Taking Giant Steps: FULL TALE | A Ghost in His Own Skin

This Halloween, dive into a chilling tale from 𝘕𝘦𝘸 𝘠𝘰𝘳𝘬 𝘢𝘵 𝘛𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵, where a lost soul from Punim County lurks beneath the floorboards of death itself. The archer of death, a figure cloaked in mystery and blood-soaked legend, becomes the target of one man's desperate struggle to outwit fate. Will he seize the chance to conquer death, or remain forever a ghost in his own skin?

👻 Dare to explore the shadows of the Hudson Valley, where the line between life and death blurs in the eerie twilight. Perfect reading for the season of haunts!

A Ghost in His Own Skin

           I am only a lost soul from Punim County north of New York City and hesitate to introduce what might be mistaken for an exotic element, yet I can think of no other way to begin: I live under the floorboards in the house of the archer of death. 
For those unaware of our province deep in the Hudson Valley, surrounded by shadows and kissed in mist, the archer is said to avoid the human species unless under specific contract. Though here I am in his hall buried under thick oak planks, I’ve not defied the archer with any white knight chess move finesse for I chanced upon him not with courage but with dread. 
           Walking in the woods between sunset and dusk when scattered sunlight in the upper atmosphere illuminates the lower, I saw him climb a wall of boulders that gave way as he neared the top. Falling backwards he rolled until he hit rock bottom, lying there unconscious yet intimidating all the same. The size of two men, he dressed in buckskin, smelled of mold and oozed blood and pus. Legend tells us he has an arrow for every one of us, and when I found his leather pouch between two rocks, the arrow that was, as we say, dipped in my color, revealed itself to me like the face of my own mother. I grabbed the arrow and ran into the ensuing night until a road appeared. 
           Returning home, I lay down but remained awake, a wretched traveler unable to cross the threshold to sleep. To live forever—if only it were so easy! I could not close my eyes without seeing the archer, and yet at sunrise I left for my commute into Manhattan as if it were merely Monday. To conquer death, you say, to tear up the ludicrous postscript that makes the letters of one’s life a joke: yes, I closed the door to my shop and took that arrow apart, making sure not to kill myself with the object assigned to the task. Although the prospect of defeating the archer filled me with alarm, dying seemed worse. Even a cowardly fool can embrace a moment of defiance and I found my way back in the woods and eventually picked up his trail. 
           I was soon sitting in a tree observing the archer’s cottage. When he and his wife Gemma left, I snuck inside, and having made myself a cup of tea, sat on their bed awfully full of myself. I fell asleep and only awoke when I heard him screaming from the front yard at Gemma in the back. In panic, facing no exit, I dug myself in under the floorboards. Granted the shock of him walking over me stopped my heart. But I was thrilled to be spying on the agent of my own death having chosen the very ground he calls home as the most secure place for me to be. 
           However, the contest for my life, now on more human terms, took a new turn with the arrival of the guardians. Death’s appointed hour must be precise, and after pulling out maps of stars and plotting the arcs of births, the guardians exercised an invasive power over the archer; his cracked skin soon oozed from more wounds. To hear him shoot up from sleep and beg for mercy made me realize failure on an assignment is inconceivable and not without punishment. 
           Were they a happy couple before I arrived? This morning he threw Gemma onto the floor right above me. She knows I’m here for when he retires to his ledger, she drops the remains of his meal on the floor. If I’m quick, I manage a few mouthfuls. A real meal’s digestion would only give me away. Such is the hunger that follows extending one’s life underground. 
           Gemma, whose bones must have surely broken, finally acted. She grabbed his crossbow and the arrow that was dipped in his color and threw it inches from my buried hand hoping, no doubt, I would break these floorboards open, grab that bow and fire the arrow that kills the colossus. 
           I know human nature reserves harsh judgment for the strong but I was relieved that the archer left before I could do something more foolish than murder. Escape! Where else could I go and what did that woman expect? I’m only a lost soul from Punim County buried between a life I barely knew and an end I only narrowly elude, the contradiction I’ve become, a ghost in my own skin, living under the floorboards in the house of the archer of death.

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