Sometimes, survival isn’t about fighting the biggest monsters, it’s about realizing the smallest ones can be just as deadly.

Morbid Treasure is one of my original short stories, blending the eerie beauty of a winter village with the creeping dread of something unnatural stirring beneath it. There’s danger, there’s mystery… and there’s Selwyn, a green-speckled white owl with more attitude than patience, fighting to keep my characters alive when the unthinkable hatches.

I’m sharing it here for the first time so you can step into this strange, perilous world with me.
Settle in, keep your windows closed, and whatever you do… don’t touch the eggs.

Morbid Treasure

The rains had come suddenly, in violent torrents. Unexpected cold froze rivulets against every window whose dweller had not put up their shutters. Our village huddled within its red shingled confines, hiding from temperamental nature. When the ground shook, ice fell from the windows. I remember the thickness of fear as the lights went out and the panic that swelled among us when we first saw it.

The ground was swollen in an endless canopied trench filled with churning embers. Resonant heat created lowborn clouds in the cold air. The earth grumbled and sneezed flaming ashes at its gawking audience, but then the snow came... thick, soft, and quiet. With it, the fear of our homes, ourselves, being swallowed by the restless embers was also quieted under the overwhelming white embrace. Only I was weary, and my chest was heavy with unrest.

The silence was unnatural. The village usually sang with the voices of children, the bark of dogs, the creak of porch swings. Now it was only the hush of snow settling like a warning we weren't meant to understand.

Much to my discomfort, my mother let my six younger siblings out into the snow to sled, as did many of the neighboring parents. Children and adults hovered around the sight of the upturned earth, looking on in idle fascination. The glowing black and red masses seemed to boil in a liquid blue steam that dissipated just above the surface. Hissing emitted from the entrenchment, whispering incessant, mesmerizing gibberish, as though within were the trapped echoes of many confused and quarrelsome psyches.

When it clearly enunciated the name of one of my younger sisters, a sickening terror seeped through my blood. The emanating chill forced my body to move, albeit sluggishly, as though my limbs had forgotten how to obey me.

The snow no longer felt playful. It clung to my clothes, its dampness seeping in and amplifying the sting of each flake, sharp as glass. My breath caught in my throat, not from the cold...but from the fear that my sister’s name might not be the only one it knew, might not be the only one it sought, with a purpose that now endangered my family.  Others were beginning to notice the communicative nature of the steaming trench with genuine delight. My youngest sister began mimicking her interpretations with historical pleasure, laughing at the molten bubbles that formed in response. I was desperate to keep the young ones away from this horror with which they were so enchanted, but when I tried to draw them back, they resisted.

The cloudiness around the trench was wearing off, and it became evident that reflections of persons we knew were bubbling in and out of the mixture, floating along its surface.

Faces we had seen just yesterday, shopkeepers, classmates, elders, smiled and twisted through the glowing slurry. Some reached up with molten hands toward us as though calling home, as though they were truly alive and part of the lava.

By the third sleepless night of struggling to keep the young ones indoors through the dark hours, I too had grown increasingly drawn to our new local novelty. But upon observing its almost hypnotic effect on my fellow villagers, I warned myself to stay at a distance.

It was the morning of the third night that our neighbors began to dwindle. Each consecutive morning, our village consisted of fewer members, until full daylight found new victims following the sound of their names to the end of the entrenchment. There, a vast sea of molten contents poured into and filled the bed of a long-dried lake. As though sleepwalking, they knelt before its bubbling masses.

To my petrifying dismay, the boiling surface began to rise, embodying the dripping form of an unclothed and flawless woman. Her body flickered with veins of molten stone, glowing unnaturally from what appeared to be a source-less internal light, her form slowly solidifying into what looked like carved obsidian streaked with embers. Her lidless eyes glowed faintly beneath a smooth brow, unreadable and steady, ...as though she could see beyond the physical and into the very souls of her victims, unblinking, unfeeling, and utterly unmoved.

She raised her arms, not dramatically, but gently, like a beacon for lost travelers. Those who had knelt before her moved toward her without hesitation, drawn forward as though returning to something they had long awaited. She received them with smooth, elegant motions, embracing them as a mother would embrace a child to comfort them. They melted into her chest quietly, and she held out her arms again to the crowd.

