Short Fiction

THE WITCH-KING: A Spooky Story for Halloween

“These woods hold more than beasts,” Almeric warned, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “They say a dark curse lingers here. The goblins call it the Hollow, and they do not cross it lightly.”

Some around the fire clenched cloaks tighter as gazes roved the surrounding darkness. Others put hands on weapon hilts. Almeric sat with his staff across his knees. Only Cassian, the youngest amongst them, laughed.

“Curses and goblins? Is that all, old man? No ghosts? Pfft. We’ve faced worse.”

With Almeric as their guide, the small group had come to the heart of Wilderwood seeking adventure and treasure. Cassian, the swordsman; Marella, the archer; Lista, the bard; and Daegra, the hillman. They’d hired Almeric as their guide, so while he wasn’t one of them, tonight, in these dark woods, they were all of a single mind to get what they came for and to get out.

In the safety of the Stabbing Sword tavern, they had heard the tales of witches and shades roaming the woods. But such stories had seemed fanciful, so they were easily dismissed. Now, however, with twisted trees looming over them and fog slithering across the ground like creeping fingers, they found those tavern tales much harder to laugh off. Shadows stretched between the ancient trees, deep and dark as spilled ink, while the forest lay eerily silent but for the soft scurrying of unseen creatures or the flapping wings of a nightbird.

Still full of bravado, Cassian glanced at Almeric and asked, “You’re certain there’s treasure here?”

Marella hushed him. “Keep your voice down!”

“There better be treasure here,” Daegra grumbled. “We didn’t come all this way to go home empty-handed.”

Almeric’s grim expression looked the others over. “Aye, I’m certain. Long ago, before Wilderwood was cursed, this forest was home to a powerful clan of witches, keepers of an ancient vault. They filled it with relics and wealth beyond imagining until the curse twisted the land and drove them mad.” He lowered his voice, gaze sharpening. “Others have come before you, you know. None have returned.”

“What happened to them? Lista asked, her voice a whisper.

“If you believe the tales, they vanished. Claimed by the dark spirits that guard the vault.”

Marella shivered as the fog swirled around her ankles. “Why does this suddenly feel like the worst idea we’ve ever had?”

Almeric grinned, the flicker of fear in his eyes betraying his unease. “Because it likely is.”

A whispering filled the air, faint but unmistakable, like voices carried on the wind. The fog thickened, and strange shapes formed within it. Faces with hollow eyes and twisted mouths, their essences faded in and out of sight, watching the group, unblinking, their expressions mournful as if bound by some ancient sorrow.

Cassian’s hand tightened around his sword. Daegra hefted his warhammer.

“What are those?” Cassian asked.

“Shades,” Almeric whispered, eyes darting around them. “The souls of those who failed to find the vault or worse, those who found it and paid the price.”

Marella cursed under her breath and stood. She held her bow ready but had yet to draw and nock an arrow. “Will our weapons even work on them?”

Almeric shrugged. “They’re just watching for now.”

“Hopefully, that’s all they do,” Lista said, shivering.

“Wilderwood warps everything that enters it,” Almeric replied grimly. “And we’ll share their fate if we’re not careful.”

The adventurers huddled together, feeling the weight of a hundred haunted eyes. Somewhere deeper in the forest, a low, echoing voice drifted through the trees, taunting and beckoning them further into the Hollow’s embrace.

“Come closer,” it called. “You seek treasure, but treasure is never free…”

Cassian swallowed, his sword half drawn as he took a tentative step forward. But Almeric’s hand shot out, gripping his arm with surprising strength.

“Not yet,” the old man murmured, his voice low. “The forest is only testing us. Best sit back down. The shades will keep their distance. Wilderwood is home to things far older and fouler. Those are the ones you should worry about.”

As if to punctuate his words, a low, mournful wail echoed through the forest. An unearthly sound, twisted and anguished, it carried through the branches like a whisper from a distant, forgotten age.

Cassian, who remained standing sentry at the outskirts of their fire’s light, asked, “What was that?”

Almeric sighed, running a bony finger over the charms hanging from his staff. “That would be the Wraith-King, once a mighty lord of these lands. Long ago, he was betrayed by his kin and cast into Wilderwood, his spirit cursed to wander forever. They say he still searches for his betrayers, hungry to steal the warmth from the living. I’ve heard his baleful cry a dozen times and never once—”

The wind shifted, bringing with it a foul stench. Shadows lengthened, and a figure took shape out of the murky depths of the forest. A translucent, skeletal lord clad in tattered robes, his face locked in a wicked grin. His eyes glowed with an unnatural fire, and his smile spread far too wide.

Almeric’s voice dropped to a trembling whisper. “The Wraith-King…”

The wraith’s gaze fixed on them. “Visitors? In my domain?” His voice was a sibilant rasp, like leaves scraping across stone. “It’s been too long since I’ve tasted life.”

The adventurers stood frozen as more figures emerged from the fog. Ghosts with hollowed faces and ghouls with twisted grins, their skin pale and stretched over their skeletal forms. The ghouls—flesh-eaters—snarled and licked cracked lips, eyes glinting with hunger.

“Back, fiends!” Cassian shouted, brandishing his sword. “You’ll find no easy prey here tonight!”

Marella aimed an arrow at the spectral form. Daegra readied his hammer.

The Wraith-King tilted his head, amused. “Brave words. Too bad they will be your last.” He raised a hand, and the forest all around them shuddered. A chill crept over the adventurers, sapping their strength, as the Wraith-King whispered, “Now, the Hollow will claim its due.”

But Almeric, no longer a mere guide, stepped forward, raising his staff high, the charms around it glowing faintly. “Begone, spirits! These souls are not yours to claim!”

The Wraith-King merely laughed, a cold, hollow sound. “You cannot fight the Hollow, old man.” He waved his hand, and the ghastly creatures surged forward.

Almeric shoved past Cassian, raised his staff, and slammed it onto the ground. A wave of concussive energy felled the creatures, knocking them from their feet.

“Run!” Almeric shouted.

No one needed a second urging. Not even Cassian. Led by Almeric through narrow, winding trails barely visible in the moonlight, they felt the creatures in pursuit, the echo of spectral laughter and the clatter of clawed feet on damp leaves too close. Through the trees, the Wraith-King’s twisted grin glowed like a sinister beacon.

Just as they broke through the forest’s edge, a voice drifted on the wind behind them, chilling them to the bone. “Remember,” the Wraith-King called, his voice dripping with malice, “the Hollow always takes its toll.”

Wilderwood was behind them, but they knew they’d never truly escape its dark grasp. For in their minds lingered the memory of the Wraith-King’s cold, toothy grin, a promise that Wilderwood would always be waiting… and watching.


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