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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.
The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely coincidental.
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Title: The ghost of valentine's day - Chapter II (A Halloween Special)
Author: LaLia
Chapter Tags: ---
Content Warnings: ---
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Since @SoftGameHunter and @HistBuff had already presented a story fitting for Halloween, I thought it would be a nice challenge. So I wrote a crossover and chose an old story: The ghost of valentine's day which won the "RavishU Memorial Contest" back when the forum was first established. I hope you enjoy this little Valentine's Day feat. Halloween project.
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The ghost of valentine's day - Chapter II (A Halloween Special)
The A76 lay behind them, a gray ribbon of asphalt winding through the rolling hills of southern Scotland. Sophie steered her small SUV with the precision of someone accustomed to navigating Glasgow's dense traffic—except here, far from the metropolis, the roads were narrower and the curves more treacherous. The engine hummed softly as the wind whistled through the half-open windows, carrying the scent of damp earth and falling leaves.
"Only 10 more miles," Charlotte said from the back seat, her voice carrying that slight Glasgow accent that made everything sound a bit more playful, even though she was trying not to seem too inquisitive. Sophie, behind the wheel, simply nodded, her eyes fixed on the road. Beside her, in the passenger seat, sat Alex, a crumpled map of the area clutched in his left hand, a steaming mug of coffee from the last petrol station in his right. The coffee was lukewarm by now, but she sipped it anyway.
"Okay, this is truly the middle of nowhere," Charlotte murmured, pressing her nose against the window. Everywhere you looked, there was forest—Galloway Forest Park, spreading out like a green, colorful monster. The trees, painted in shades of red, orange, and gold by autumn, seemed to devour the sun, which broke weakly through the clouds. Not a house, not a car, just the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a bird.
"I told you, you were so keen to come," Alex replied with a laugh, folding the card and tucking it into the door pocket. Her laughter sounded a little forced, but it broke the silence. Sophie glanced at her, a silent "Everything okay?" in her eyes, but Alex waved her off. She didn't want the mood to be sour. Not now, when they were so close.
Alexandra Grant—or Alex, as everyone called her—was 25 years old and would never have believed she'd be drawn back to this sleepy little town so soon. Kirkvale, a small town of about 7,000 inhabitants, lay on the edge of Galloway Forest Park in southern Scotland, surrounded by moors and woods that seemed older than time itself. As a child, she had often spent her holidays here, back when her grandmother was still alive. The memories had faded, almost 20 years ago: the smell of freshly baked shortbread, Granny's laughter in the garden where they picked berries together. But then Granny had died young of cancer, and Grandpa had withdrawn like a snail. He sold the large old estate on the edge of the forest, moved into a tiny flat in the city, and only visited the family in Aberdeen for the holidays—if at all. In recent years, even that has dried up. The last five years? No meetings, just the occasional rare phone call, which usually ended with a grumble.
Her parents had always brushed it off: "That old codger always has something to complain about anyway, and he doesn't even want us to come." Alex had swallowed it, busy with her studies in Glasgow. Now she bitterly regretted it. Why hadn't she just visited him? A spontaneous trip, a cup of tea, a chat. But now it was too late. He had died in late summer, in his late seventies, a sudden heart attack. The funeral had briefly reunited the family—or what was left of it. They came from all corners of Scotland, even from England, to Kirkvale. The estate was read out: an old Bentley that was worthless, a little bit of savings, nothing worth mentioning. "Blown it all away," her father had muttered, staring at the lawyer as if he could take the words back.
Then, a few weeks later, Alex received a letter from Kirkvale in her small but cozy student apartment in Glasgow. It had been delivered personally, in a plain envelope bearing her full address: To be opened by Alexandra Grant only. Her hands trembled as she broke the wax seal – a relic from her grandfather's old world. Inside lay a handwritten letter, the ink slightly smudged, as if it had been lying around for a long time.
Alexandra, I don't really regret that our family fell apart like this, but I would have loved to see my sweet little granddaughter more often. I hope your studies in Glasgow are making you happy. If you ever want to escape the big city for a weekend, I've transferred ownership of my house to you. Constable Smith in Kirkvale has the key. He can tell you everything else you need to know. Goodbye, my little one.
The words hit her like a ton of bricks. Tears welled up in Alex's eyes, and she pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob. She regretted even more now that she hadn't visited him. If only she had known, he had a weak heart... She forced herself not to dwell on the thought. It was no use. Only then did it dawn on her: she had inherited something. A house. Grandpa had never mentioned that he owned another one—after selling the old family home, she had assumed he was only living in the small apartment. She considered calling her parents, telling them, but hesitated. Instead, she sat there, letter in hand, staring out the window at the rainy alley.
Just then, the door burst open, and Sophie rushed in, laden with Tesco shopping bags. She was 25, just like Alex, with wild blond curls and a laugh that lit up any room. The two had known each other since kindergarten in Aberdeen, had been neighbors, inseparable for 20 years. Sophie tossed down the bags and immediately noticed Alex's agitated expression. "Are you okay?" she asked, concerned, sitting down on the arm of the sofa and brushing a strand of hair from Alex's face.
Alex handed her the letter without a word. Sophie read it, her eyes widening. "Oh man, Alex... this is... wow." She was silent for a moment, then that spark flickered in her eyes—pure Sophie spontaneity. “Next weekend, Halloween. We’ll take Charlotte and check out the house.”
Alex blinked, still dazed from the tears. “It’s totally desolated there, and besides, didn’t you want to hang out with Steve?” Steve was Sophie’s boyfriend; they’d been together for a few months.
Sophie shook her head, already in planning mode. “Well, I did, but you know, Saturday’s the derby, Celtic versus Rangers, and he’ll be at the stadium, of course. And I’m not up for that. Or for getting drunk with his mates afterward. Nah, let’s have a girls’ weekend. I’ll ask Charlotte.” Before Alex could protest, Sophie had already pulled out her phone and dialed the number.
Charlotte, a few months younger than her two friends, was 24 and still lived with her parents in Glasgow while studying with Alex and Sophie. The three had been inseparable ever since Alex and Sophie had moved from Aberdeen. Charlotte had shown them the nightlife, the hidden bars in Merchant City, the wild parties in the old buildings—and had been glued to them ever since. "Of course I'm in!" she squealed into the phone when Sophie suggested it. "A haunted house in the middle of nowhere? For Halloween? That screams adventure!"
