On Halloween night in the shadowed village of Thorn Hollow, Midnight the black cat prowled the moonlit streets, his eyes a stark green glow against the dark. As he slipped through mist-drenched alleyways, Midnight felt the ancient pull of something twisted and evil—something darker than the village had seen in a hundred years.
The air grew cold, the chill creeping through his sleek fur as he padded toward the old, overgrown cemetery on the hill. Midnight stopped abruptly. The mist there wasn’t normal. It crawled, thick and alive, over the ground like tendrils of some terrible creature lying in wait.
Suddenly, a horrific scream shattered the silence, so sharp and blood-curdling it felt as though the very air trembled with fear. Midnight’s claws unsheathed reflexively as he shrank back, fur bristling, and eyes darting about for the source. A moment later, he
spotted a flickering light weaving through the grave markers.
Approaching, he saw not one but many shadows moving, emerging from the ground like ghosts dragged from the depths. Faces twisted with hollow eyes and mouths stretched impossibly wide in silent, eternal screams. They were the Lost—spirits cursed to rise on Halloween each century, bound to Thorn Hollow’s soil for sins only whispered about in the village’s oldest tales.
But there was something even darker among them, something that lurked just beyond Midnight’s sight. Then, he saw her. A figure cloaked in black, her face veiled in
shadows. The Widow of Thorn Hollow.
It was said that, centuries ago, she had made a pact with an ancient demon, binding herself to the land with a promise to claim a soul every century. And now she was back.
The Widow's head snapped toward Midnight, and he felt her hollow eyes pierce through him. With a horrible, rasping voice, she croaked, “Tonight, little cat, you are mine.”
Midnight bolted, leaping and weaving through headstones as the ground cracked open around him, clawed hands reaching up to grab him. The air itself felt heavy, as though something were dragging him back, each step harder than the last. The Widow’s footsteps echoed behind him, impossibly close, whispering his name like a curse.
When he reached the edge of the graveyard, Midnight scrambled to climb an ancient,
twisted tree. But before he could reach safety, a clawed hand grasped his hind leg, pulling him down with a force that left him breathless. Midnight fought back, sinking his teeth into icy, decaying fingers, breaking free just as the Widow’s veil brushed his back, filling his nose with the stench of rot and burnt earth.
Breathing hard, Midnight leapt down and raced toward the heart of the cemetery, where a crumbling mausoleum held an ancient relic—the last remnant of an old ritual meant to banish spirits. He could feel the Widow closing in, her laughter a sickening rasp in his ears, her curse wrapping tighter and tighter around him.
With one desperate push, Midnight shoved the mausoleum doors open and slipped inside, finding an old, cracked pendant hanging from a hook on the wall. In an instant, the room filled with a blinding, silvery light. Midnight yowled, his fur standing on end as the light grew, filling every corner of the tomb with a chill that felt both deadly and sacred.
The Widow screamed, her voice turning to a roar of pure hatred. Midnight watched as her shadowy form twisted and writhed, the spectral hands that had once clawed at him now pulling her back, dragging her deep into the ground, into whatever darkness she had crawled out from.
As the light faded, Midnight found himself alone in silence, the cemetery eerily still once more. He shivered, exhausted but alive, his emerald eyes scanning the area one last time before he padded back to the village. The Widow was gone... for now.
But deep down, Midnight knew that Thorn Hollow’s curse was never truly lifted; it was only waiting, biding its time until the next Halloween night.
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