Perhaps it was the unnatural serenity of these victims upon embracing their death that numbed those watching into docile silence. No alarm was raised, no precautions taken against this ominous and hypnotic insanity. The fate of missing loved ones was acknowledged but not resisted. Instead, many followed willingly, some even joyfully, as though death itself had been made festive.

She did not drag them down. She simply absorbed them, then sank again into the lava without a trace.

The surface of the lake rippled once and stilled. No one cried out. No one ran. They watched, wide-eyed, as if they'd witnessed something holy.

But it was not holy. It was a counterfeit calm, a peace that demanded nothing, cost everything, and left only silence in its wake.

Stillness… and the snow kept falling, but now it seemed to blanket un-mourned tombstones.

In this way, I grew desperate in my efforts to persuade my family, and any who might still listen, to return to the village. Following this somewhat successful mission, there were many days when I struggled to keep everyone indoors.

Tension inevitably sprang up over who was level-headed enough to be trusted outside the walls for the gathering of food and water. Many were lost on these trips to replenish our needs.

The streets had changed. Shadows moved differently now. Even the wind seemed to whisper warnings.

Flames began falling from the sky like dancing raindrops, burning the now largely desolate village into the earth. They came and went like storms, visiting and retreating, sometimes with hours in between, sometimes only minutes.

And so, my brothers and I were made to cover our home with mud, and we learned the quickest way to water was through the collapsed basement of our neighbor’s former home, which had begun flooding from beneath.

We never spoke of what lay below it now. The water ran cold and clean, but I always felt we were taking it from a source that never meant to share, as though we were trespassing. Time spent dipping the pail was deeply unsettling, as if some invisible forces were watching, waiting to push us in and drown us.

I confess, the attraction of these unfamiliar changes to our known way of life grew on me. Knowing better as I did, I broke away from my group in the second week and made my way to the entrenchment.

Idly peering into its depths, I was relieved to find them much calmer, and virtually quiet at this point. No more faces haunted its steamy rivulets, no more names whispered up from its bubbling surface. A deep calm made itself at home in my heart.

There was something strangely soothing about standing near the trench now. The steam no longer hissed. The surface rippled like a sleeping pond, and I caught myself breathing slower, thinking slower, as though the air itself had decided to lull me. I turned away not because I had to, but because something in me feared I might stay longer than I meant to.

However, upon returning to my abandoned responsibility of supervising my brothers as they repaired the roof’s protective mud layering, I was dealt more than the hand of guilt.

The embers that had been flung from the trench with the ashes had broken down and embedded themselves into every playable surface, including the mud roofing of our home. And now, they were swollen. Absorbing moisture from their surroundings, they had grown into the most appealingly innocent and iridescent thumb-sized eggs.

They shimmered in the daylight like glass marbles, soft in color, but unnaturally bright. Even in the sunlight, their glow had depth to it that made my stomach twist. They looked soft, almost warm, but I couldn’t shake the feeling they were watching us from the inside.

Knowing my brothers and their inability to learn caution, I was not surprised to find they had decided to check it out. Climbing the ladder to the roof, I saw they both held one in their hands.

I’d only been gone a little while, barely enough time for the trench to settle in my bones. But already, I had let my guard down. I had left them alone. And they had found something worse.

I had not the time to advise they set them down when, much to their delight, the eggs hatched as they held them, apparently relying on human touch to achieve animation.

The small, wriggling creatures that emerged very much resembled slimy caterpillars. Being highly entertained by their harmless appearance and adorable big eyes, my brothers turned a blind ear to my protests and hatched a handful more.

We left our new guests on the roof and retreated indoors for a break. Seated around the table, preparing to enjoy an early meal, we were disturbed by an exclamation of “Merciful heavens!” followed by the sound of frantic scratching over the doorway.

Cautiously, I opened the door and looked up at a green-speckled white owl, muttering in a deep, raspy voice under his breath and carving strange symbols above the frame with his claws.

Nothing really struck me as too strange to believe at this point, so I ventured to speak.

“Is something wrong, my little friend?” I asked curiously. “What’s the hurry? And come to speak of it... what are you trying to do here?”

“I am NOT!!! your friend,” the owl protested fiercely, still scratching away in a fury. “Brainless! Brainless! Never learn to keep your meddling little fingers out of the unfamiliar. See something new? Oh, I know… everything else I’ve touched recently could have killed me, so let’s grab a handful! Have to do everything myself. Not making this any easier for me!!!”

