The Canwyll Corph by Ayana Hussain

Trigger warning: Contains violence and dark themes

It doesn’t end.

It never does.

Even with your feet bruised and bloodied by twigs and branches left behind by those horrid trees

that seem to stare down at you in a condescending way.

You are no longer just beneath them in stature, but in your very worth.

But enough pity. You have somewhere to be—the final destination.

The cottage. Home.

You look behind you, but the blinding light follows. The wicked light. It threatens to scorch your

vision before you can even see the rabbit beneath your foot.

Your dear father would never care for the weak. Merely the bottom line matters.

Thankfully, the light stops following you. For a brief second, a blood-curdling yell erupts from

behind, freezing you in place. In that instant, you feel the soft fur beneath your foot.

With reflexes you didn't know you possessed, you scoop up the little rabbit, its heartbeat a frantic

drum against your palm, as you run.

There is little escape from this monster... this... light. From what you’ve heard, they call it the

Canwyll Corph. The Corpse Candle. A faint glow, as innocent as it may seem, is but a harbinger

of fate.

It follows not those destined for happiness, but those fated to lie six feet under.

You take a sharp turn, holding the rabbit to your chest, and glance downward, falling with a

crack-! crack-! thud!!

You hit your back and knee as you land in a pile of leaves, the impact jarring your teeth. For a

while, panting, you realize... the light is still behind you. Now divided into two white, bright

forms, weaving through the trees like eyes. The rabbit shifts in your grip, a small, warm weight

against your racing heart.

They seemed to have lost track of you, but a twig snapped nearby. Yet you ran on, the rabbit's

whimpers muffled against your chest.

You can’t just sit here. You can still hear them. Which means... they hear you. Every breath,

every shudder.

You must bring silence. Not run... slither.

But you can only pretend to be a snake and forget your ability to run for so long as the sun starts

to rise. As you rush through, the dried-up blood on your skin makes you itch.

And now... You see it. Your sanctuary. Your destination. Old and dying, but you wouldn’t want

it any other way. You give an affectionate pat to the rabbit, the furry creature nuzzling against

you... before you hide it under your overcoat.

You jump straight through the window. The glowing monsters are right outside, groaning and

scoffing with disgust. They are evil. Angry. Vicious.

Father would know what to do with them.

You reach your secret bunker, quickly rushing in, sliding a hand between the cracks in the wall.

With a slight click, a few planks spring open to reveal a trapdoor. You pull a rug over the outline

of the entrance.

Filthy and torn, the long-rotted cloth hides your future.

Hours pass. The forest outside falls silent.

They... they were truly Canwyll Corph. Though in the chase, they flashed red and blue. Two

figures, quite akin to the sight you see when you approach a mirror. They hastened to pursue

you.

But there is blood... it covers your head, your hands, every square inch of your body. Except for

your feet, for you need not leave behind a trail. And the crackling furnace need not leave a corner

of darkness.

Those creatures... they were true terror. But when it comes to the matters of intelligence... none

can surpass your kind.

All that matters now is a thumb. Your father’s thumb stamped upon the nearby papers for your

own will. All the land and property... all yours. No more running. Now you start chasing.

The Canwyll Corph always follows those destined to die. You glance to your side, where the

rabbit stew is fresh and ready.

They were truly monsters. Every condition fulfilled. The death. Your return home. The light. The

foolish creatures.

The tale is true, but only you may know.

Beware of the Canwyll Corph.

With a sigh, you can only laugh as you remember standing in court, sentenced to life in prison.

Who could have known? How stupidly you killed him. Luring your own father to a cottage, one

like any other in the forest.

You took him to a bunker. Just a hole under a trapdoor. A few utensils. Sleazy rags for a bed.

Who would suspect you? Your peculiar family was known for hiding from the public eye.

Nothing suspicious.

Cut off his thumb, but just as you were to use it... they renewed the papers. You’d need another

print.

You had changed your clothes, but what of the thumb? Wrapped, sure, yet its scent clung to you;

a trail for hounds you never considered. Fools may think language is a barrier, but the cops

understand without words. And so, at last, did you.

You ran when they tried to catch you. There was no spirit glowing bright, but flashing police

lights, flashing red and blue. It did not split into two and turn white, but merely that two torches

were being used effectively.

There are the rich, like your father. And then there are those who own the rich. They own more

than just you. They own the rabbit, too.

Owners do not like to lose what would be theirs, useful or not.

Who would know that the piece of plastic you threw off... was a pesky tracker, small and black.

As you write in your prison cell, you can now be true to yourself.

A confession.

A monster.

Not some Canwyll Corph...

You.