The exorcist leapt to his feet. He hadn’t expected to confront the apparition so soon.

‘...Aren’t we in a chapel?’ he smiled deprecatingly. The holy protection around the run-down building was even weaker than his most modest estimates. He glanced around at the responsible old host.

The priest had shrivelled before the ghastly sound, all pride abandoned from his wrinkled face. He curled up on the underside of a small table, and shivered as it were the height of coldest winter.

‘Noooo!’ he squealed, quaking in his voice, and gasping hysterically as he went on. ‘Do not come for me!—I’m sorry! I shouldn’t—I, I—have spoken about you to an outsider! But please! Forgive me!—I beg you!’

The exorcist ignored him, and approached the barred window. Chilled air leaked in through its cracks as he examined it.

‘What are you doing?!’ the priest shouted as he reached toward it. ‘Do not open it!’

The window had been heavily fastened with such an impressive diversity of latches and locks that it resembled a salesman’s display. It would have taken a while to remove each and every one of them, as it had taken the priest to engage them. But upon the lightest touch, the entire construct fell apart, and the window burst open, as if by violent force of wind, sucking away at the air inside.

‘Nooo!’

An explosion of silvery moonlight flooded the cavernous chamber.

The whole town was covered in a fog far thicker than in any thousand words of rumour it had borne. Fog swallowed up every trace of architecture in sight, leaving only hazy outlines of roofs, like little islands in the distance. The exorcist felt like he was looking out of the porthole of a boat, in the middle of a sea of mist.

Mystvale was aptly named.

The idyllic spectacle filled him with tranquilizing serenity, and at the same time, profound paralytic unease. It felt as though he was about to meet a fairy, only he knew too well it would be nothing so benign. He kept his senses about him, and watched for every minutest sign.

There was nothing before him but peaceful scenery. Clenching the wooden window lattice, he concentrated his powers of observation, and searched again, yet to no avail. Only soft mist and moonlight, and the whispering sound of wind.

‘Please!’ pitifully implored the priest from behind him, ‘if you retreat now, she may grace us with her mercy yet!’

It was a pitiful sight to behold, how fear had utterly transformed the man. Still scanning the premises, the exorcist couldn’t help lowering his gaze, momentarily concerned how badly the affair might have affected the rest of the townsfolk.

Then, in a spark of something between intuition and reflex, the exorcist jerked his head upwards, and he spotted it, a silhouette in the ink-splotched sky...

... Pale, womanly figure in tattered clothing...

... With no head.

The headless spectre floated above the old chapel, like an angel of death and misfortune. The beggarly, ripped cape behind her spread out in strips, like pairs and pairs of demonic wings.

She raised her motley, decaying hand.

Aaaiiiieeeaaeeee!

Another nightmarish screech shook the sleeping town.

Every single citizen of Mistvale cowered at the unholy siren invading their homes, their hearts, but there was another frightening sound heard by the exorcist alone. It was a low and near inaudible thudding, as if a brute were stomping the ground, or banging its head against a wall. And if he would listen very carefully, it was almost as though something was... cracking.

‘... The chapel barrier’s collapsing.’

Instantly, the exorcist leapt through the frames of the window. Like a fleeting shadow, his cloak fluttered across the air, and he dropped into the bed of white mist. The velvety vapour parted at his approach, and dissipated at a motion of his hand. A path revealed itself to the entrance where he had greeted the priest. He hurriedly placed his hand upon the crumbling wall of stones.

Ripples coursed the dark fabric on his person, and shadowy mist seeped from beneath it into an invisible filament along the length of wall.

Suddenly, the curling priest could no longer hear the screech.

Mystvale seemed silent again.

The exorcist gazed up at the immobile wraith above him. If the ghost still had a head, she would probably be looking back down at him as well, wearing what would have been a face of confusion.

And perhaps outrage.

The ragged strips spread behind her, like the evil spokes of a spinning wheel.

Aaaiiiieeeaaeeee!

Outside of the chapel, the evil noise rose again, even more piercing than it had been before. But there was no longer any cracking.

The exorcist calmly observed the motionless spectre.

