The October Society Short Story: Part One

Hello and welcome back to my blog! With October in full swing, I thought it was the perfect time to share a little autumn mystery I've been working on. The October Society is a three-part short story set in the fictional village of Wychwood, where a rather ordinary October takes an unexpected turn for Daphne Vale.

I'll be sharing a new part every couple of days with the third and final part being on Halloween! I'm so excited, grab yourself a cup of tea, get comfortable and settle in. I hope you enjoy reading it!

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It was a cold, misty morning for an October in Wychwood village. Daphne Vale was walking her usual route, in her usual casual attire, to her usual job at the usual bookshop on the corner. It wasn't much, but she enjoyed the job, mainly for the regular customers and the free use of the kitchen at the back, where she could make as many cups of tea as she liked. It was simple. That was how Daphne liked it.

But this day was different. The condensation on the windows had formed peculiar patterns, the mug she always used for her tea was suddenly chipped, and the bell above the door jingled to a different tune. Daphne was not a superstitious woman, but she did believe that three unusual things happening before ten o'clock in the morning was rather excessive.

Felix, the school's janitor, came in at nine o'clock on the dot, which was strange because he usually appeared around three in the afternoon.

Unusual, she thought. Felix returned his book and made an equally unusual comment about the date. He proceeded to tell Daphne that October was the month when supernatural creatures came out and tried to trick humans. Apparently, they had been doing so for centuries, although Felix was unable to provide any particularly convincing examples. Daphne smiled politely and waved him off, dismissing his warning as a silly old tale. She had known Felix for several years, and he was prone to making rather peculiar statements, particularly when the weather turned cold.

When he left, she took his returned book back to the shelves, only for a small cream envelope, fastened with a red wax seal, to fall from the book. Naturally, she became curious. The envelope was addressed to her in neat, black handwriting, and the wax seal bore a peculiar symbol of twelve small stars surrounding a thirteenth. She tore it open and read,

Miss Daphne Vale,

You are cordially invited to attend the annual gathering of the October Society.

Blackthorn Manor. Friday, the twenty-first of October. Seven o'clock precisely.

Your attendance is expected.

Oh, now this was very weird. Daphne turned the envelope over in her hands, looking for a possible name or telephone number she could ring. Nothing. She briefly considered whether Felix was playing some elaborate practical joke, although she doubted he possessed either the patience or the stationery required.

She searched the bookshop's collection of local history books for anything concerning Blackthorn Manor or the October Society. She came across a dusty volume titled A History of Wychwood and Its Surrounding Estates. On page forty-seven, beneath a photograph of Blackthorn Manor, she found a paragraph concerning the October Society.

In the autumn of 1886, following a period of considerable hardship, twelve residents of Wychwood established a private association known as the October Society. The Society has continued to gather annually at Blackthorn Manor, although the nature of its proceedings remains unknown.

"Well, that's helpful," Daphne muttered.

She examined the photograph. The founding members stood outside the manor, dressed in the sort of clothing that made everybody in the nineteenth century appear permanently uncomfortable. The men wore stiff collars, the women wore enormous skirts, and nobody looked particularly pleased to be there. She counted the people again. There were thirteen.

"Perhaps they were very bad at counting," she suggested to nobody in particular.

She looked back at the envelope and its peculiar seal. Twelve stars surrounding a thirteenth. For the first time that morning, Daphne felt a small sense of unease. She considered putting the invitation in the bin and getting on with her day.

But curiosity was an unfortunate habit of hers, and the possibility of discovering something that the rest of Wychwood knew nothing about was rather appealing. Besides, she reasoned, she could always leave if the evening turned out to be dreadful.

Blackthorn Manor was situated approximately a mile outside Wychwood, beyond the churchyard and a particularly unpleasant stretch of woodland where the local children insisted a woman in white had been spotted wandering between the trees. Daphne had never believed this story, mainly because the woman in question had turned out to be Mrs Fletcher returning from a fancy dress party.

It was 6:55 p.m. when Daphne checked her watch. She wore a long, checked skirt to keep herself warm, and her black boots clipped against the dark stone pathway. Each stone was different from the next, their uneven surfaces resembling faces looking up at her, grumpy and dishevelled.