"She's in," Sophie announced triumphantly and hung up. The last lecture was on Thursday. Saturday, October 31st—Reformation Day and Halloween rolled into one. Perfect for a little trip. They could leave on Friday, take a leisurely look around the house, maybe celebrate in one of the small towns on Saturday, with lanterns and costumes, and then drive back at a relaxed pace on Sunday afternoon. Sophie already had a route planned, with stops for pubs and scenic views.
“Okay,” Alex agreed, a faint smile on her lips. But she set one condition: “If the house is completely run-down, we’ll leave right away. No big deal.” Sophie nodded eagerly, even though she had secretly already googled a hotel in Dumfries – the backup plan in case they didn’t like Kirkvale.
After another fifteen minutes, during which the forest gradually thinned and the road widened, Kirkvale appeared before them—a sleepy little town of around 7,000 souls, nestled like a patchwork quilt of gray stone and red brick in a hollow at the edge of Galloway Forest Park. Sophie slowed her pace as they drove down the main street, the High Street, lined with low buildings whose facades bore the marks of time. To the left stretched a small market square with a Victorian fountain, surrounded by stalls sparsely stocked on this dreary day with autumn vegetables and handwoven scarves. The shops seemed like relics from a bygone era: A bakery called "McTavish's Loaf" filled the air with the aroma of fresh bread and scones, next to it the "Highland Butcher" with its window display overflowing with sausages and haggis, and a souvenir shop selling kilt patterns and whiskey bottles. Further on, St. Andrew's Church rose up, its steeple a silent sentinel over the town, with a churchyard where old gravestones were entwined with ivy; Alex had already been there, for it was where her grandfather was buried. The pubs beckoned with warm light from their stained-glass windows: The "Thistle Arms," a quaint taproom with wooden beams and the promise of ale and live music on Saturdays, and right next door the "Galloway Goat," where lumberjacks and hikers whispered the latest tales from the forest. It was a town that clung to nature—with a small harbor on the nearby lake where boats bobbed gently on the water, and hiking trails that led directly into the moors. But beneath the idyllic facade lurked a melancholy, as if Kirkvale concealed its secrets in the mists of the surrounding hills.
“Okay, where’s the precinct?” Charlotte murmured, her nose pressed against the window again, as Sophie steered the SUV through the light traffic. The streets were busy, but not hectic: a few schoolchildren in uniforms scampered laughingly over the curb, a delivery van honked a friendly horn, and an elderly woman with a shopping bag waved, as if every passing traveler was a welcome distraction from the routine.
“Let’s just ask,” Alex suggested, gesturing to a group of men chatting in raincoats outside the Butcher. Sophie pulled over, and Charlotte rolled down the window. “Excuse me, where’s the police station? We’re looking for Constable Smith.” The men grinned, one with a bushy beard tapping his cap. “Straight ahead, then left around the church. You can’t miss it—the gray building with the sign that looks like it’s seen better days.” They thanked her with a laugh, and Sophie drove on, turning the corner where the station presented itself as an unassuming brick building with a parking lot containing only two patrol cars.
Inside, it was stuffy, smelling of stale coffee and paper dust. An older secretary behind the counter looked up, her glasses perched on the tip of her nose. “Constable Smith? He’s in the back room. What’s this about?” Alex explained succinctly: “It’s an inheritance matter. I’m Alexandra Grant.” The woman nodded and called through an open door, and seconds later he stepped out—Constable Ewan Smith, in his mid-thirties, with a sharp chin, short, dark hair neatly combed, and eyes that sparkled with ambition. He wore his uniform impeccably, as if he were striving not just for law and order, but for something greater, perhaps a promotion to the Borders or further north. His handshake was firm, professional.
“Miss Grant,” he said with a hint of surprise in his voice, which carried a slight Lowlands accent. “I was expecting you. Come with me.” He led the three women into a small office where stacks of files and a map of the surrounding area covered the walls. Alex took the letter from her bag, unfolded it, and handed it over, along with her identification. Smith examined both carefully and nodded approvingly. “Everything’s in order. Your grandfather arranged everything exactly like this.”
Curious, almost despite the formality, Alex asked, "How did you know my grandpa so well?" Smith leaned back, a thin smile flickering across his face as if the memory softened him. "I met him when I had to go out—he'd threatened some teenagers with his rifle who were illegally fishing on his stretch of the river. They thought old Bob was just a harmless eccentric, but he clearly marked his boundaries." Alex laughed softly, a warm sound that momentarily chased away the sadness in her eyes. "Yes, that sounds just like him. He never talked much, but what he did, he did with conviction."
Smith nodded; the anecdote seemed to relax him. “Well, and at some point, old Bob fixed my car—an old Land Rover that had broken down on me in the moor. And I brought him whiskey now and then. Good stuff from the local distillery. We didn’t talk much, but he was… a figure of respect.”
He reached into a drawer, pulled out the key ring—heavy, with a faded thistle-leaf charm—and handed it to Alex. “Here. The house is waiting for you.” As she took the key and thanked him, he studied the three women a moment longer than necessary, his gaze professional yet curious. They’re stood Alex, the heiress, with her long, wavy brown hair falling to her shoulders and almond-shaped, light brown eyes that radiated a mixture of melancholy and determination. She was of medium height, slim, and athletically built, with a calm demeanor that spoke of inner strength. Beside her was Sophie, her blonde curls pulled back in a loose bun, her round blue eyes sparkling with energy and a warm, welcoming smile; she towered slightly over the others, with a sporty, curvy physique and a warm, heartfelt presence that lit up any room. And Charlotte, with her long, reddish-tinged hair that seemed wild and untamed, green eyes that twinkled with playfulness, and a broad, infectious grin; she was similar in height to Alex, with a curvy, vibrant figure and an energetic, adventurous aura that promised excitement and laughter.
"You're heading out of the city," Smith then explained, unfolding the map and pointing to a winding path. “Along the lake, take the third left until you reach a fork in the road. Turn right there, cross the bridge over the river, and then right again. You can’t miss it.” He marked the spot with a pen, a red dot amidst the green hues in the middle of the woods.
