The village of Thornfield had always possessed an otherworldly charm, known for its cobblestone streets and quaint thatched cottages adorned with blooming hydrangeas. The villagers held on to traditions as though clutching at warm memories, but one particular custom caused even the most steadfast souls to shiver—a custom that came to life every year at the witching hour of the last slice of midnight.
As the autumn leaves began their slow descent and the chill in the air deepened, the villagers prepared for the Night of the Last Slice. They would gather around a large oak in the village square and place offerings of cakes, pies, and pastries at the foot of the tree. It was a time for celebration, but also one that carried an unspoken dread, a reminder of the ancient legend that accompanied it.
Long ago, a wicked witch had cursed the village for its many transgressions. Before she vanished into the misty woodlands, she decreed that on the Night of the Last Slice, the village must sacrifice a slice from the heart of their feasts. The slice, she claimed, was to be offered to appease the dark entities lurking between realms—the creatures that fed on despair and soured the sweetness of existence. Refusal to comply would bring cursed misfortune upon the village for the coming year.
Oliver Thompson had fled the village at eighteen, but after a decade of city life, he found himself drawn back to Thornfield by a sense of unease, a call from the rustic roots he thought long buried. Returning felt like threading a needle through an old fabric, and he was determined to mend his fraying ties with a place he had once called home.
It was early October when he arrived, the air thick with the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth. The villagers greeted him warmly, their faces weathered yet youthful in that peculiar way known only to those who had grown up in a small community. He was delighted to find that his childhood friends, now adults with their own quirks, had kept the tradition alive.
As the night of the Last Slice approached, Oliver became entwined in the preparations, falling back into the rhythms of village life. Yet a nagging sensation pricked at him, as if the very shadows of Thornfield whispered warning secrets in the wind. The villagers exchanged furtive glances when the topic of the Last Slice arose, their liberated laughter tinged with something darker.
He pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the camaraderie. The village was busily baking, defeating the kitchen fires with zeal, yet when the subject of the Last Slice arose, laughter stifled into dry murmurs, glances barely making contact. It wasn’t until the eve of the feast, as the last golden rays of sun dipped behind the horizon, that Oliver decided to quiz old Mrs. Pemberton about the unsettling undertones.
“Why does everyone seem so… uneasy? We are just following an old tradition, aren’t we?” he asked, feigning nonchalance as the shadows lengthened and the air turned colder.
Mrs. Pemberton, a woman of diminutive stature but with eyes that pierced through layers of time, paused her kneading. “You should listen to the whispers, Oliver. It’s a tradition that demands respect. Many have died ignoring its call.”
“What do you mean?”
She lowered her voice, the warmth of the kitchen replaced by ice. “The last slice of any offering is what the witch desires. She told us she would take something from us if we withheld it. Your return… it could prove to be dangerous if you’re unprepared.”
He wanted to laugh dismissively at her warnings but found himself unable to. Instead, he left her old cottage with the uneasiness deepening into something sinister.
The night of the Last Slice arrived, the moon hanging low, full, and luminous, reflecting the anxiety that simmered in the village square. The gathering was well attended, coloured lanterns draped from the branches above while tables overflowed with an array of delicacies that beckoned to be devoured. There was a palpable electricity in the atmosphere, thick enough to taste, and it stirred an ancient fear that Oliver had thought he had outgrown.
As the clock chimed midnight, a hush descended over the crowd, the villagers falling silent in anticipation. Oliver felt the weight of expectation settle on his shoulders as they prepared for the unthinkable. He watched as Sara Mitchell, a girl he had known since childhood, approached the table with careful hands, the last slice of her grandmother’s famed apple pie precariously balanced on a plate.
The ritual was to be performed by the eldest amongst them. Old Isaac, with his wizened visage and hands that trembled like autumn leaves, stood before the oak, raising the slice high as though it were a precious jewel. “For the witch of the woods! For harmony within!” he proclaimed, and the villagers echoed his words, their voices sistering with urgency, almost pleading.
The slice sizzled on the plate, exuding an aroma that filled the air like honey and dust. The villagers could almost sense the unseen boundaries flexing around them, a ripple of tension coursing through the crowd. As he watched, Oliver could not help but feel the watchful eyes of the forest, creeping ever closer.
Then it happened; the ground trembled ever so slightly, unsettling the lanterns. A darkness swelled from within the woods, spreading like spilled ink blotting out all rational thought. The villagers stumbled backward, clutching at each other for support, their eyes wide with horror as an unseen presence began to materialise, flickering like a flame.
From the shadows emerged a shape both familiar and nightmarishly twisted. The witch. Her visage was shrouded in a cloak woven from agony itself, eyes glowing with the fire of a thousand unshed tears. “You dare offer me this meagre fragment?” she hissed, her voice slithering through the night.
Fear clouded every heart, panic erupting among the villagers. They fell over one another, the spell of the tradition unraveling like an old fabric, and Oliver found himself rooted in place, compelled to witness this ancient horror.
“What happens if we don’t satisfy your hunger?” one villager gasped, trembling.
“Your lives, your memories, your very essence—all shall be mine,” she proclaimed with a cruel smile that held no warmth.
In that moment, clarity flooded Oliver’s mind. He remembered his grandmother’s tales of the witch; she fed off despair and fear, gorging herself on the emotions left unchecked by despair. He could feel his heart racing, trapped within the confines of tradition. Yet a thought, fierce yet tender, seized him—a desire to break free from the chain of a cursed custom.
With a surge of newfound courage, he stepped forward. “Enough! Stop feeding her with your fear. You have power beyond what you know.” His voice rang clear, reverberating through the trembling air.
The witch turned, fixing her piercing gaze upon him. For an eternal moment, the world stood still. Oliver could see the temptation swirling in her eyes—the very essence of the villagers desired but resisted within his voice.
“This is the last slice, is it not?” he said slowly. “What monstrous power does she have if we believe we can stop? Let us embrace our own strength, rather than feed this darkness.”
The villagers hesitated, fear battling against the inklings of hope. The witch’s smile faded, as if consumed by the light of their unity.
“Foolish boy! You think you can defy me?” she shrieked, recoiling slightly.
“If we join together, we can create something greater,” Oliver implored. “Let us make our own traditions, unfettered by fear! You have no power if we relinquish despair.”
The finality of his words ignited something magical; the air sparked with an electric energy that surged through them all. Hand in hand, they formed a circle around the tree, the unity binding them in a web robust against the encroaching darkness.
“You are too strong together!” the witch belted as the forest itself seemed to tremble. “But you will rue this day!”
With a howl of frustration, she faded back into the depths of the woodland, leaving behind an air laden with the remnants of fear and anticipation. The villagers, breathing raggedly, looked at one another, wonder blooming beneath their disbelief.
As dawn’s light broke over Thornfield, the unease of the last slice of midnight transformed into something unexpected—a bittersweet strength. They had challenged the darkness together, and in that, they had found a morbid empowerment that transcended fear. The Last Slice of Midnight, now a reformation rather than a curse, had evoked a new tradition, one woven from the fabric of unity and courage.
Oliver, standing amongst his friends as the sun warmed the earth, felt a sense of healing, a sweet resolve that whispered a promise: they had woven together their vivid resilience, and in that moment, darkness would retreat, no longer able to take root where joy and strength thrived.