The autumnal chill had descended like a heavy shroud over Eldermarsh, a village perpetually wrapped in mist and secrets. The streets lay abandoned, save for the occasional caw of a crow, echoing through the damp air. This time of year, the villagers held their breath, for the Harvest Festival was approaching. It was a time of joy and merriment, or so it was meant to be. But whispers of the Forgotten had crept back into conversation like a resistant weed, insidiously knotting themselves around the hearts of the townsfolk.
Martha Cummings, a rather inconspicuous spinster, had lived in Eldermarsh her entire life. She had inherited her modest shop from her grandmother, who harboured an array of peculiar curiosities and tinctures. It was here, amid dusty shelves adorned with glass jars and crumbling tomes, that she would hear the stories—the chilling accounts spun by the elders, tales of what transpired during the Harvest Festival years ago.
“They say the Forgotten come to claim what’s owed to them when the harvest moon rises,” Martha had overheard old Mr. Wilkins mumble to Mrs. Berry while she restocked the honey jars. “Look at our crops, you tell me they’re not cursed!” The old man’s eyes were fraught with a fear that felt palpable, as though the shadows themselves had ears.
Martha often dismissed such talk as superstition, yet as the festival approached, she couldn’t shake off the feeling that something sinister stirred beneath the surface. The townsfolk murmured about a poor yield this year; the fields had produced far less than expected. Once lush green had withered into hollow, brittle stalks, feeble remnants of what used to thrive.
As the Harvest Festival drew near, Martha decided to visit the old cemetery on the outskirts of town—an overgrown expanse where time had seemingly forgotten those who lay buried. She ventured forth despite the sullen grey clouds that hung low in the sky like a foreboding omen, the wind biting at her cheeks and tousling her hair as she passed through the dilapidated iron gate.
Among the crumbling headstones lay the grave of her grandmother, a firm believer in the Old Ways. Legend had it that the ritualistic sacrifices made in earlier times were necessary to appease the Forgotten: a group of elusive spirits said to wander the moors, seeking retribution for wrongs long past. Martha knelt beside her grandmother’s grave, her fingers grazing over the inscription, worn by years of rain and neglect.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, as though the spirits were listening. “I must know the truth.”
That night, Martha lit a candle and sat at her grandmother’s small altar in the shop, the flickering flame casting long shadows on the walls. She hesitated, her heart racing as she opened an old leather-bound book inscribed with strange symbols and filled with a language she scarcely understood. But the illustrations spoke volumes—harvests reaped, circles drawn in the earth, and dark figures shrouded in mist. She lingered on an image depicting offerings placed beneath a great oak; a chilling sense of foreboding washed over her.
The voices from the past rippled through her mind like a wind stirring autumn leaves. They spoke of an ancient pact, made by the founders of Eldermarsh—a deal that ensured bountiful harvests but required payment in blood. As the moon waxed and the festival date approached, Martha’s resolve solidified.
The night of the Harvest Festival arrived, the villagers gathered in the town square, laughter and music mingling with the crisp autumn air. But beneath the façade of festivity lay a palpable anxiety, a built-up tension spilling from their hushed exchanges. Martha merely observed, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders as lanterns danced in the breeze.
As darkness fell, the villagers began to speak the words her grandmother had taught her—words that had grown distant in her memory, infused with an age-old magic that she could not comprehend entirely. The moon, a silver coin against the black velvet sky, seemed to embody both light and shadow, illuminating the hidden horror lurking within the hearts of the villagers.
With each repetitive chant, the crowd grew restless, their voices rising, chanting in a strange syncopation. And then, as if responding to their calls, the air thickened, saturating with the scent of wet earth and decay. The lantern’s light flickered violently, almost extinguishing before sputtering back to life. Shadows twisted and elongated.
Martha’s breath caught as she saw them—figures beyond the first lines of trees at the edge of the square: forgotten souls adorned with harvest wreaths out of season, their faces void of recognition, stretching into eerie smiles. Their eyes were sunken, darkened pools that threatened to swallow the light around them.
“What have we done?” she whispered under her breath, stepping back instinctively.
The villagers seemed entranced, oblivious to the encroaching figures. They continued their chant, louder now, a rhythmic incantation weaving through the crowd. In that moment, otherworldly figures breached the thin veil between realms, stepping forward from the dark. Time morphed, each beat of Martha’s heart synchronising with the halted whispers of the crowd.