The three women nodded eagerly, memorizing the route—lake, left, fork, right, bridge, right—and Alex thanked him again warmly, her voice soft with gratitude. “This means a lot to me. It really does.” Smith smiled wryly as he folded the map. “Your grandfather always talked about you, you know. So proud that his granddaughter was studying in Glasgow. ‘That girl will amount to something,’ he said. More often than I can count.”
With a final wave to Constable Smith, who stood in the station doorway and called out a curt "Good luck out there," the three women climbed back into the SUV. Sophie started the engine with a rumble that echoed off the quiet street and steered it out of Kirkvale, leaving the High Street behind. The sun was low on the horizon, bathing the hills in a gold, but already fading, light, and the scent of salt and pine wafted through the open windows. "Okay, let's do this right," Charlotte said from the back seat, the map on her lap. "Past the loch, left, fork, right, bridge, right. Sounds like a puzzle from a fantasy novel."
The route first took them along Kirk Loch, the large lake whose rocky shores gleamed like polished pebbles in the fading light. The water lay still, a dark mirror reflecting the surrounding birches and oaks, waves breaking gently against the rocks here and there, as if the lake were breathing. A few ducks paddled lazily away, and Sophie slowed her pace to enjoy the view. "This is magical," she murmured, her blond curls tousled by the wind. Alex nodded silently, her hand on the keys in her pocket, while Charlotte took photos.
After about a mile, Sophie turned left onto a narrower path that wound through meadows where the grass swayed high and golden. The road became rougher, gravel crunched under the tires, and soon the fork in the path came into view—a simple point where the path split like an old branch. They took the right-hand branch, and a short time later the SUV rumbled over a small wooden and stone bridge spanning a narrow stream. The water below gurgled merrily, clear and shallow, with trout flashing like silver arrows. They followed the stream, which now ran parallel to the path, a silver ribbon through the increasingly dense undergrowth, until they turned right again. From here the path led deeper into the forest, the trees closing overhead like green canopy, and the light breaking through the foliage in dappled patterns. Autumn had bathed the leaves in a firework display of red and orange, and the wind whispered through the branches as if welcoming them.
Then, abruptly, the forest thinned, and there it was before them: a log cabin that blended seamlessly into the landscape, as if it had grown out of the woods themselves. A good 25 meters wide, built entirely of dark, weathered wood, with a ground-floor veranda in front of the massive door framed by carved beams. Above rose a second story, with slanted dormer windows that looked like sleeping eyes. The women looked at each other, quite surprised—this wasn't some old, dilapidated relic, but a haven of the wilderness, both robust and inviting. "Beautiful," Sophie said softly as they stepped out of the car, their boots sinking into the soft ground, and the others nodded, smiles on their lips that eased the tension.
The path ended right at the house, a dead end of gravel and moss that led nowhere further. The log cabin perched on a narrow promontory, the lake to the left, widening here into a small, secluded bay with a rickety jetty where an old rowboat bobbed gently, as if waiting for a trip. To the right, the river flowed into the lake, a final rumble before falling silent, and all around, no sign of civilization—only the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a bird. A small barn huddled in front of the house, more of a shed with a crooked roof, crammed with shadows and the past. To the right, a narrow footbridge spanned the river, a plank path beckoning deeper into the woods, where the trees grew denser and the light finally died out.
They took out the key, and Alex turned it in the lock of the door, which swung open with a soft creak. Inside, warmth enveloped her—not literally, but in the way the house welcomed her. The heart of the ground floor was a huge living room, open and inviting: a soft sofa in front of the stone fireplace, waiting for a fire; a polished dining area with an oak table that could seat up to six; and at the back, in a cozy alcove, an open kitchen with a cast-iron stove and shelves full of spices. A door led out to a wild garden at the rear, where tall grass and wildflowers grew and the lake was visible again. Next to it was a small, spartan bathroom with a toilet and sink, and the polished wooden staircase led upstairs to more rooms: large bedrooms with beds that smelled of fresh air, and a larger bathroom with an old bathtub and a spacious shower.
"Not run-down at all," Alex murmured, running her fingers over the polished surfaces. It was well-maintained, almost like a vacation home that had been waiting for them, with layers of dust that seemed more like a protective film than signs of neglect.
They unloaded their belongings from the SUV—backpacks that landed with a thud on the wooden floor—and quickly made their decision: they were staying. No hotel in Dumfries, no turning back. After unpacking, hanging clothes in the closets, and moving the contents of the cooler into the kitchen, they continued exploring. Outside, they inspected the shed: full of tools—axes, hooks, and ropes—junk like old fishing rods, and boxes of yellowed books that Grandpa might have read. In the back garden, where the path led to the lake, they came across a small cabin, hidden behind a curtain of ivy. To their surprise, it concealed a sauna: a warm, wood-paneled room with spruce benches and a stove waiting for birch wood. “This is fantastic! A spa vacation!” exclaimed Charlotte, her green eyes sparkling, and she clapped her hands. The plan for the first evening was quickly set: relaxing, cooking, sauna, and then spending the evening together, forgetting the hustle and bustle of the city – just the three of them, the crackling fire, and the stars above the lake.
Thankfully, there was electricity and running water, Alex thought as she entered one of the upstairs rooms. She searched for bedding—soft blankets and pillows that smelled freshly laundered—and changed into something comfortable: old sweatpants and a loose shirt. Charlotte and Sophie did the same: Charlotte slipped into leggings and an oversized shirt that framed her red curls, while Sophie disappeared into shorts and a hoodie, her blonde strands tied back in a loose braid. The stairs creaked under their feet as they went back downstairs, ready for the evening.
After preparing a simple meal in the open kitchen—pasta with canned pesto, complemented by fresh herbs from the garden and a couple of glasses of red wine from the pantry, which Grandpa had probably saved for just such evenings—Sophie washed the last plate and dried her hands. The scent of garlic and basil still lingered in the air, mingling with the crackling of the fire Charlotte had lit in the fireplace. "Okay, girls," she said with a mischievous grin, "that was delicious, but now I need some heat. Sauna time. Who's in?" Alex and Sophie nodded eagerly, the exhaustion from the drive giving way to a pleasant sense of anticipation.
