Meikko Sheiree
Folklorist and emerging storyteller of the dark and complex.
Where Black voices meet dark fantasy — a dangerously addicting combination.
In the Works…
Death’s Daughter Excerpt
The Darkcraft Act
January 3rd, 1 A.L.
To the royal subjects of Sal:
As decreed by his majesty, King Atticus Yrennian III, the engagement
of darkcraft is hereby considered a felony against the crown.
It is expressly forbidden to conjure spirits, possess enchantments,
enact sorcery, perform unholy rituals or sacrifices,
or engage in magic of any kind.
Punishment for this crime is death.
I was in the woods again. Similar to the times before, I found myself deep within the belly of a Mammoth tree. I sat in its cavernous trunk, wrapped in a thick darkness.
Then, a shocking lavender light flared – highlighting the opening of the tree.
I crawled towards that light on hands and knees, but halted at the sound of voices. Across the meadow, several dark figures stood, hands clasped in a circle. Their chants were low at first, but steadily grew louder, rising to a crescendo that stirred something deep inside me, beckoning my spirit hither.
Though I did not understand the words, they wove themselves into my blood and sang to my soul. I felt an irresistible pull to leave the Mammoth tree and join them, to add my voice to their chant and surrender myself to the power of their spell.
And yet…
Self preservation urged me to stay hidden within the tree, to wait.
So I did, watching with bated breath as the figures continued their ritual.
They wore draping cloaks the color of amethyst, heavy and concealing of their features.
Their hands were joined around a raised stone altar, and upon that altar lay two small, motionless bodies – children.
Then, as if on cue, two of the figures stepped forward and my heart stopped as they withdrew glowing blades — almost blinding in their intensity.
“No,” I whispered, the terrible truth dawning upon me. “No,” I repeated, louder this time, but the two figures advanced upon the altar anyway.
All the while, the circle’s chants continued, growing to a frantic pitch, and the figures took it as their signal to strike. In unison, they swung their blades down, the sound of ripping flesh tearing through the meadow.
And at the gut churning sound of a bodies being ripped open – the dream-trance broke.
And I began to scream.
“Snö? Snö! Snö, wake up please.”
Slowly the blackness of the dream faded, replaced by the familiar muted light of my bedroom.
“Ynai?” My throat was hoarse and scratchy, and I instinctively pressed my hand to my neck.
Ynai’s damp curls swung about her heart-shaped face as she knelt beside me, her white nightgown puddling around her knees. “I’m here,” Ynai cooed, rubbing my hands in hers with soothing strokes. When it was clear I had fully come to, she patted my leg so that she could sit beside me.
“We are far too old to share a bed,” I said weakly, but scooted over all the same. “It’ll be my thirtieth name day soon.”
“And yet here I am. So deal with it,” my younger sister replied, wrapping her thin arms around my shoulders in a comforting hug.
“What time is it?” I asked, always feeling so disoriented after these nightmares.
Ynai leaned over to pull the thick curtain back, bathing my small room in the deep reds and golds of the midnight sun – also known as the midsun. Which meant it was not yet morning then, and for that I was relieved.
Ynai replaced the curtain and sat with me in silence. She was always content to keep me company as my nightmare released my mind from its clutches and my pulse slowed. After a while she asked, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“It was the same as the others,” I whispered, the thick, inky blackness and sound of flesh tearing still fresh in my mind. Terra was the realm of the Light, and had rebuked all things associated with darkness, even the skies and its never setting sun.
Yet for the last month I had dreamt of dark things almost every night and I couldn’t help but wonder: what was wrong with me?