He sounded like someone who had been watching us far too long without being allowed to intervene. His feathers puffed with each word, like a kettle seconds from exploding.

He was so breathless from his animated outburst that he lost his footing and fell backward, awkwardly, into my hands. He landed on the unstable side, and to steady my hold on him I squeezed him a little near the tail feathers.

“Hands off my butt, would you!?” His exasperation ungrateful. “Can’t a guy maintain a little dignity among strangers? Put me down. I’ve had quite enough of your invasive help, well meant though it may have been.”

“My bad... my bad,” I apologized hastily, setting him down. He fluttered back to his work, and, finishing with a final flourish of claws, stated with a vigorous flapping of wings, “You all should be inside.”

He gestured at me and my siblings, who had gathered to see the commotion. And upon noting no one moved, he added, “Now! Honestly, are you deaf? Or just trying to say I’m too short to be giving orders to a bunch of airheads?”

My second youngest brother saluted him unironically and marched toward the table. While the little one tried not to laugh and failed completely. I nudged them both hard enough to make a point.

Like a group of obedient puppets, we all headed inside, and he came with us, bolting the door behind him. He then found himself a chair, and helping himself to some tea from the pitcher, sat glaring at us while he sipped.

Never mind that he was the size of the pitcher. He drank like he owned the place. And we let him.

When he had satisfied himself, he went on to inform us of the stupidity of hatching those eggs. He explained they would rapidly develop into full-on demonic creatures of death, not easily deterred by physical force.

No one interrupted. Even the little ones had started to fidget less. The kitchen was no longer a safe place; it was a waiting room.

But the scriptures he had written above the doorway should protect us while inside. And should one break in, it would at least knock it for a round, as he put it.

He had little time for more explanation, as one such critter burst through the window, shattering the glass.

It was the length of a ruler and not much fatter, still resembling a caterpillar, but now with several sets of scaly wings. Its face had transformed to resemble that of a dragon. And it headed straight for the owl with a high-strung screech.

The owl grabbed a large bread knife from the table. Doing an evasion dance across the countertop, he shoved the blade into the fireplace, pulled it out glowing red, and stabbed it through the creature mid-dive. It let out a shriek and flopped violently before heaving its body into the flames.

The smell of burning slime hit us a second later, thick and sour, like scorched syrup and rot. My youngest brother gagged. While the others tried to hold their breath and ended up coughing instead.

At the owl’s direction, we armed ourselves with various metal objects, fire pokers, skewers, even a curtain rod, and shoved them into the flames. The metal sizzled red-hot. When he gave the order, we opened the front door.

The cold air slapped us, but it was nothing compared to what came next. The remaining hatchlings were already scaling the walls and squirming across the windows. They turned toward us in unison, their wings buzzing like a nest of hornets. One of them launched itself at my sister’s face.

I swatted it midair with a cast-iron pan, sending it spinning into the dirt where it writhed and hissed. My brother drove a fire poker through its middle, pinning it like a skewered eel.

The younger boys shouted and flailed, not always hitting the mark. The oldest froze completely, until one of the creatures landed on his back, and he screamed like I’d never heard him scream. That got him moving.

They were fast. Too fast. If they weren’t so small, we wouldn’t have stood a chance.

There was a cuteness about them that made me sad to have to kill them. I somewhat felt like a murderer…

One of them clung to the edge of my coat with huge blinking eyes, as if confused why I was trying to hurt it. Its tiny claws tugged gently, not aggressively, as though it wanted to be picked up.

Then I heard the owl shouting, “Snap out of it! They’re playing with your pity. They’ll eat you next!”

I slammed it to the ground with the flat of a shovel and pressed the blade down hard. It didn’t screech. It just stared until it stopped moving. We threw the remains of the creatures into the flames. When the flesh had burned away, there was a pile of richly colored stones in the ashes. They sparkled like treasure. But my heart felt nothing but dread.

We stared at the ashes for a long moment. Where there should have been ruin, there was beauty.

The owl instructed us to take the stones to the molten lake, which we now referred to as the Lake of Death. He entrusted this task to two of my brothers.

“You must surrender them into the lava,” he said, “and leave without looking back. Whatever you do, don’t touch them.”