The sauna cabin in the garden was a gem: a small, square room made of fragrant cedar, with benches that rose in tires along the walls and a stove that crackled to life after being lit with birch wood. Steam rose as Charlotte poured water onto the hot stones, and the air became heavy and spicy. They sat down, naked beneath the towels loosely wrapped around them, and leaned their heads back. They were all attractive, each in their own way. Sophie was blonde and natural, with loose waves cascading over her shoulders. She was slim and athletic, with a solid C-cup that she never overemphasized because she was comfortable in her own skin, without making a fuss. Alex, with her flowing light brown hair that curled slightly in the steam, was also slim, but with a few more curves at the hips and a similar bust, which she showcased elegantly in her more fashionable, feminine style—often dresses and heels. And then there was Charlotte, with her red hair, which perfectly embodied the stereotypical image of a Scottish woman, wild and fiery like the country itself. She was slim and had a bust that just barely missed a C-cup; she was the party queen, the eccentric one with the cheeky remark on her lips, who never held back when it came to showing off her assets and filled the room with unwavering energy.
Alex chuckled softly, wiping the sweat from her brow. "Not cheesy, just... stable. I envy you. After the Jamie thing..." She trailed off, staring into the steam as if it could evaporate the memories. Almost a year ago, she'd broken up with her long-term boyfriend, whom she'd been with since high school in Aberdeen—her first love, the freckled boy with the laugh that had always lifted her spirits. The distance to Glasgow, their growing interests—hers in books and art, his in engineering and parties—had pulled them apart, like a thread slowly unraveling. Since then, she'd been single. Flirting here and there, a kiss at a party, and... well, a couple of one-night stands. She never would have thought she'd do anything like that. But sometimes there was this allure. This freedom, without expectations, without obligations. Charlotte nodded, her green eyes sparkling. “Oh, I know that feeling. I love the single life, baby. Having fun wherever the opportunity arises—and hey, as you know, sometimes there’s a woman involved. Last semester, this cutie from the art seminar, with tattoos and a laugh that blew me away. It lasted two months, then it was over. No drama.” Alex and Sophie exchanged a glance—they’d known about Charlotte’s bisexuality for years, ever since a wild night in Glasgow when Charlotte had flirted with a bartender. It had never been a problem; on the contrary, it only made their friendship more vibrant, more open. “You’re our wildcard,” Sophie said, grinning. “But watch out you don’t get hooked on a Steve.” Charlotte threw her towel at her, and they laughed, the steam swirling around them like a veil of secrets.
After an hour—skin flushed, muscles limp with relaxation—they wrapped themselves in towels and stumbled giggling back into the house, the cool evening air a welcome shock. The fire in the living room was now blazing brightly, and they snuggled onto the sofa, legs crossed, bottles of cider in hand—sparkling, apple-sweet, from a crate they'd found in the shed. The alcohol warmed them from within as the fire crackled, and they continued talking, laughing at old anecdotes: Charlotte's embarrassing dance fail at the graduation party, Sophie's disastrous cooking attempts with Steve, Alex's epic argument with Jamie over a forgotten birthday trip. The mood was light, carefree, yet curious. "You know what?" Charlotte said, waving the cider bottle. “Maybe old Bob still has some treasure hidden somewhere. Gold coins in the fireplace? Or a stash of whiskey older than we are?” Sophie burst out laughing. “Or his rifle—with ammo for ghosts!” Alex grinned, stood up, and began feeling the shelves, looking behind books and vases. The others joined in, laughing as they rummaged through drawers, tapping on walls—half jokingly, half hoping for some secret Grandpa had left for them. The cider flowed, laughter echoed through the house, and for that moment, the forest outside felt distant, as if they belonged here, in this bubble of warmth and friendship.
Eventually, as the cider loosened tongues even more and the fire in the fireplace had died down to a gentle glow, Sophie stumbled upon an old book while rummaging through a shelf. The leather binding was worn, the gold lettering on the spine faded, but the title caught her eye: Myths, Legends, and Stories of Scotland. She leafed through it, the pages rustling like dry leaves, and her eyes widened. Stories of ancient Celtic heroes battling giants, of age-old curses turning villages to stone, and werewolves howling in the Borders bogs—a collection of horror stories perfectly suited to the autumnal mood. “This is for tomorrow,” Charlotte said with a grin, her legs draped over the arm of the sofa, taking a sip from her bottle. “A Halloween reading by the fire. With ghostly voices.”
Sophie laughed, turning the pages until she came to a section collecting stories from the Kirkvale region—yellowed illustrations of misty forests and sinister figures. “Hey, if we ever want to come here for Valentine’s Day, I need to know if you’ve ever been unfaithful,” she said after a while, her voice half-joking, half-curious, as she turned a page. Alex, who was curled up on the sofa with a blanket around her shoulders, looked up. “Why?” Charlotte added, giggling, “We wouldn’t be able to get you away from Steve anyway.”
“You’re all crazy, no, seriously, listen…” Sophie said, clearing her throat dramatically before reading aloud, her voice a whisper that hung in the air: “…and so it is said that every year on Valentine’s Day, the Dubhghall comes for those who have been unfaithful. He makes them suffer for their betrayal, and they are enslaved to the spirits of the elements forever!”
“Ugh, creepy,” Alex said, laughing, pulling the blanket closer, but a shiver ran down her spine—not from fear, but from the cold creeping in through the window. “But I’ve always been faithful, so no danger.” She looked at the others. “And you?” Sophie nodded vigorously. “Yeah, me too—Steve’s the one, you know.” Charlotte threw her hands up in the air and laughed loudly. “Yeah, I guess I’m out of luck, and Douglas’s going to get me.” The other two burst out laughing. Sophie shook her head and exclaimed, "Dubhghall, you hussy!" She read on a little longer, the words flowing from her: Dubhghall, around the year 1020, an old Celtic druid who exposed his wife's infidelity and then killed her... She didn't get any further, because Charlotte and Alex had suddenly turned on some music—an old CD with Scottish folk rhythms blasting from the speaker. "Come on, bookworm!" Charlotte called, pulling Sophie up, and soon the three of them were dancing around the living room, barefoot on the wooden floor, laughing and stumbling, the book landing forgotten on the table.
