The October Society Short Story: Part Two

Hello everyone and welcome back to my blog! Today is part two of my Halloween short story! I really wanted to do something creative for the run-up to Halloween, so I hope you enjoy this little three-part short story I am currently writing. I am not a professional by any means, but it was really fun to come up with and to write! So grab your favourite cup of tea and enjoy the story!

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Daphne Vale had always considered herself a rather ordinary woman, so being told she was destined to murder a complete stranger was, understandably, a slight inconvenience.

What kind of society was this? She pondered it as she got up the next morning, replaying the events in her head. Unless it was some practical joke before Halloween and everyone in this tiny village was in on it. But she couldn't stop thinking about the expressions each member wore; nobody had laughed, not even a smirk. It was as if this were a ritual that would determine your fate. And Daphne, as plain as she thought she was, could not possibly have the ridiculous fate of harming a stranger! Daphne was the sort of person who would guide a spider outside instead of killing it. Daphne shook her head as she zipped up her knee-high boots, grabbing a brolly before heading out the door. She needed to look further into The October Society and find out what these so-called traditions were really about.

After spending a Saturday afternoon at the local library, Daphne was cooped up in an egg chair positioned in one of its corners, with a stack of books lying on the coffee table beside her. She had read that The October Society had been present for over a century, and the predictions that were given annually to the members had always come true. But the more Daphne looked into the predictions, the less convinced she became that they were harmless.

One described a young woman who had disappeared shortly before her wedding in 1923. Another recounted the unexpected death of a wealthy landowner in 1951. A third mentioned a local farmer who had inherited a substantial fortune. Could the society really have predicted these incidents? Or had someone known what was going to happen because they had arranged it?

According to the Wychwood records, the village had experienced a series of terrible misfortunes that had led to the inception of The October Society. The original members had believed the village must have broken an ancient agreement. So, in order to restore it, they had begun fulfilling the predictions to protect the people of Wychwood and restore order. Over time, however, the tradition seemed to have become a means of controlling the people.

But none of this made sense; why had they invited Daphne? Why was she so special that she had been invited to attend a society that not many people knew of anymore? No one else at the table had shown any expression or concern for the predictions they had been given, so why had Daphne received one that was unthinkable? Maybe the society was hiding something far worse than an elaborate superstition.

It was early evening when Daphne decided she had had enough and left the library. She began packing up her things, careful not to forget anything, as she had done so a handful of times before. As she checked her pockets to make sure she had all her belongings, a strange feeling washed over her, as though someone were watching her. Her chair was positioned towards the window, so she looked up and caught a glimpse of a strange man staring right at her through the glass. He was a man she did not recognise; he wore a dark overcoat and had long, wet hair that was brushed back. He looked almost as though he were from another time. He just stared at her through the rain-streaked window, and she could not quite make out his face.

In a hurry, she walked out through the library's heavy wooden doors and looked back towards the spot where she had seen the stranger; he was no longer there. Frustrated, Daphne let out an audible sigh as she turned the other way, only to see Mr Fletcher leaving the library too.

Mr Fletcher was one of the members who had sat at the dining table the night the society had gathered. He worked at the local bakery; there was only one bakery in the village, and there was hardly likely to be any competition anyway. It was clear he baked with love, so why was he in the society?

Daphne decided to take the opportunity to question him. She called out to him and asked for a moment. He seemed a little wary and reluctant, but he pulled her aside.

“Daphne, there are rules here. You cannot just start talking about this in public.”

“Mr Fletcher, with all due respect, you must understand the severity of this and what this prediction is asking of me. You must be able to tell me more about the society,” Daphne whispered, lowering her voice on the word society as Mr Fletcher tensed and stood taller.

“Whatever your prediction is, it must come true. The society has spent generations ensuring that the events described in the envelopes actually happen.”

“I thought it was all a supernatural curse that we were bound by?”

Mr Fletcher started to grow agitated, as though he had somewhere to be.

“Some predictions require little intervention, others demand considerable planning. Either way, the members have always taken responsibility for ensuring the predictions come true.”

He might as well have been speaking in riddles, given how little Daphne understood of what Mr Fletcher had said. She stood there for a second, hesitated and then asked, “Has this society ever deliberately caused someone's death?”

Mr Fletcher hesitated.

“In 1886, Wychwood suffered a series of terrible misfortunes. The founding members believed an ancient agreement had been broken. They took it upon themselves to fulfil the predictions, supposedly to protect the village.”

“And now?”

“Traditions have a habit of changing, Miss Vale. Protection can become control.”

“That doesn't answer my question.”

“Perhaps you ought to consider why you're asking it.”

Daphne stared at him, increasingly certain the Society was hiding something far worse than superstition.

Mr Fletcher straightened his jacket, offered a polite nod and walked away.

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Over the following days, Daphne could have sworn she kept seeing the strange man from the library: near her cottage, walking past her shop and across the village square. She was making a beef stew one night, and stirring it was rather like stirring the thoughts that had been whirling around in her mind about The October Society and the prediction she had been given.

Then it dawned on her. What if this strange man was the man mentioned in her prediction?

On the fifth day, Daphne closed the bookshop before heading home. She walked over the railway bridge, and there she spotted him again, walking into the railway station. Before she could make a decision, her legs had turned her around, and she was pacing towards the station. It was starting to get dark, and the clouds promised rain, but she was determined to find out who this stalker was.

In the distance, the man turned into the waiting room on the first platform. Daphne hurried over and dashed into the waiting room, only to find no one there.

Where had he gone?

There was no one else on the platform, and she was certain it was he who had walked straight into the waiting room. She turned to walk back out when she spotted a picture taped to the glass window.

The picture showed twelve people standing outside Blackthorn Manor in 1886, the same one she had seen when researching in her shop on the first day she had received the invitation. She recognised several names from the research she had done, and then she saw the man in the dark overcoat, the same one the stalker had been wearing.

He stood at the centre of the photograph, his piercing gaze the same as it had been in real life. It had to be him, she thought, but how was that possible? The photograph had been taken in 1886, over a hundred years earlier. Daphne was still examining the photograph when a deep voice called out to her from behind.

“You're not the first person they've asked to kill me.”