The Crowners

In the fog-shrouded village of Mystic Hallow, where the sea’s mournful wail mingled with the whispers of ancient oaks, there lived a family with a solemn and arcane duty. Known as Crowners, they were the keepers of the dead, ensuring that those laid to rest remained so, undisturbed by the restless pull of the afterlife. This sacred tradition, passed down through generations, was an essential safeguard against the horrors of the undead.

The family's home stood on the edge of the village graveyard, a sturdy stone house surrounded by ancient tombstones and moss-covered crypts. On a cool autumn evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the air grew thick with an eerie calm. Inside, Martha, the matriarch of the family, prepared her children for this night’s duties.

Martha was a woman of indomitable spirit, her eyes reflecting the wisdom of countless vigils over the departed. Her hands, though calloused from years of toil, moved with a gentle precision as she wrapped the shroud around the body of Old Man Thorne, a local villager who had passed quietly in his sleep. A blessed rarity in these parts. Her children, Margaret and Samuel, watched with solemn attentiveness, absorbing the lessons of their sacred craft.

“Remember, children,” Martha began, her voice a soft murmur, “the shroud must be wrapped with care, and the sigils must be stitched with precision. Each mark is a barrier, a safeguard against the unrest that lurks in the shadows.”

Margaret, the elder of the two, held the end of the shroud steady as her mother worked. Samuel, his eyes wide with curiosity, watched the needle dance in and out of the fabric, leaving intricate symbols in its wake. The sigils, ancient and powerful, were the language of peace for the dead, a script that spoke directly to the soul.

As Martha finished the final stitch, the air inside the stone house grew colder. The sun had set, and in the twilight, the first of the shroud moths began to appear. These spectral creatures, with their translucent blue wings shimmering like moonlight on water, fluttered in through the cracks and crevices of the old house. Drawn to the death shroud, they clung to the fabric, their presence a silent testament to the sacred rite.

“Shroud moths,” Samuel whispered in awe, his breath visible in the chill air.

Martha nodded, her expression serene. “They come to bless the passage, to ensure that the spirit is at peace. They are harmless, but their presence is a sign that we have done our work well.”

The shroud moths gathered in great numbers, their wings creating a soft, ethereal rustling. They moved like a living mist, settling upon the shroud and the body it encased. The flickering candlelight danced upon their wings, casting eerie reflections upon the stone walls.

“Now, children,” Martha continued, “we must take the body to its resting place.”

Together, the family carried Old Man Thorne’s shrouded form to the graveyard. The path was lit by the spectral glow of the shroud moths, which followed in counts of thousands in a solemn procession. The ancient trees loomed overhead, their branches creaking in the night breeze, and the headstones cast long shadows across the ground.

At the freshly dug grave, Martha and her children lowered the body into the earth. The shroud moths fluttered around them, their numbers growing as the final rites were performed. Martha spoke the words of passage, her voice steady and clear, a chant that resonated through the graveyard and beyond, into the very fabric of the night.

As the last word was spoken, the shroud moths settled upon the freshly turned earth, their wings a shimmering blanket of blue. The grave was filled, and the final sigil was carved into the headstone—a mark of eternal rest.

Martha looked at her children, pride and love shining in her eyes. “You have done well. Remember this night, for it is the essence of our duty. The dead must rest, and it is our sacred charge to ensure that they do.”

Margaret and Samuel nodded, their faces solemn yet determined. They understood the gravity of their role, the importance of the work that lay ahead. As the family made their way back to their stone house, the shroud moths began to disperse, their duty fulfilled for the night.