The evening stretched on, a whirlwind of warmth and lightness. The alcohol flowed freely—cider after cider, supplemented by a bottle of Glenfiddich they'd discovered in the cupboard, and glasses that were constantly being refilled. The atmosphere was exuberant, wild, and free: They danced until their lungs burned, told each other embarrassing stories from university, imagined how Grandpa would have reacted to their parties—"With a rifle under his arm!" Charlotte snorted—and eventually, as the moon hung high over the lake, they sank laughing and embracing each other into the pillows. Sleep came late, deep, and dreamless, and the following day, Saturday, Halloween, they slept in late—until the sun seeped through the curtains and woke their heads with a dull throb. Hungover, with dry mouths and heavy limbs, they dragged themselves out of bed, brewed strong tea in the kitchen, and nibbled on toast while the rain lashed against the windows. "Never again will I drink that much cider," Alex muttered, but her smile betrayed that she wasn't being serious.
In the early afternoon, when the fog had lifted a little, Alex and Sophie drove into town—Charlotte stayed behind to fight her hangover with a walk in the woods. The SUV bumped along the gravel road, and soon Kirkvale lay before them again, more vibrant than the day before. They parked in the market square, strolled down the High Street, and bought some groceries at the small Tesco: fresh bread and steaks for dinner, chocolate, cola, and a couple of bottles of ale. They looked around to see if it was worth coming back in the evening—there wasn't a Halloween party, nothing big, no costume chaos in the church or the square, but a rock band from Dumfries was playing that night at the small bar on the edge of town, the Galloway Goat. "Sounds like Plan B," said Sophie, noting down the time. Afterwards, they strolled through the market, now bustling with stalls: apples overflowing red and shiny from crates, hand-knotted goods, and pots of hot mulled wine. They bought some fresh vegetables—carrots, onions, a bunch of herbs—and chatted with some of the vendors, who told them about the autumn storms or asked about their plans for the evening. And slowly, with every laugh and every aroma of roasting haggis, they began to truly love little Kirkvale—this quiet, hidden corner of Scotland that felt like a secret.
“Be careful tonight, the Dubhghall is on the prowl,” an elderly woman at one of the stalls had told them, her hands gnarled with age as she packed apples into a bag. Alex, who had already pushed the story from the previous evening to the back of her mind, didn't react at first, just stared at the fruit, but Sophie looked at the woman questioningly. “I thought this legend was about Valentine's Day?” The woman nodded, her voice quieter, as if she were revealing a secret, and leaned forward, her eyes narrowed with seriousness. “That's right, my child. On Valentine's Day, the Dubhghall comes for those who took the poisoned apple—the unfaithful. But today, on Reformation Day, the day it all began, he comes for those who offered the apple.
Alex grinned inwardly; so today it wasn't the unfaithful who were targeted, but those who led others to infidelity? Well, it was a good thing she didn't believe in such things—Greg, with whom she'd had a brief affair that summer, still had a girlfriend at that time, as far as she knew. Sophie was more inclined to believe in such myths than her friends; she loved the old legends like others love chocolate, so she at least listened with interest, her head tilted. "It was a nobleman who seduced Cairans, as the Celtic druid was called, and thus led her into infidelity. He killed his wife on Valentine's Day, but at his execution, he swore not only to hunt down the unfaithful for eternity—he would also hunt down the seducers; on every day that corresponded to the day his wife fell for the nobleman. Reformation Day, if it fell on a Saturday and there was a full moon over the land. The Dubhghall, as he was henceforth called, possesses the power to rule over the elements of earth, air, and water—and with him, everything that lives there."
Sophie was thrilled, her blue eyes sparkling, as she pressed, "And how does the story end? Is there a way out?" But Alex seemed to be growing bored, bag of vegetables in hand, and glanced at Sophie—let's go before things escalate. They politely said goodbye to the woman, thanked her for the apples and the warning, and strolled back to the car, the rain now falling harder again.
Back at the log cabin, Charlotte had finally recovered sufficiently from her hangover—she sat on the veranda, a cup of coffee in her hand, staring at the lake, where the mist hung like cotton wool. When Alex told her about the eerie encounter at the market, mimicking the old woman's words, Charlotte laughed. "And did you at least find out what you do about this ghost when it comes? Sprinkle salt? Or put on a kilt and rap in Gaelic?" Sophie noticed that the other two were taking the topic rather amused – Alex rolled his eyes, Charlotte made faces – so she changed the subject and didn't bring it up again. Instead, they talked about the band that evening, unpacked the vegetables, and planned a light dinner as the sky darkened and the full moon began to peek through the clouds.
After preparing a light supper—a stew made with fresh vegetables from the market, seasoned with herbs from the garden, and accompanied by a glass of ale that finally banished their hangover—evening fell. The sky outside had darkened to a velvety black, broken only by the silvery glow of the full moon, which hung over the lake like an ominous eye. The three women felt anticipation rising for the small bar in Kirkvale; the rock band from Dumfries promised loud guitars and forgotten worries. “Okay, girls, let’s go in an hour,” Charlotte announced as she cleared the plates. “I want to dance until dawn.”
Upstairs, Alex was putting on her white top—a loose, fitted shirt made of soft fabric that went perfectly with her skinny jeans and accentuated her curves without revealing too much. She smoothed it down in front of the mirror in her room, her light brown hair tied in a loose braid and smiled at her reflection. Downstairs in the living room, Charlotte stood in front of the large mirror by the fireplace, still deciding which top to wear—a black crop top or something lighter? Sophie had just gotten out of the shower, her blonde hair still damp and wild, and wore white sweatpants that sat loosely on her hips, paired with a blue bustier top that accentuated her athletic figure. She dried her curls with a towel while music thumped from her room—a mix of indie rock and Scottish beats that made the air vibrate.
Charlotte finally decided on the white silk top: cropped, with thin straps that slid off her shoulders, and a sexy neckline that would perfectly frame her red curls. She slipped it on, the fabric feeling cool against her skin, and twirled once, pleased with the effect. Alex had briefly stepped outside to grab something from the car—her cigarettes, which she'd left there after their afternoon outing. Sophie was singing along to the music upstairs, her voice echoing softly. It was a moment of normalcy, almost idyllic, until a clanging sound shattered the silence—like splintering glass, sharp and ominous.