The witch shook, and redoubled her efforts, the rags around her coiling animatedly like snakes.

But there was no cracking. Even the thudding from before had become muted. It seemed as though the little old chapel had suddenly transformed into a fortress, immune to her ghostly influence.

The townsfolk of Mystvale, however, felt the entire world rock before them as though the earth beneath their feet were violent waves. It was such a maddening and nauseating and horrifying sound that those who hadn’t collapsed from hearing it, had wished that they were deaf.

The exorcist knew that being deaf would not have spared them from indescribable torment, anymore than being dead would. For this was a wail of the soul, being silently poured into their ears of ears, their hearts of hearts. The sound would always cunningly slip into the cracks of their being so long as they did not have the sufficient fortitude of self to withstand it.

…There was, however, one other way the sound might be stopped .

The exorcist stepped outside of the stone fence.

The ghost immediately descended, the tattered fabric covering her figure impossibly extending like thirsty whips towards him, lashing viciously through the air.

They rapaciously wrapped around his held out arm.

At that moment, black smoke rose again from beneath the exorcist’s cloak, and climbed the length of rags up to the floating figure.

Another horrible sound echoed across Mystvale.

No longer painful to the ears, no longer soul-wrenching.

Only a horrible, pained scream.

The length of tattered cloth dropped from the writhing spectre like a lizard’s tail, and she turned and dove into the sea of mist.

‘...You forgot something.’

The exorcist ran after her, a stream of black smoke assimilating the cloth and rising above him like a large serpent.

White mist parted before him.

Black serpent coiling, poised.

A shadow flashed.

The serpent struck.

Crashing.

...When finally the mist ebbed as the exorcist arrived, there was nothing but a pitiful, timeworn pillar, further ruined by its latest abuse. Another pillar stood to his left, commiserating its fellow’s fate some lonely distance apart.

He was back at the town entrance.

The mist had faded all around him, revealing the buildings he had seen earlier in day.

He had lost sight of the ghost.

A sudden sound snuck up behind him.

‘—Mr Exorcist!’

It was the old pastor, running and panting.

‘You... did it!’ he yelled, half-wheezing. ‘...Why, you’ve... defeated... the infernal... witch!’

The exorcist relaxed his body. ‘I’ve only pushed her back’, he exhaled.

The statement did not dampen the old man’s spirits. ‘But this means that you can do it!’ he roared excitedly, after catching his breath. ‘You can get rid of the witch for us!’

The exorcist did not seem as optimistic. ‘It will have to depend on the support of the townsfolk’, he said gravely.

The priest froze. ‘Ah, yes’, he smiled awkwardly, ‘we will be sure to amply compensate you for your services.’

The exorcist shook his head. ‘Actual support and cooperation.’

He took a step outside of the two pillars to gaze at the far-off scenery: all naked and without a single cover of mist.

‘... It’s a powerful ghost’, he said simply and turned inside.

The priest stood there blankly for a moment.

‘But not as powerful as you, surely?’ he whispered hopefully, rushing to the exorcist again.

The exorcist did not reply. Instead he looked at all the doors and windows of the haunted town with an exasperated suspicion. They had remained shut, entirely unstirred by the earlier excitement.

The priest thoughtfully followed his gaze.

‘... I will convince them.’

The exorcist’s face was grim. ‘... You will tell me more about the witch’s head.’

The priest was alarmed by the mention of such a taboo topic in the open darkness, and reflexively cowered.

Turning back to the chapel, the exorcist kicked into a heavy plank of wood. It was a piece of the town’s broken signboard, probably blown about in the earlier violence.

... ‘WEL’ ...

Well-done? Well-fought? Or well-played?

It was merely a mindless series of letters, cut off from the greater arrangement that had given it voice, but by personal experience, he knew that there was often meaning to be found in the meaningless. Here he just thought it sounded like a condescending remark, from a superior opponent. He glared at the smugly filling moon.

‘... Not even full yet.’

When he looked around again, there was the piece that he had seen before, to the left.

... ‘COME TO MYST… WEL’ ...

Come to... Mystwell?