Dark Souls

By Stefan Vucak

One story my grandma liked to tell that always stuck with me was about a wandering old woman and a rich miser. A small detail here and there changed with the telling, but the story remained true in essence, and she always started the tale in the exact same way.

“On a blustery evening with a cold drizzle coming down, an old woman dressed in black hobbled wearily toward an iron-wrought gate. She held a crooked cane in a gnarled hand, her back stooped as if carrying a lifetime of burdens. A dark scarf covered her surprisingly youthful face. She opened the creaking gate and made her way along the gravel driveway toward a stately mansion. Bright light spilled from tall windows, and grey smoke drifted up from two red-brick chimneys, instantly whipped away by the frigid wind. The woman clutched her meagre garments tight around her chest, shuddering as a sudden chill raced through her. She ambled to the grand entrance, which was guarded by four white columns supporting a portico. Enticing aromas of roasting meat and hot broth drifted toward her, and her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

“No one in the village knew her — not her age, where she came from, or where she went. She simply appeared, and just as mysteriously, vanished. Kindly people fed her and sometimes gave her a bed. She did not mind where she slept, whether it was before a warm hearth or in a barn beside cows that blew their warm breath over her and gently nuzzled her. The old woman appreciated every kindness extended to her and always thanked everyone profusely. Some said — though it might have been simple, idle village gossip — that those who helped her enjoyed a sudden change of fortune. They were either happier, their luck turned, or they found a lost love.

“Just talk,” Grandma rumbled thoughtfully as she rocked, her pipe stuck between stained teeth.

“Anyhow, the woman stopped in front of the elaborately carved door and twice banged the iron clacker, which was shaped like a lion’s head. Footsteps sounded inside, and the door swung soundlessly open. She was met by an elderly man wearing a butler’s regalia, and a wave of warm air wafted out from the interior. Yellow light danced from candles mounted on a crystal chandelier, which hung from a dark wooden ceiling crossed with heavy black beams.

“In a laboured breath, she asked for shelter from the inclement weather. Inside, a rough voice demanded to know who stood at the door. The butler winced and called back that some poor woman wanted refuge for the night.

“A middle-aged man in maroon trousers and an evening jacket appeared and glowered at her. The butler politely stepped back. Everyone in the area knew the miserly, mean, self-centered coot who lived in the stately home. The selfish old thing never gave anybody the time of day or so much as a mouldy crust of bread, preferring to throw it to the hogs instead. Nobody loved him, and he regarded the villagers with equal scorn.

“One look at the woman, and the man’s mouth curved into a sneer. ‘Begone, you old hag! I have no time for you. Find work and you’ll have shelter. I’m tired of your kind, wanting everything for nothing. Begone, I say!’

“The woman studied him, then straightened her spine. ‘I hope you have found everything you desire in life and are enjoying the rewards of your labours, sour sir,’ she declared in a surprisingly strong voice. ‘May lightning strike your grave if you don’t mend your ways.’

“Back bent once more, she slowly walked toward the gate as the heavy door slammed shut behind her.

“Nobody knew what happened to the old woman after that, or where she went. Tales filtered in from nearby villages where folks said they had seen her and benefited from showing her kindness. Meanwhile, the miserable rich man never changed; he became even meaner and turned into a total recluse. Shaking their heads, the local people often prayed for some misfortune to overtake him.”

Grandma always paused then, grey, aromatic smoke rising from her pipe as she rocked back and forth. A darker cloud of smoke shot from her mouth as she puffed.

“Three years later,” she said with a soft growl, “the miserly rich man took ill and suddenly died, much to the delight of the nearby villagers. The funeral procession had only a handful of mourners, mainly his household staff. Whether they came because they genuinely cared, or more likely,” Grandma added with a dry cackle, “to celebrate the miserable man’s demise, no one can say.

“As the procession neared the cemetery, dark clouds gathered overhead. The priest looked up and scowled, urging the procession to hurry. When they reached the gravesite, two men waited to lower the polished, carved casket into the ground. By then, the sky had grown quite dark, and an ominous rumble of thunder marched across the heavens.

“The priest grew frantic, demanding the casket be lowered right away without bothering with the usual prayers. The moment it hit the bottom of the grave, the priest shouted for everyone to stand back. Seconds later, a bolt of lightning crashed into the open earth, and the air trembled from the sharp crack that followed. Everyone looked at each other in wonder, then cautiously approached the smoking grave. They peered into the hole and gaped at the shattered, empty casket inside. The devil claimed his own, they whispered soberly, nodding wisely to one another. As rapidly as the clouds had gathered, they scattered, and warm sunshine bathed the countryside, dispelling the lingering sense of evil.”

I once asked Grandma if she had ever met the old woman. After some time lost in contemplation, she denied ever seeing her. The way she said it, though, prompted me to think otherwise. I felt certain that more lay behind the story than she let on, and I chose to believe their paths had crossed — after all, Grandma and her family always enjoyed a good life, fine health, and a modicum of prosperity.

About the Author

Stefan Vučak is a Melbourne-based author who transitioned from a high-level IT career in project management and strategic consulting to full-time writing. His professional background includes implementing cellphone systems in the Middle East.

He is the creator of the eight-book Shadow Gods Saga and several award-winning thrillers, including Strike for Honor, All the Evils, and Cry of Eagles. Vučak is also a reviewer and editor who supports established and emerging writers. His latest work, Broken Rose, explores turbulent family relationships, love, and betrayal. Across his diverse portfolio, Vučak blends technical expertise with human drama and geopolitical tension.

www.stefanvucak.com