Make Me a Dragon

By Naomi Ault

Maybe you've been praying to the wrong god.

When it first started, you told yourself it was just snow. What harm could snow do? 
But that was back in the beginning. Back in the time of orderly lines and waitin' one's turn. That all changed, of course, when springtime rolled around on the calendar, but it just kept on snowing.

And snowing. And snowing.
 
This horror novella mashes Appalachian folklore with Norse Mythology to create a unique dark fantasy that will make you grab your warmest blanket and sleep with the lights on. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Say Vandelay Publishing
• Release date: Jan 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215587539

Naomi Ault

Naomi Ault writes dark speculative fiction. She lives in Ohio with her husband, two children, and border collie. 

Book preview

Chapter One

You always used to think it was quiet, here on the mountain. As it turned out, you didn’t know the meaning of the word.

But you do now.

The difference between then and now is three years. Three years of unending winter, for which there is no earthly explanation. It snows most days, leavin' a heavy blanket of white on top of what was already there. But on some days there is no new snow and the wind just howls and makes threats. Some threats—like the day the water tower buckled and fell over—it makes good on. Other threats are idle, a campaign of fear meant to keep everyone indoors and afraid.

When it first started, you told yourself it was just snow. What harm could snow do? You ignored the doomsayers on the radio evangelist shows and went about your business as best you could. The lines at the store were organized and tidy; you had expected to walk into something chaotic. You were prepared for the worst, and it didn’t happen. The world can’t be ending if there’s calm, orderly lines. The world can’t end with young men helpin’ old ladies put heavy cases of water into their cars.

When you got back home, your mother asked you how it was.

It’s fine, you shrugged, and started putting everything away. She looked relieved. But that was back in the beginning. Back in the time of orderly lines and waitin’ one’s turn. That all changed, of course, when springtime rolled around on the calendar, but it just kept on snowing.

And snowing. And snowing.

Time is funny now. Without seasons to mark the passage of time, you can’t be sure how long it’s been since you’ve seen Momma. Maybe at the end of the first year? You don’t know. But anyway, the last time you saw her she had Daddy’s hunting rifle in her mouth, and it took you three days to work up the nerve to go back into her bedroom to clean up the mess.

She wasn’t the only one. After she died, the people in town started talkin’ about some kind of fever. The media called it Fimbul Fever. Fimbul was short for Fimbulwinter, which was straight out of some apocalyptic fairy tale. Fimbul Fever was bad, they said, making people kill themselves, or worse, some of them killed other people first. And sometimes—they always whispered the next part—they did things to the bodies. Someone should do something.

But the doctor had already succumbed to despair himself, and he took a much more graceful exit than your mother did. You’re gonna go to hell for being jealous, but death by overdose is easier to clean up than what you had to do.

On one of your last trips into town, you saw his daughter, Basil, down the aisle from you. While the deacon was consoling her—The Lord works in mysterious ways, Basil. I don’t suppose you know where he got those pills? Or if he had any more?—you avoided meeting her eyes and slipped the next to last