The night air was heavy with damp coldness as Eleanor tightened her scarf against the chill and stepped lightly down the winding path that led to Marnock Woods. Clusters of trees loomed ominously around her, their gnarled branches reaching towards the sky like skeletal fingers. The moon hung high and full, casting a ghostly silver light over the landscape, yet somehow it only served to deepen the shadows that draped the woods like a smothering fog.
This particular night was Samhain, when the veil between worlds is said to be at its thinnest, a time for both celebration and dread amongst the locals. But Eleanor, an outsider in the small Cornish village of Harrows End, viewed the evening as little more than a quaint festival steeped in superstition. Tradition dictated that the villagers would gather to honour the harvest, where tales would be woven around flickering bonfires and the scent of roasted pumpkin would suffuse the air.
However, there was an air of unease that had recently settled over Harrows End, an unsettling whisper that snaked through the cobbled streets, warning of something sinister lurking within the woods. Yet Eleanor, new to the area and intrigued by the folklore, remained undaunted, eager to unlock the secrets hidden in the night. After all, she’d brought an offering of a freshly baked loaf, perfect for the lore of feasting spirits, a token she believed would earn her acceptance among the villagers. They had little patience for outsiders, which only intensified her resolve to join their raucous gathering.
As she approached the edge of the wood, she noticed the remnants of festivities scattered throughout the underbrush—discarded pumpkin skins, twisted corn husks, and the occasional flicker of light from a distant torch. The sounds of laughter and music drifted from the heart of the woods, where the villagers amused themselves around a massive bonfire. It seemed welcoming, yet there was a discordant melody lurking beneath the surface—a pitch that unsettled her, a reminder of the boundaries of the unknown.
“Ah, new blood!” exclaimed a voice just behind her. Eleanor turned sharply to see a tall, lanky man emerging from the shadows, his corners of his mouth pulled into an unsettling grin. His eyes glittered with a strange intensity that raised an alarm within her.
“Are you joining the harvest?” he asked, tilting his head to the side in an almost predatory fashion.
Eleanor hesitated, unsure of his intentions. “I hope to,” she replied cautiously, clutching the loaf tightly to her chest.
“Then you must hurry; the harvest waits for no one.” He motioned for her to follow, and reluctantly, she complied. The figures around the bonfire grew larger and more vivid as they drew closer. Dancers twirled, their forms lithe and vague, moving rhythmically to an unseen beat. Smiling faces turned to her, welcoming yet somehow hollow, as if the warmth of their joy did not quite reach their coal-black eyes.
“Join us, dear!” a woman called, her hair wild and tangled as if woven by the winds themselves. She extended a hand towards Eleanor, murmuring incantations in a tone that was both inviting and foreboding.
Eleanor approached the fire, her feet dragging in the thickening air, scarcely aware of the loaf slipping from her fingers. It fell to the ground, landing in the cold grasses with a soft thud. Several villagers turned their gaze toward it, and an unnatural hush descended over the group. They circled the loaf, their eyes gleaming with a curious hunger.
“What a fine offering!” the woman chimed, her voice lilting with delight. “But offerings must be kept.”
From the depths of the circle emerged an elder, cloaked in a dark hood that obscured his features. He bent down and retrieved the loaf, raising it high above his head as if it were a prize. The crowd around him erupted in rapturous applause, their voices echoing into the night.
Eleanor felt something shift within the atmosphere—an undercurrent of tension that sent shivers down her spine. She didn’t belong here. The laughter morphed into something far less innocent, an alien sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
“Do you partake in our traditions?” the elder asked, his voice a growl that resonated through the crowd. “And what do you offer in return?”
Eleanor stammered, her courage waning. “I—uh, I thought… I thought the loaf would be accepted…”
“A token isn’t enough, child.” The elder’s voice reverberated, drawn out in cadence. “For the midnight harvest demands a true sacrifice. The spirits feast, but only when the harvest requires it.”
Eleanor tried to step back, the crowd closing in around her. Their smiles bared fangs hidden behind rosy lips, their eyes glinting with ravenous mirth. She felt trapped, ensnared by a lurking menace that ebbed and flowed like the flames before her.
“Don’t fear, dear,” the woman said sweetly, stepping closer. “There’s nothing to worry about… if only you are willing to share in our bounty.”
Suddenly, an unexpected chill seized her as the air thickened with a smell of decay and damp earth. She turned her gaze towards the edge of the woods, where the figures melded into shadows, their bodies contorting unnaturally, twisting and shifting as though they bled into the darkness. It was then that she noticed the ground was littered with bones, delicate and fragile like autumn leaves, some half-buried, others laid bare, a chilling realisation creeping in.
“Wayward souls seeking solace,” the elder continued, his grin unyielding. “They shall find it at midnight’s harvest, but only if the flesh is ripe. Are you still willing to offer?”
In terror, Eleanor gasped, understanding now what they required. The villagers did not seek trinkets or gifts, but something far more vital. With a primal instinct, she turned to break free from the ring of bodies, the village behind her a distant haze. They laughed as though her struggle was an amusing game, their voices dripping with cruel revelry.
As she ran deeper into the woods, the trees became monstrous figures, their branches clawing at her skin like icy hands. The moonlight flickered above, the shadows growing more profound, consuming her rational thoughts. The laughter echoed around her, a cacophony reverberating against the throat of the woods, signalling her imminent capture.
A narrow path opened before her, winding like a serpent into the darkness. She dashed into it, her heart racing as the sounds of the gathering faded. But just as relief washed over her, the ground heaved beneath her feet—roots twisted upwards, snaking out like tendrils to ensnare her ankles. They pulled her down into the soil, the earth’s embrace cold and unforgiving.
In her struggle, she glimpsed the elder watching from the edge of the woods; a triumphant smile curled upon his lips. The frantic whispers of forgotten souls flared to life around her as shadows twisted, climbing up her limbs, encasing her in darkness. The woods closed in, suffocating her cries. As she fought against the malaise, she felt the ancient hunger of Marnock Woods wrap itself around her.
“Another soul for the midnight harvest!” roared the elder as the ground swallowed her whole, the darkness welcoming her into its embrace. Just beyond the veil, the laughter of the villagers echoed off the trees, their celebration complacent, as they knew their hunger would be sated for another year.
As the night trudged onwards, a new shadow would join the ranks of the lost, luring the next unsuspecting soul to partake in the midnight harvest, a chilling reminder of the ancient pact—a reminder that some traditions are best left undisturbed.