Charlotte flinched, her heart skipping a beat. The wind whistled louder outside, and she immediately felt the draft inside. "What the hell?" she muttered, whirling around. Cautiously, she approached the window, where the wind now howled through a shattered pane. Shards lay on the wooden floor, sparkling in the firelight—a branch, she thought, blown away by the strong wind, perhaps one of the gnarled branches from the apple tree. She pushed the shards aside with her shoe, the splinters crunching underfoot, and looked out. The lake shimmered in the clear light of the full moon, a silver surface that acted like a mirror, but otherwise she saw nothing—only the shadows of the trees bending in the wind. She was just about to grab a dustpan and brush from the kitchen to fix the mess before the others arrived. But then…
She turned the silk of her top rustling, and was about to head to the corner of the kitchen when suddenly something grabbed her hair—as if it had caught in a curtain, but it wasn't fabric. A jerk, sharp and relentless, and then she felt something around her neck: rough, cold, like wet bark or a rope made of woven thorns. She reached for it, her fingers trembling, but at that moment she was pulled hard backward, pressed against the wall. For a moment she was stunned, the shock profound, then the scream burst from her, panicked and raw: “Sophie! Alex!? Help!” Something gripped her with a cold, rough hold that tightened as if it wanted to breathe, to pulsate.
Alex, who was just slamming the car door and stuffing the pack of cigarettes into her bag, suddenly heard a scream from the house—it was almost lost in the wind, but "Help!" was unmistakably Charlotte's voice, shrill and desperate. Her stomach clenched, adrenaline surged through her veins. "Charlotte?!" she cried and ran, up the porch steps, flinging open the door so hard it slammed against the wall. What she saw couldn't be real: Charlotte stood at the open, broken window, something wrapped around her neck... well, what exactly? It looked like a branch, like a vine, thick and twisted, with bark that tore like skin. Two more of these "shackles" pinned Charlotte's hands to the wall on either side of her, her fingers twitching helplessly, she is squirming, her green eyes wide with terror. And now Alex saw that the vines were moving—slowly, like living snakes. More were creeping in through the broken window, winding across the floor. One of these vines slipped under Charlotte's top, brushed against the silk, and Charlotte looked, shaking her head wildly. "What is that? Alex, help me!" she cried, her voice breaking.
At that moment, the vines ripped Charlotte's top to shreds—the fabric tore with a sharp rip, falling to the floor in tatters—and then her bra, snapping the straps off, exposing her breasts, the skin pale in the moonlight, her nipples hard with cold and panic. Charlotte gasped, writhing, but the restraints held her fast. Alex, momentarily paralyzed, the shock an icy lump in her chest, rushed to her friend. “Hold on!” she yelled, grabbing the vine around Charlotte’s neck and trying to pull it away—but she knew immediately: these weren’t ordinary branches. They were alive, pulsating beneath her fingers like veins, possessing an enormous force that repulsed her. “Knife!” Charlotte gasped, her grip tightening around her neck, her voice gurgling.
Alex, agitated and trembling with fear, her hands clammed with sweat, ran toward the kitchen—almost tripping over the broken glass—and flung open drawers: simple cutlery, forks, a small kitchen knife, a pair of blunt scissors. She searched for something to cut the vines with, and the best she could find was a large bread knife, sharp and heavy. With a gasp, she ran back, placed the blade against the vine around Charlotte's wrist, and began to saw—a small cut, sap oozing out, thick and glassy, more viscous than human semen—but it was impossible. As soon as the blade penetrated, it shot through her like an electric shock, a searing pain that spasmed her muscles and made her stagger backward, dropping the knife. "Damn it!" she cursed, her fingers numb.
"Fuck, what's happening?" Charlotte gasped, her voice rising as vines slid into the waistband of her jeans—slippery, unyielding, stretching the fabric. The button ripped off with a pop, and they pulled the pants down, over her hips, the jeans sliding to her knees, revealing the white underwear beneath. She screamed louder and louder, desperate and terrified, her body twitching, her breasts rising and falling in a struggle for breath. "Alex, please... it... it's alive!"
Alex hadn't noticed at first, too focused on Charlotte, but then, as the boards creaked and buckled beneath her feet, she realized it—the floor was lifting, as if pushed from below. With a splintering crack, the floorboards split, and more vines shot out from the earth beneath the house—thick, root-like tentacles that seemed to grow from a nightmare. They seized Alex as well: snakes coiled around her ankles, rough and icy, dragging her roughly to the ground. She fell hard, the impact squeezing the air from her lungs, and she looked at Charlotte as she was dragged away—across the floor, her fingernails scratching fearless marks into the wood, her jeans riding up, but the panic was the same. "Sophie!" they roared in unison, their voices a desperate chorus echoing through the house. "Sophie, help us! The music... turn off the music!" Upstairs, the beat continued to throb, loud and relentless, and Sophie danced, obliviously, as the forest outside sprang to life.
Alex and Charlotte looked at each other, helpless, desperate, and incredulous all at once—their eyes meeting across the room, a silent scream in their eyes as the vines held them fast like marionettes in a cruel theater. Charlotte's red curls clung to her forehead, damp with sweat, her breasts rose and fell frantically, and tears streamed down her cheeks. "Alex... what... what the hell..." she gasped, her voice a stifled whimper, but before she could say more, more vines seized her legs—thick, root-like tentacles that shot out of the floor as if from a nightmare. They spread her thighs with brutal force, the thong, the last vestige of her dignity, ripped with a sharp crack, revealing her most intimate vulnerability. Then they penetrated: one of the vines thrust into her vagina with a brutal force, slippery and unyielding, stretching and filling, as if trying to tear her apart from within. A second vine forced its way between her buttocks, penetrating her anally, pulsating and hard, and Charlotte's screams echoed through the open window into the night—raw, animalistic, a mix of pain and terror that made the forest tremble. "Nooo! God, no!" she roared, her body arching, but the restraints held her fast, forcing her into this hell.
Alex lay on her stomach, her arms brutally pressed to the ground, as the vines ripped her pants and panties from her body—the fabric rustled as it slid over her hips, and the cold air bit into her bare skin. Her legs were spread, pulled wide apart until she lay in an X shape, vulnerable and exposed. "Charlotte, hold on... I... I..." she whispered, but her words were drowned out by a scream as the vines slid—crawling across the ground, searching—and then thrust. One thrust into her pussy, hard and deep, a fire that burned her from within, while a second penetrated her ass, rhythmically and mercilessly. The pain was overwhelming, a throbbing that stretched her, filled her, as if these things were alive, breathing inside her. She arched her back, her nails digging into the floor, tears blurring her vision as she stared at Charlotte, whose screams now mingled with hers, a desperate duet in the darkness.
