Forgetting that all sayings originate with truth has deadly consequences. For humans, at least.
Anon, anon, they will hunt. Anon, anon, they will whisk away those like them. Anon, anon, the time draws nearer. Hide not, for they will find you.
Author's note: A quick story that was prompted by a Pokédex entry. My writing style in this is completely different from what I usually do. Un-edited and un-beta'd.
The large clock found in the middle of the town is beautiful, a real work of art. It was said that long, long, long ago, when the town was beginning to blossom, that a renowned artist within the town was commissioned by the mayor at the time to build something, anything that would be forever preserved by time to remind future descendants of their ancestors. For days, days, and days he thought, pondering upon this request. For this was not a task so easily done, no, this was a task that would be forever printed into history, and when the artist realized this, he promised himself to make it grand and beautiful so that forgetting would not be easy.
And he was struck with inspiration in the dead of night. "Matisse!" He exclaimed, rousing his sleeping Smeargle. "I know now what we shall build!" But the artist didn't dare venture out of his home to begin right away, for you see, in that town, Duskull were the hunters of the night and though they had propriety as Ghost Pokémon, they believed any humans out in the streets were fair game for their midnight hunts.
So when dawn broke the next day, the artist set to work quickly, sunrise to sunset, tirelessly and endlessly. On and on and on until, at least, it was completed. The clock tower, its four faces containing identical roman numbers and long, spindly pointed hands. Quickly, it became the pride of the town and it served a purpose: to warn the people of the Duskull and their impending hunts. Later and later they stayed, risking their lives, for as long as they had the clock to warn them of the hunt, then they would be safe.
Slowly, oh, so so slowly, did the number of those wandering after midnight dwindle. Gone were the hunted for the Duskull and soon, the Pokémon themselves stopped hunting the town, retreating to whatever home they had. And soon, they were forgotten, the fear behind their name only in words and not actions, only in tales and not reality. Instead of the great hunters they once were in the town, they became tools of stories, meant to scare those misbehaving. And later and later, and later stilldid those foolish, oh so foolish humans stay. Games they made it, laughing at the idea that mere Duskull could whisk them away to the beyond, never to see their lives or the break of day that lets them live another day.
They always, always forget. And it's too late to regret it.
Darkness creeps into this town once more, a slow, winding white fog reaching out into all parts of the otherwise sleeping town. It coats like a blanket, smothering and ensnaring, tightly, tightly, tightly suffocating its residents. Oh how nature works so hard against humans. But they have forgotten and forgetting is worse than remembering, because forgetting means you become ignorant. But ignorance is bliss. Not tonight. No. No, not tonight.
Tonight, they remember. Tonight, the world will remember. Tonight, they shall reclaim their name. Tonight, there shall be no tomorrow for them.
They leave the forest in droves, one after the other in a line that never seems to end. They go on and on and on. White fog increases with each one that leaves the forest, until it's so dense and so thick that no one can see their hands in front of their faces. Even the sun shall not break through this dense fog and they use their powers to work the town's symbol.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Eight times the clock strikes, to wake its sleeping residents, tricking them into believing that a new day has arrived into the world. Maybe not a new day, but a new era, the return of the hunter and the return of their role as prey. Slowly and sleepily, the residents wake, surprised by the fog that has hugged the town, clung to it tightly like a second skin, held on so hard that it makes it hard to breath. The air is heavy when they wake, full of foreboding and warning that they cannot heed anymore. Ironically, the clock that has saved them for so long is the reason of their destruction.
Oh silly, silly human. Did you think you could stay at the top? Insufferable pride is your downfall and down, down, down you go. Let the hunt begin.
It starts off so innocently. A brave soul (or a foolish one) ventures out and before he registers what happens, he is swarmed. The space in front of him, once bright white with nothingness, lights up, Red eyes surround him, hidden behind the shadow of a bony mask, and then, the evolutions are around him, each level more meancing then their previous one. Until…
The human's screams are drowned out by the deep, malicious laughter of the Duskull, Dusclops and their Dusknoir leader, who has swallowed the human's soul into the mouth of its belly. Guide them home to me. To Dusknoir, orders from the spirit world are absolute and thus the hunt.
Scare them, kill them, as long as their souls are brought to me, as long as none live by the time the sun rises above to banish us. Hunt, hunt, hunt, and haunt. Let nothing hold you back, let them realize why they should fear the midnight hour once more.
Silent carnage are the right words to describe this scene, this hunt. The Ghosts have disregarded all sense of propriety. Maybe before, when they were once respected and feared, but no longer and no more shall they adhere to the humans' rules. Monsters they were thought to be and monsters shall they become. After all, the order has come down from the Dusknoir and there is no room to question what he says.
In through the walls they go, phasing easily through the solid plaster and materials of buildings. No one is safe from the hunt, no man, woman, or child. Plenty are scared to death, their poor bodies pumping adrenaline at too high levels for the body to handle. Crimson blood is split for others, their vividness matching the eyes of their hunters. But the blood disappears for the Ghosts have been given orders to not leave a trace of the liquid behind. And the Ghosts know how to make blood disappear.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The sound repeats countless times as body after body falls to the ground, souls having been sucked out by the Dusknoir that haunts the streets. The Duskull and Dusclops carry each body to the center of the town and soon, the clock tower that once protected them is surrounded by the bodies of those who once relied on it. Eerie circle after circle surrounds the tower until no living person is left in the town.
Dawn is approaching them and quickly, hurriedly the hunters retreat into the forest. They have made sure to remind humans that they are not invincible, that they must remember that the creatures they live with are not submissive or subservient. The moment they forget, the moment ignorance sets in and grips them and their mind, warping their knowledge- that is when the next Great Hunt shall occur.
The sun rises, its warm rays dispelling the fog quickly. The tool of the Ghosts recedes, cringing at the light. And as the rays fall onto the town, and as the day begins anew…
….there is no sound.
Xxx
It is not until two weeks later is the ghost town found. Police and investigators are mystified by the sudden death of a whole town. But Pokémon Professors and Trainers are not; the town's stories are infamous among them and they know better than to catch a Ghost in the nearby forest; that's suicide. The world sees it as a warning and they understand.
But they don't remember. They never do.
On the tower, they find the artist's inscription:
"Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing. "
How true the artist was, a diviner in his own right. If only the town listened. If only they understood how their end was inevitable and that they should have worked to prolong it. But they are fools, those humans.
And they will never learn.
So this little story thing was inspired by this Pokédex entry:
Duskull wanders lost among the deep darkness of midnight. There is an oft-told admonishment given to misbehaving children that this Pokémon will spirit away bad children who earn scoldings from their mothers.
I know that it doesn't just focus on Duskull, but I wrote what came to me.
Disclaimer: Pokémon does not belong to me and is copyrighted to Nintendo and Satoshi Tajiri.
The 'inscription' does not belong to me either: it is taken from Act V, Scene V of Shakespeare's Macbeth. If you've never read it, I suggest you read the play- it's amazing.
Tell me what you think?
-nell