From Echoes Beneath Ohio (Special Standalone)
by Esi Noire
Once upon a time in the Village of Stillness, there came a monster with no name, or rather, too many names. One day he was “Fixer of Fences.” The next, “Bearer of Sorrows.” The next, simply “I Forgot.” No one could pin him down, because he never stayed the same long enough to be known.
But most villagers called him Grumble-Grum, because everything he did, whether helpful or half-done, came with a sound of complaint that echoed through the hills like a song with no chorus.
“I was gonna do it yesterday, but the wind was acting strange.”
“I had a good reason to leave – someone moved my shoe.”
“I said I’d build it, but then I thought – should I really?”
He was big, no doubt – seven feet tall when he stood straight (which he never did), covered in patchy fur that changed color depending on how guilty he felt. Some days he was charcoal grey. Other days, invisible beige. But the most honest days? A murky, slippery green – like unwashed okra or thoughts left in the rain.
Grumble-Grum had claws, but never used them. A tail, but always said it was someone else’s. And a voice so grand it could convince wild goats to sit quietly – at least until he got bored and wandered off.
The only reason anyone ever dealt with him was simple: he always said he meant well.
And the villagers – sweet, patient folks – kept trying to believe him.
Part 2: The Monster Makes a Plan (Kind Of)
One morning, the village awoke to a sound they hadn’t heard in months:
A decisive grunt.
Grumble-Grum stood on a wooden crate in the village square (a crate someone else had carried, of course) and declared, “I HAVE A PLAN.”
The villagers blinked. Children gasped. Chickens paused mid-scratch.
He cleared his throat.
“I’ve decided – I will build the biggest, strongest, most loyal hut for the Village Elder. It will have windows. It will have heat. It will be strong enough to outlive even the storms of last winter.”
The Elder, a wise woman with one good eye and a sharper tongue, nodded slowly. “That sounds… wonderful.”
Grumble-Grum beamed. “And I’ll start right now. Just as soon as I figure out where my hammer is. And also, I may need someone to remind me what a hammer looks like.”
He wandered off, humming a tune about beginnings.
By sunset, no one could find him.
Instead, there was a long stick planted in the ground with a note scrawled on a cabbage leaf: “Be right back – probably.”
Part 3: The Loving Leavings
Grumble-Grum had a habit. Whenever he got close to someone – emotionally, spiritually, or even just for a shared sandwich – he’d vanish.
Not loudly. Not cruelly. Just with a soft, slow withdrawal of responsibility. Like a robe slipping off a hook. Or a promise quietly melting in the heat.
He’d offer:
- “I’ll stay this time.”
- “I’ve changed, really.”
- “That last disappearance was the old me. You’re seeing the new version now – the healed beast.”
He meant it. At the time. Truly.
But every time someone believed him, he’d get itchy in his fur, unsure in his bones, and then mumble something about the moon being off or the bees needing his attention – and poof.
Gone again.
One day, he returned after a week of silence with a bouquet of wet pinecones and a fish wrapped in old promises. “I brought you something,” he said, grinning with the confidence of a hero who had fought dragons.
The Elder took the fish.
“You brought yourself nothing,” she said gently. “That’s what always breaks it.”
Part 4: The Day of the Mirror
The turning point came when a small child named Luma, tired of waiting for her fence to be fixed, decided to trick Grumble-Grum.
She told him there was a new magical item in the forest – a mirror that showed your true shape.
Grumble-Grum, of course, was fascinated. “What shape am I really?” he asked. “A protector? A builder? A misunderstood genius?”
“You’ll find out,” Luma said sweetly. “It’s by the old tree with the bees.”
He went.
What he found, instead of a magical mirror, was a reflective pot lid nailed to the tree. Beneath it was a carved message:
“You are whatever you leave behind.
The rest is just noise.”
He stared at it for a long time.
For once, he didn’t grunt.
Part 5: The Apology Parade
Grumble-Grum returned to the village the next morning, not with tools or answers, but with apologies.
So many apologies.
He rolled them in on a rickety wheelbarrow – scrolls tied in blue string, each one labeled:
- “For the time I said I’d stay and didn’t.”
- “For saying you were too emotional when you asked for consistency.”
- “For all the half-done things I swore were done.”
The villagers gathered around, some curious, some exhausted. The Elder did not come down. She’d seen too many scrolls before.
Grumble-Grum cleared his throat.
“I have realized,” he said solemnly, “that I am not consistent. But I am honest about my inconsistencies. Doesn’t that count?”
A goat in the back bleated.
A toddler clapped, not because she understood, but because she liked scrolls.
The rest just waited.
“I want another chance,” he said. “I’ve changed.”
That night, he was gone again.
Part 6: The Tired Awakening
Time passed.
The village built its own fences. The Elder’s hut was fixed by younger hands. The goats learned not to trust big talkers, and even the chickens stopped scattering when Grumble-Grum returned.
One day, he came back wearing a crown made of vines and said, “I now understand I’m supposed to be a king.”
A child tugged his sleeve and asked, “What are you ruling?”
He blinked.
“My intentions,” he said weakly.
The vines wilted.
Part 7: The Monster Who Sat Still
Then, one morning, something strange happened.
Grumble-Grum sat down.
He didn’t declare anything. Didn’t promise or apologize. Didn’t sigh or groan or explain why he’d been missing again.
He simply sat.
Next to the Elder. Who didn’t say a word.
The chickens wandered near him, pecking at the ground like judges with no interest in drama. The sun rose, as it always did, whether he stayed or left.
He opened his mouth to speak.
The Elder raised one finger.
“Don’t say you’ve changed.”
He closed his mouth.
“Don’t say you’re sorry.”
He nodded.
“Just sit,” she said. “If you can do that longer than ten minutes, we’ll call it a miracle.”
He sat.
Twelve minutes passed.
He stood.
“I should check on the bees.”
The Elder chuckled, not unkindly.
“Go then. We’ve stopped building for you. We build around you now. Whatever shape you return in, we’ll treat it like weather. Brief. No longer personal.”
And that, somehow, stung worse than her anger ever had.
Epilogue: For the Ones Who Waited Too Long
To those who kept believing the monster would stay…
To those who rearranged their days around a shape-shifting promise…
To those who were told they were too much, too needy, too intense – only to realize later they were just too patient…
This story is your release.
Let them go without guilt.
Their noise is not your burden.
Their exits are not your shame.
You were not abandoned.
You were liberated.
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