He lifted each stone with metal tongs, his feathers ruffled with something almost like fear.

He placed them carefully in a cloth, tied it closed, and handed it to my brothers with great care, never touching the stones himself.

I believed my brothers would make it to the lake. And maybe they did.

I should have gone with them. But I didn’t.

There was something in the owl’s voice, some note of unspoken urgency, that made me obey without fully understanding why.

Perhaps because the owl seemed to know more than we did about the changing environment around us, and because he had, in a sense, come to our defense, I listened when he said to let them go alone.

But something about the stillness in the house after they left made the walls feel thinner.

As it is, he still firmly believes it was for the best, that it had to be done that way. But when my brothers returned still in possession of the stones, we could only assume they had touched them.

They were different. Not wounded. Not angry. Just... wrong.

They began desperately babbling nonsense the moment they came through the door. They seemed to believe the stones were of great value, and would make their dreams come true.

One clutched the cloth to his chest like a child protecting a toy. The other kept whispering things under his breath, things I didn’t understand, but felt I wasn’t meant to hear.

That night, the owl tied them securely to the couch. He said his goodbyes and took the stones, presumably to the lake himself.

He didn’t say much. Just looked tired. And older. But in the morning, he returned. Still with the stones.

He banged on the door to be let in. I couldn't get a rational word out of him. He made such a fuss when I tried to take the stones that he finally knocked himself into the fireplace in his struggle to keep possession of them.

I rescued him from the coals and put him to bed with a heavy enough dose of liquor that I could count on him not being up any time soon.

After that, I prepared to take the stones to the lake myself. Whatever happened, I had seen enough evidence of their nature to know I would not be tempted to touch them.

I placed the cloth of stones in my purse and zipped it shut. Then I stepped outside with determination, planning to be back before the owl awoke.

A sense of vulnerability made my legs wobbly and put a drain on my strength. I felt unsafe near the trench, as though it were leading me to my death, instilling fear in every atom of my blood, toying with my balance just enough that I might fall in.

It didn’t shout. It didn’t rage. But it knew I was there.

I backed away from it, keeping what I deemed a safe distance while still following the trail it laid for my destination.

As I walked, I found my mind more and more focused on the burden I carried rather than on where I was going. It was as though I was being remotely prodded to remember what was in my purse, to visualize it, almost unwillingly.

And I began to long to see the stones again. To admire their rare beauty one last time before completing my mission.

I wouldn’t have to touch them. Just a glance. That wouldn’t break the rules.

I sat on the dusty ground and took off my purse. My hands trembled as I reached for the zipper. Images of the stones swam in my mind, growing more beautiful by the second, glowing from within, humming with imagined potential.

Dizziness swept through me, and I shook my head. My whole body felt queasy, and my stomach grew sick.

There was a voice inside, but it wasn’t mine. It whispered that I would feel better if I just gave in.

I reasoned with myself. If I just looked at them, the blurred images in my head would go away. My dizziness would be cured, and I would feel better.

But the sickness was too much. I rested my head in my hands and moaned. Every ounce of me wanted to reach for the purse, but I needed a moment to calm my head before I threw up.

I lay on my back in the dirt and rolled over. My head cleared somewhat, but my stomach was still unsettled. I took my canteen from my waist and drank deeply. The cold water helped.

I staggered to my feet and walked a little ways. The sun was warm and bright. I was getting sleepy, but I felt better.

I looked back at where my purse lay in the dust, and it hit me.

I had lost all interest in looking at the stones.

The longing was gone, like waking up from a dream you didn’t know you were having.

What had come over me?

I walked back and picked up the purse, irritated at my own weakness and determined to stay level-headed. I quickened my pace, but as I walked, the stones grew heavier.

I sat to catch my breath. Again, images of their bright colors began to muddle my head.

Angry, I impulsively slammed the purse against the ground. That accomplished nothing. My nausea returned, and my thoughts clouded.

And then, without knowing why, I opened the purse and poured the contents of my canteen over the cloth of stones. Then I zipped it shut again.

It sloshed as I slung it over my shoulder.

The stones felt lighter. My head cleared. And for the first time since I left, I could breathe.

Passing a lightning-struck tree I recognized from my previous trip to the Lake of Death, I noted I was almost there. As my destination came into view, my stomach fluttered.