Upstairs in the room, Sophie turned off the music—the last chord fading away abruptly—and now she heard it: the screams coming from downstairs, shrill and broken, like something out of a nightmare. “What the...?” she murmured, dropping her towel, and ran downstairs, barefoot, her heart pounding. At the sight, she froze on the last step, her hand pressed to her mouth: her friends, clutched by branches, tendrils thrusting into her—twitching, fast, and hard, a grotesque spectacle of flesh and wood. The pain was etched on both their faces—Alex's face was contorted, Charlotte's body trembling—and Sophie's stomach churned. "Oh God, no... what... what is that?!" she whispered, but Alex's voice cut through the terror: "An axe! Get something from the shed!" she cried, gasping, her words punctuated by a groan that was not of her own free will. She was unable to move as she was being raped by the branches like in a horror film—the tendrils pumping into her, stretching, demanding, as if feeding on her suffering.
Sophie nodded frantically, turned, and ran outside, leaving the porch door open. The full moon cast shadows, the wind howled like a chorus, but she ignored it, sprinting to the barn—the small shed that looked like a tomb in the moonlight. Inside, she rummaged feverishly: tools, ropes, old fishing rods—and there, on the wall, an axe, sharp and heavy, with an oak handle. "Come on, come on..." she murmured, yanked it out, and was about to run back when the fog enveloped her. It came out of nowhere, thick and sticky, like living cotton wool wrapping around her legs. The light from the house flickered dimly before her, a distant lighthouse, but this wasn't ordinary fog—it felt as if she were walking through the mudflats of the North Sea, each step an agony, as if the fog were holding her fast, sucking away her strength. And then she heard that panting behind her—deep, rattling, like an animal—the air grew colder, and the wind fell silent in an instant, as if the night itself had held its breath.
Sophie looked more closely, turned halfway around, raised her axe, and saw it: Two red dots were approaching the house, glowing like coals in the darkness, accompanied by a dull thud—a scraping, like claws on stone. First shadowy, then clearer: “Oh my God,” she cried, and tried to run, her legs heavy with the fog. Not a person, but a creature—twice her size, its skin gleaming like wet leather, dull black, its ribs showing through like a skeleton held only by shadows. Limbs like a human, yet supernaturally long, with fingers ending in claws, sharp and curved. And the face: It was a skeleton, like an animal's—a wolf perhaps, or something ancient, with empty eye sockets from which red lights glowed. The creature trailed a long, scaly, whipping tail like a reptiles, and the air was filled with its scent: a mixture of damp earth and some animal matter, musty and wild.
The mist seemed to grip Sophie even tighter, clinging to her skin like cobwebs, and then the creature seized her—the long, rough tail wrapped around her waist, holding her like a noose, and suddenly lifted her into the air. From within echoed the screams—Alex and Charlotte, a chorus of horror—and Sophie flailed her arms, trying to break free, brandishing the axe in her hand. She hurled it at the creature, the blade whizzing through the air and digging into its shoulder—but it was unfazed. The cut seemed to heal instantly, as if the flesh were reweaving itself. The wind whispered voices, Gaelic and ancient, "Seductress... Seductress..." a chorus from nowhere. Sophie begged, pleaded, her voice breaking: "No, please! I've never made anyone unfaithful! I swear, I... Steve, I love him!" The creature seemed to pause briefly, sniffing—its red eyes fixed on her as if testing her soul—but then its hands shot out, its claws tearing Sophie's clothes to shreds: the bustier top ripped like paper, the sweatpants slid down in tatters, followed by her panties, and it threw her naked onto the dirty ground, the mist swirling around her.
On all fours, she tried to crawl away, the earth cold beneath her knees. "No, please... let me..." she gasped, but then she felt the creature behind her, holding her—its grip tightening, its claws digging into her hips. "Nooo!" she screamed again, a final, desperate sound, before falling silent as something enormous thrust painfully into her. Sophie's eyes widened; throbbing and hard was what she was now taking—a member that was not human, thick and menacing, stretching and filling her as if it would split her open. Compared to this, every male penis was laughable, a joke. On all fours, she was raped by this creature with fast, deep, and increasingly hard thrusts, so that her breasts bounced uncontrollably, slapping against her body, and through the still open door she had to watch as Alex and Charlotte fared no better – her friends, trapped in their own horror, the tendrils within them working like machines of madness.
Charlotte's world blurred in a fog of pain and panic that hung not only in the woods outside but now spread within her mind—a thick, sticky veil that dulled her senses as if the night itself were seeping into her lungs. Her head was jerked back, a vine coiled around her chin like a noose, forcing her mouth open, and then they came: more tentacles, thick and throbbing, slippery with the viscous fluid already oozing from their pores. First two, boring into her throat, hard and unyielding, stretching until she gagged, her teeth scraping uselessly against the rough bark. The pain was a fire racing down her throat, a tearing as if she were being split open from within, and she tasted it—bitter, earthy, like putrid juice that made her cough, but the vines thrust deeper, blocking every breath. "Mmmph!" was all she could manage, a choked gurgle, as tears streamed down her cheeks and the fog thickened, blurring her vision into gray patches. Then more came: four, taking turns thrusting into her, rhythmically, demandingly, and finally six, a chaotic tangle of thrusts that filled her mouth, overflowing, until the liquid—thick as honey, warm and sticky—oozed from the vines and made her swallow. She had no choice; it flowed in waves, over her tongue, down her esophagus, a drowning in something living that churned in her stomach. Every swallow was agony, a burning sensation that mingled with the throbbing in her vagina and anus, where the other tentacles thrust further, stretching and filling her, and then suddenly exploding there too—hot bursts of fluid splashing her from within, overflowing and dripping onto the floor, where it mingled in a puddle. Charlotte wanted to scream, to plead, but the fog in her head muffled everything into a dull roar, and she hung there, trapped, her body, a vessel for this nightmare that kept flooding her.