The manor was an enormous old building with narrow windows, crooked chimneys and iron gates that appeared to have been designed specifically to discourage visitors. Everything about the place was telling Daphne to go home, but she wrapped her shawl tighter around herself and continued towards the door.

Before she could raise her hand to knock, the door swung open. A gentleman she did not recognise stood before her, dressed in a dark suit and wearing the sort of expression usually associated with headmasters delivering disappointing examination results.

"Miss Vale," he said. "How delightful. We've been expecting you."

Daphne glanced behind her, "Have you?"

"My name is Mr Ashcombe. Please, do come inside. You're almost late."

Daphne checked her watch. It was precisely two minutes to seven. She decided that Mr Ashcombe was probably not a man who tolerated people arriving right before the hour.

She stepped inside.

The floors were covered in black-and-white diamond-shaped tiles, like a pack of cards ready to play a game with her. There were no picture frames, no decorations, and yet the place did not smell remotely stale or damp. There was not a single cobweb to be found. Daphne found this questionable, as even her own home, which was considerably smaller, managed to accumulate several each week.

Mr Ashcombe led her through a narrow hallway and into a large dining room. Eleven people were seated around a long table, which had been decorated with dried flowers, autumn leaves and enough silver cutlery to equip a small restaurant. The conversation stopped when she entered.

Daphne recognised several faces. Mr Fletcher from the bakery was sitting beside Mrs Bell, the retired schoolteacher. Dr Harrow, who had once prescribed Daphne a particularly unpleasant cough medicine, sat at the opposite end of the table.

"Ah, Miss Vale," Mr Fletcher said. "How lovely to see you."

"Hello, Mr Fletcher. I didn't realise you were involved in this sort of thing."

"Neither did I, originally," he replied, before returning his attention to a bread roll.

Daphne waited for him to elaborate, but he appeared to consider the bread roll a more pressing matter. The room fell silent with such remarkable speed that Daphne wondered whether the guests had rehearsed it beforehand.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Mr Ashcombe announced, "the time has come for our annual predictions."

From a cabinet beside the fireplace, he retrieved an enormous leather bound book. Its cover was cracked and worn, and a peculiar symbol had been embossed in faded gold upon the front. Daphne recognised it immediately. Twelve small stars surrounding a thirteenth.

"As you are all aware," Mr Ashcombe continued, "the October Society was established in 1886, following a series of unfortunate events that threatened the future of our village. Our founding members made an agreement, and for more than a century, we have honoured that agreement without exception."

Mr Ashcombe opened the book.

"Each October, twelve predictions are recorded within this ledger. Each must be fulfilled before the following gathering. For one hundred and eight years, not a single prediction has failed to come true."

Daphne glanced around the table, expecting somebody to smile or at least question the rather extraordinary statement. Nobody did. In fact, several guests appeared to be taking the announcement with the same seriousness one might reserve for a medical diagnosis. Mr Ashcombe retrieved a wooden box containing twelve cream envelopes. One by one, he distributed them around the table.

Daphne watched as the guests opened their predictions. Mr Fletcher appeared rather pleased with his. Mrs Bell read hers twice before folding it neatly and placing it inside her handbag, schooling her face to stay netural. Dr Harrow, however, looked as though somebody had just informed him that his house was on fire.

Daphne began to wonder whether attending had been such a sensible idea after all. Finally, Mr Ashcombe approached her.

"Miss Vale."

He placed an envelope before her. Daphne examined it carefully, as though trying to determine whether it contained something poisonous. It occurred to her that it did not take much for her curiosity to get the better of her. And since Daphne was a creature drawn to things she knew she ought not to touch, she picked up the envelope, peeled away the red wax seal and opened it.

Before the seventh day, you shall take the life of a man you have never met.

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Thank you so much for reading the first part of The October Society! I've really enjoyed putting together this little autumn mystery, and I hope you've enjoyed meeting Daphne and the rather peculiar residents of Wychwood. I'd love to hear your thoughts and theories so far!

Part Two will be coming very soon, so keep an eye out to see what happens next!

Sincerely,

Eleanor x