I neared the edge with caution. I had never been this close.

The surface was eerily still, and the outer ring had begun to solidify, as though it were starting to cool. Still, the heat rising from it made perspiration catch in my eyelashes.

I was contemplating tossing in the purse whole, but doubt crept into my chest like a tight cramp. He said throw the stones in… maybe I should take out the cloth. If I messed this up, it’s not like I could retrieve them and try again.

No second chances. No do-overs. One mistake, and I could end up like them.

No, surely it didn’t matter. I would just throw in the cloth.

I opened my purse and lifted out the damp bundle. A corner had come loose, and one of the stones was close to falling out.

Instinctively, I reached to push it back into place, and panicked as I realized I had touched it.

For a split second, I knelt frozen with terror, not knowing what to expect. And then… a calm came over me.

What was the big deal?

They were just stones. Harmless. Beautiful.

Why was I about to toss them out again?

I took hold of the knot and untied it. I stood, eager to look upon my treasure.

They glowed in the sunlight like jewels from some forgotten kingdom, rich with color, pulsing with promise.

And then I felt my foot slip. I was too close to the edge, and in a rush of adrenaline, I fell backward, letting the stones fall from my hands into the lava.

I let out a cry of remorse. It felt as though my very reason to live had just been ripped from my grasp as each colorful stone sank into the lake.

Blackness, and a vague sense of falling, was the last thing I remembered from the conscious realm. But what followed didn’t feel like sleep. It felt like crossing a threshold, into something I was never meant to see.

I found myself in an enclosed space. I’m not sure how, but I sensed I was underground, somewhere with no way out.

The room was dark and endless.

There was an indefinite crowd of people huddled together, waiting, it seemed, for whatever was coming. Their faces were hollow, their bodies too still. As though hope had been drained from them long ago.

And then it came.

Our egg babies, the ones I had helped kill, descended through the darkness that was the ceiling, letting out a terrifying scream.

The sound flowed from the toothy dens of their mouths as green dust that glowed in the dark, and it settled over the crowd, forming a chain that bound them all together.

The chains didn’t clang or drag; they wove silently, delicately, like silk. But no one tried to break them.

They turned and flew into the darkness, leading the crowd by the glowing chains that connected them, and screaming until the echoes of their desperation became unbearably loud. The hatred in the air was palpable.

It must have been the awfulness of that sound that jolted me back to my senses.

I realized I was still by the lake of lava, only now it was cold and hard. The surface had hardened beneath the sun like old stone. I staggered to my feet and made my way home.

My legs felt brittle, like they weren’t made to carry the weight of what I’d just seen.

The owl and my brothers seemed to have come to their senses as well, though they could not remember what had happened during their journey. Something in them had returned to stillness.

When I relayed my story to Selwyn, he told me my vision was real.

Everyone who had fallen into the Lake of Death was now an eternal prisoner of the Lady of the Lava, slaves to her will. The egg babies had been tasked with gathering survivors before they were summoned back to their master.

Selwyn was quiet when he told me this. Not sorrowful. Just tired. As though he had seen too many stories like ours.

He lives with us now, as a valued member of the family. Although he seems to have reached the extent of his wisdom, he’s kind of greedy with the tea and refuses to participate in household duties.

He insists on being addressed with respect, especially when sitting in “his” chair.

There are no rules about our new life, no handbook, no safety measures.

We’re still standing, but barely. The village is mostly gone, and the world beyond the hills doesn’t feel safe to name.

I can tell we are going to have some issues about who holds the reins of authority.

But whatever is left out there for us, we will make the best of it.

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😏If you’ve made it this far without peeking out the window or side-eyeing your kitchen, you’re braver than I was writing it. Morbid Treasure is just one of many strange tales from the deeper corners of my imagination. 👀👀👀👀

If you enjoyed this story, let me know in the comments, your feedback keeps these worlds alive (and keeps Selwyn’s ego in check). You can also explore more of my fiction here on the blog, and keep an eye out for updates on my upcoming novel, Breaking the Arcane. All my short stories, this one included, will live in a side page on the blog that can be accessed from the side bar menus on my home page. Please do check them out and feel free to let me know what you think! 

Until then… stay warm, stay imaginative, and remember: curiosity may not kill the cat, but it has a terrible record with humans. 😉