched it a new and terrifying image would imprint itself in his mind which made his stomach churn, so he kept it a good distance away. He had bought the sword in hopes of selling it for a profit which would have greatly aided him in this time of economic trouble, but now he was coming to understand why it had been sold at such a remarkably low price. Beneath the sword was a small letter written in a strange green liquid, and Mr. Hammond had asked the Apothecary what the substance was he declared it to be ectoplasm; the substance of ghosts. The letter had been rather disturbing to read, as it carried a warning.

You have my sword, and I want it back. Greed is not an option, nor was it for those before you. You have until the twentieth minute past the Witching Hour. Then I will appear to you, but for now I wait in every shadow in your home. Rid yourself of it, or face me. Take care.

Mr. Hammond looked at the pathetic note he had scribbled down in hopes of attracting a buyer at the Grand Exchange, but time was running out, he had to sell this wretched sword. The time was now ten minutes past, the note would have to do. He needed to stay strong, to keep his faith, especially his faith in Saradomin who would protect him from this evil. Making his way across the room, he darted in and out of the shadows, terrified one of them would reach out and kill him. It had been some time since he had used the altar, or displayed any faith at all for that matter. Mr. Hammond cleared the broken wooden crates out of the way as he tried to reach the altar. He used a dirtied tinderbox to light the rusting candles which he had tried to paint gold on several occasions. Reaching into his pocket, he offered some burnt salmon as an offering to his god.

“It’s all I have, I swear it,” he murmured as he bowed down before the altar.

He closed his eyes as he prayed on his knees, but as he opened them he found a message written on the walls in green liquid which contained several Zamorakian symbols, all of them he understood for he had turned to the dark religion in times of desperation. He knew all too well that he had betrayed his god, and his grovelling for mercy now would be of no use to him. Ironically, the sword was the only thing he had left now, but this was one material benefit he detested. And now, on the altar was an arrow, pointing in the direction of the grandfather clock. Terrified, he went to check the time, which read ten minutes past midnight, but to his distress he saw that the hands marking the seconds was stuck.

Time was not on his side; he hurried out of his small dirty home and surveyed the empty street. If he was to make a profit on the sword he would still be rid of it, and he would be able to afford to leave this damned city which held so many awful memories. Turning to the left, he saw a foul green liquid oozing from the dying tree, and he froze. He then felt a blade pierce into his back, and he fell to the floor in agony. It was not the touch of a ghost that killed him, and the complexion of his killer was significantly darker than that of a spirit; indeed, it was a warm-blooded man. Mr. Hammond had been stabbed by his own cursed sword, and as he took one final breath in those Witching Hour moments of his life, his killer produced a small vial.

“It would appear that greed got the better of you; for shame. I believe this is mine, and I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” grinned the killer as he picked up his sword.

The ectophial was emptied over the corpse of Mr. Hammond, and his killer disappeared as quickly as he had arrived, albeit with a heavier inventory this time. Phasmatys was his destination, and he had things to do; things that would change the outcome of the world.

To be continued...