And just as she turned to flee, she saw it—the great oak tree at the far end of the square, impossibly twisted, its bark gnarled, as though it had been anguished through time. Beneath it lay an altar—each offering forgotten, neglected for years—a cacophony of rot and decay. The Forgotten reached for the villagers, a dark promise of retribution palpable in the air.
Panic surged within her chest as she pulled away from the gruesome scene. “Help! We have to stop!” she cried, a voice almost lost against the tumult of gathering shadows. No one seemed to hear; they were mesmerised, frozen in a trance as the Forgotten called out, coaxing and beckoning.
Martha stumbled back, her heart hammering. In that moment, the whispers of her grandmother rang clear as a bell, jars of herbs spilling over in her mind, ancient rites and tinctures swirling like autumn leaves. The spinster had been a keeper of knowledge far beyond the stoicism of Eldermarsh. A keeper of the truth.
With determination forged from fear, Martha gathered her wits and ran to the altar at the base of the twisted oak, pulling together shards of memory. She found herbs her grandmother once spoke of, knowing what she must do, how the Forgotten could be thwarted if only she could recall the right words.
As she held the herbs close, the chanting intensified, and layers of mist coalesced, bartering secrets for bones, the air thickening with palpable dread. The figures moved closer, reaching their emaciated fingers towards the villagers.
“Hold on!” she shouted, her voice cracking through the fog of enchantment. “Do not listen to them! We have to break the pact!”
A ripple went through the crowd; confusion flickered across faces marked with fear. For a fleeting moment, the thrall broke, awareness flashing like fire in their eyes. Martha seized the moment, recalling the spells whispered through generations, praying that it would be enough.
“I invoke the power of the old!” she cried out. “By the blood of the living, I sever our binds! I offer instead—myself!”
The Forgotten hesitated, their dark forms wavering as she spoke the words, the direction of their attention shifting.
“I bask beneath the moon, I stand before you. Take me instead!” She flung the herbs to the ground, her voice steady and loud, praying she could be heard above the storm of shadows.
And the moment she did, the overwhelming presence of the Forgotten raged against her proclamation. The villagers blinked away their trance, fear and confusion imbuing their eyes as they met the gaunt figures.
“No!” Mr. Wilkins cried, breaking free from the thrall, reaching for her. “Martha, no!”
But it was too late; the air buzzed with vibrations of ancient magic as the figures hovered closer, their hollow gazes locking on her. “Your sacrifice is paramount,” they whispered in voices that echoed like the croaking of crows.
Blocking out the desperation, Martha closed her eyes and envisioned a future untethered from darkness—a future where crops flourished, where the townsfolk lived without fear of the night. As she stood in front of the twisted oak, the weight of the pact hung heavy upon her, yet hope ignited in her heart like the flickering embers of a dying flame.
She felt their grasp tightening but stood resolute. “I will not yield! The Forgotten shall find rest no more!”
In that moment, she recognised the futility of sacrifice, the promise of life greater than that of blood. The Forgotten recoiled in disbelief, shadows swirling around their spectral forms.
The villagers moved closer, emboldened by her strength, united against the tide of fear birthed from generations of silence.
“Together!” they roared, fists raised, the communal cry surging forth and lending Martha strength. “We will stand against you!”
The Forgotten hesitated, withdrawing into the swirling fog, rage and despair cutting through the air like a sharpened blade. And with one final scream—an unholy wail that reverberated around them—the figures dissipated, leaving behind only the cold night air and the bittersweet remnants of their whispers.
Breathless, they stood united, hearts hammering like wild crows against the cage of ribs, the village bathed in silver moonlight. Martha had severed the ties to the past, ensuring that they would never again walk alongside the Forgotten.
As the dawn broke, painting the sky with strokes of amber and rose, the villagers ventured forth, the fear replaced with rebirth. The Harvest Festival would carry on, not as a display of retribution but a celebration of life—renewed, revived, and irrevocably altered.
Martha Cummings gazed upon them, understanding that while the shadows would always linger in the periphery, together they could face whatever harvest awaited them, plotting their own future unshackled from the spectres of the forgotten.
