To Rest in Peace or Pieces

By Beka Gremikova

Deep within Midre Forest, the ghosts waited. Renard clutched a box of croissants to his chest. “Food is the way to the heart,” he muttered. Hopefully the saying applied to vengeful ghosts.

Because bringing food into the Flickers’ domain, especially after how they’d died… He shuddered. If the Flickers caught him before daylight, he’d be dead. Even his beloved Gilene, a Flicker herself, might kill him.

After all, he had hurt her, capitulating to his parents when Gilene contracted the Dancing Plague. Terrified for his life, they begged him to choose a different bride, but then Gilene died. He’d never chosen anyone else.

Hands shaking, he opened the box—he needed fortification for the night ahead. He picked up a croissant and, after a moment’s hesitation, nibbled at it. The soft freshness of butter melted on his tongue, then the sharp kick of strong, aged cheese. Gilene’s favorite.

Spirits, he needed closure, some sort of peace! Otherwise her death would haunt his future even as her life had haunted his doorstep.

He snuck another croissant, its light, warm taste as comforting as a kiss. His chest constricted. Keep moving. He’d procrastinated enough already. He stepped into the forest.

Hours later, he arrived at the cemetery glade nestled within the woods. Midnight moonlight illuminated the now-open graves of the Dancing Plague victims. Only one Flicker lingered—Gilene. She ran ghostly fingers over the inscription he’d engraved into her tombstone: Rest in better peace and enjoy an eternal feast.

Heart racing, Renard whispered, “Gilene?”

She whirled, her black hair melding into the darkness, her skin gleaming like a will-o-the-wisp. White flame flickered in her eyes.

Renard! Her voice sounded like an eerie echo.

He winced, waiting for an attack.

Instead, her eyes widened. You know you shouldn’t be here! Why…?

Hesitantly, he held out the open box of croissants. “Maybe I shouldn’t have brought these. I don’t even know if you can eat.”

I can be corporeal when I need to be… She glided to him, peeking into the box. Croissants de La Coeur, she sighed, and the sweet, gleeful grin he knew so well stretched across her lips. Her eyes shone. She snatched one from the box. She took a bite, chewed slowly, and made a delighted noise. These taste even better than when I was alive.

He flushed. “These ones aren’t blighted.” He considered the box. “Grain blight caused it all.”

She shivered. My favorite croissants—poisonous…

“Not anymore. You’ll have a better final meal.” He picked a croissant, raising it in silent toast as she grabbed another.

They bit into the rolls. That same soft sweetness spread across his tongue, eating away at the crumbs of fear coating his heart. The tension eased from his shoulders. “You aren’t angry, but what about the other Flickers?”

She snapped her fingers. Good point. We’ll have to make sure they don’t catch us eating.

He tilted his head to the side. “Aren’t the Flickers supposed to hate everyone who survived the Plague? Why don’t you?”

Gilene picked off a piece of croissant, rubbing it between her fingers. I believe Death is too long to spend in hatred. The others think differently—that Death is the time to rejoice in grievances and demand retribution. She sighed.

Gilene! A chorus of outraged Flickers swept into the glade, limbs still twitching from the Plague’s lingering effects. Their blazing red eyes fixed on Renard.

A female Flicker stepped from the throng, snatching at the box of croissants. How dare you! When we all died from eating blighted goods!

Gilene stretched out her hands. Lilette, he meant no harm by it. They were a gift to me, not an affront to you.

Renard swallowed. Lilette? The first victim of the Dancing Plague.

Some gift, to be reminded of your own demise!

“That wasn’t my intent—”

Intentions mean nothing! Lilette snapped. She flung the box to the ground, and as one, she and the other Flickers surrounded Renard. His scalp prickled at the sight of their sharp, glittering smiles.

“I needed to make amends,” he whispered.

Oh, you shall. Just as we danced ourselves to death, you will, too. Then, grabbing his arms with spectral strength, they pulled him into a dance. He staggered to keep up with their undead speed and grace.

Their high, lilting song overwhelmed Gilene’s shrieks as she fought to claw her way to him. The Flickers blocked her out. They spun Renard through the glade—

Between trees. Around tombstones.

Over and over.

His limbs shuddered. He felt gnawed, chewed and spat out. His own mortality tasted like stale bread and rotting cheese.

His chest heaved. His vision dimmed.

Another sickening twirl. He staggered—

—into Gilene’s arms.

She cried out, Victim’s Right!

The Flickers murmured, retreating from Renard.

Gilene guided him to the very edge of the glade with gentle, measured steps. The world slowly stopped spinning.

That Right is to offer personal revenge. Lilette clenched her fists. You misused it!

You left me no choice but to resort to it. I wish to let him live.

Lilette’s eyes burned into Renard as the first blush of dawn flushed her face. You are a lucky man. We cannot interfere when the Right is claimed—but this won’t happen twice. She and the other Flickers sank into their graves.

Renard clutched at Gilene. “We can’t finish our meal?”

She shook her head. Midre at midnight is for the dead, and Midre by day for the living.

“I…” He couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t sound trite. He pointed at the upturned box. “For you, before you go,” he whispered.

Gilene touched his cheek. The food was delicious. She snatched the last croissant and took a bite. That taste… She hummed. It makes me feel almost alive again. He averted his gaze, unable to watch her sink into the ground.

When he finally made his way out of the clearing, the sweetness of her farewell followed him home: Rest in peace, Renard.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beka Gremikova lives, writes, and dreams from the Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada. She loves travelling, wolves, folklore and myth, and both reading and writing fiction that matches her eclectic tastes. Her story “Nothing More Than Death” was published in the A Kind of Death anthology from Uncommon Universes Press, and she has multiple stories published with Havok. Currently, she is working on an anthology of fairy tale retellings that includes both poetry and short stories.

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