The showdow - by Rahima Suleiman

--- The Showdow In the quiet town of Valemont, there was a legend spoken only in whispers, carried on the wind like a forgotten memory. The townspeople called it The Showdow—a word that seemed to blur the lines between "shadow" and "showdown." No one knew exactly what it meant, but every fifty years, when the moon turned blood red and the forest fog rolled in thicker than ever, something returned. It was the fiftieth year. Miles Rennick, a cynical journalist with a knack for the supernatural, had just been assigned the Valemont story by The Occult Mirror, a niche magazine read by conspiracy theorists and paranormal enthusiasts. To him, it was just another rural ghost tale, something to punch up with exaggerations and eerie photos. But he underestimated Valemont—and The Showdow. As Miles rolled into town, he noticed oddities right away. The air was thick, almost wet, as if the fog had substance. The people watched him from behind curtains and shop windows. At the inn, the elderly owner handed him his key with trembling hands. “You came for the story?” she asked. Miles raised an eyebrow. “You mean the ‘Showdow’ thing? Yeah, I’m here to get to the bottom of it.” She nodded slowly. “Then you better know something, Mr. Rennick. The Showdow don’t come looking for stories. It comes looking for a witness.” That night, Miles found a faded book in the inn’s reading room: Valemont: A Chronicle of Darkness. It was written by an old priest, Father Eli, who described events every fifty years—a mysterious figure, part-man, part-smoke, who emerged from the forest to claim a soul. The priest had called it the “Showdow”—a corruption, perhaps, of “shadow duel.” According to him, it was a battle for the soul of the town, fought in silence, witnessed by only one outsider, who would carry the truth forward. The next evening, drawn by both fear and curiosity, Miles hiked into the forest. The trees loomed overhead, gnarled like skeletal fingers. Fog curled around his ankles. His camera blinked red. He kept walking, heart hammering. Then, he saw it. A clearing opened before him, and in the center stood two figures. One was cloaked in smoke and darkness, a shape constantly shifting, with glowing red eyes. The other was a man, though Miles couldn’t make out his face. They stood still as statues… until they moved. It wasn’t a fight in the traditional sense. There were no fists, no blades. Instead, the air around them pulsed. Trees bent. Earth cracked. Energy, emotion, and memory surged between them like tidal waves. Miles fell to his knees, overwhelmed by visions—each a memory not his own. Fires. Screams. Sacrifice. Every fifty years, someone stepped forward to challenge the darkness, to keep it from consuming the town entirely. The Showdow was not just a duel. It was a trial of wills, of spirit. And Miles, the witness, was part of it now. He blacked out. When he awoke, the fog was gone. The forest was silent. The town glowed under a clear morning sky. He stumbled back into Valemont, where the townspeople met him with quiet nods. No one asked questions. No one spoke of what had happened. Back in the city, Miles wrote his story. But when he sent it to his editor, he received a strange call. “There’s nothing in the file, Miles. Just static… and a single sentence: ‘The witness remembers, even when the world forgets.’” Miles never spoke of the Showdow again. But sometimes, at night, he’d see the fog curling outside his window. And he’d wonder: Was he truly just a witness? Or had the Showdow marked him for something greater?

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