Alex heard Charlotte's stifled sounds—a gurgling that echoed her own suffering—and for a moment their eyes met again, a spark of despair binding them together. But then it happened to her: The tendrils that had already penetrated her pussy and ass seemed to tear her apart, a slow, merciless stretching that made her muscles burn as if red-hot iron were being driven into them. She was still lying on her stomach, arms twisted, legs spread as in a sacrificial ritual, and the pain built up, layer upon layer—a stabbing that came in waves, stretching until she felt as if her insides would burst. “Ahhh... God, no…” she gasped, but her words turned into a soft whimper as new tentacles shot out of the broken ground and jerked her head back, just as they had with Charlotte. Her mouth opened in a scream, and they entered: First two, slippery and demanding, filling her throat, making her gag, the taste of earth and decay on her tongue. The fog enveloped everything—not just outside, where it crept through the window, but inside her mind, a thick curtain that softened the edges of reality, muffling the panic into a dull throb. Four followed, thrusting in turn, their teeth scraping, uselessly, and then six, a whirl of flesh and wood that pulsed, lived, forcing her to swallow the viscous fluid—semen that oozed and flowed, hot and thick, dripping over her lips, trickling down her throat until she coughed, almost vomited, but it kept coming. At the same time, the others exploded inside her: spurts of fluid shot into her vagina and anus, splashing her from within, overflowing, warm and sticky, mingling with her sweat and blood on the floor, where she was already lying in a puddle, wet and dirty, her body trembling under the endless thrusts. The pain was an ocean in which she was drowning, waves of stretching and filling, and the fog made it worse, making her hallucinate as if the forest were breathing, breathing her in.
Outside, where the fog was thickest, Sophie's screams grew louder, reduced to whimpers, and the creature continued to thrust into her with a panting sound—a deep, rattling grunt like a bull's, wild and primitive, vibrating through her body. She was still on all fours, her knees pressed into the muddy ground, the thing's tail wrapped around her waist like an iron chain, and it took her with a force that tore her apart: the massive member, throbbing and hard as stone, stretched her beyond all limits, a pain that shot through her lower abdomen like lightning, burning, stabbing, as if she were being ripped open from the inside. “Please… stop… it hurts so much…” she pleaded, but her words were lost in the fog that now enveloped everything—the lake, the house, her senses—a gray veil that made the creature’s red eyes glow like distant lights. Each thrust was deeper, harder, faster, her body trembling under the force, her breasts bouncing, slapping against her ribs, and she could see through the open door—Alex and Charlotte, her friends, in their own inferno, the vines within them working, splashing. The creature grunted louder, an animalistic roar that made the floor vibrate, and then it came: a surge of fluid, hot and thick, filling her from within, overflowing, dripping out of her, mingling with the fog that clung stickily to her skin. It didn't stop—again and again, thrusts that stretched her, splattered her, inside her pussy and mouth, as the claws seized her, yanking her head back and tentacle-like appendages from the creature thrust into her throat, forcing her to swallow, the taste musty and animalistic. The pain was an endless cycle, stretching, filling, exploding, and the fog made her dizzy, staggering in this perverse nightmare where her screams mingled with the others, a chorus of the damned.
The three women, trapped in a perverse nightmare that wouldn't let them go—tendrils and claws holding them, thrusting, splattering them, again and again, until the fog swallowed everything and only the pain remained, a thread running through the night.
The pain was an endless cycle, stretching, filling, exploding, and the fog made her dizzy, making her stagger in this perverse nightmare where her screams mingled with the others, a chorus of the damned. Two days later, on a dreary Monday afternoon that had settled over Kirkvale like a leaden blanket, Constable Ewan Smith steered his patrol car along the winding path to the log cabin by the lake. The fog still clung to the trees, thick and stubborn, as if trying to hold onto the weekend's secrets. Smith had been wondering—Alex had assured him upon their arrival that they would be in touch as soon as they left, perhaps with a thank-you whiskey or an invitation for tea. But since Saturday evening: radio silence. No call, no visit to the station. And then, that morning, old Tam, the fisherman from the harbor, had whispered to him over a cup of tea at the Thistle Arms: “Heard screams on Sunday night, Ewan. From the woods, high and shrill, like women in distress. Though it was the wind, or a party gone wrong. But now that you mention it…” Smith had nodded, his stomach clenched and driven off immediately. Something was gnawing at him, an instinct he'd brought with him from the Borders, where the moors held more secrets than lies.
He parked behind the women's small SUV, its tires still sinking into the gravel as if it had never been moved. The porch door stood open, creaking softly in the wind, and a musty smell wafted out from inside—earth mixed with something sweet and rotten. “Hello? Miss Grant? Ladies?” he called, his hand on his holster, but only the echo answered, hollow and empty. There was no sign of the three women. His gaze fell first on the shattered window—shards lay scattered as if a fist had smashed it, but the edges were irregular, torn from the inside out. He stepped inside cautiously, his boots crunching on the floor, and then he saw it: the wooden floorboards were split, gaping cracks like wounds from which dark earth oozed. Scratch marks ran across the boards—long, deep furrows, as if nails or claws had fought—and among them a splinter: the remains of a broken fingernail, painted a cheerful red, glistening in the dust. Scraps of clothing lay scattered in and outside the house—torn scraps of white silk, a blue bustier top, a white shirt—wet and sticky, as if rain had soaked them, or something worse.
“Damn it…” Smith muttered, sweat beading on his forehead even though the air was cool. Something was wrong, he felt it instantly—a tingling in the back of his neck, like before a storm. He systematically searched the house, room by room: The bedrooms upstairs were untouched, beds made, but the girls’ bags were open, their clothes in the closets. In the kitchen, the groceries from the market—carrots, apples, bread—still fresh, as if an uneaten lunch was waiting. No signs of a struggle upstairs, but downstairs… the living room was a battlefield. “A violent crime?” he wondered, picking up shards of glass with his glove. Had some drunken men from Kirkvale broken in on Halloween night, thinking the house was empty, and surprised the women? Or had someone targeted them—a stalker who had witnessed Alex’s arrival? He didn’t know, but the chill in his stomach told him: This wasn’t a break-in, this was something darker. With trembling fingers, he pulled out the radio and called headquarters: “This is Smith, Kirkvale. Send out the criminal investigation department—immediately. Missing people, signs of violence. And... send a forensic expert, too. This... this isn't normal.”
Weeks passed, the search spreading like fog over the lake—dog handlers combed the woods, drones buzzed over the moors, newspapers in Glasgow ran headlines of “Halloween Horror in the Wilderness.” But there was no sign of Alex, Sophie, and Charlotte. The SUV was towed away, scraps of clothing sent to the lab, scratch marks analyzed—all to no avail. The criminal investigation department talked about a gang, about human traffickers, but the old folks in the village knew better. In the dimly lit corners of the Galloway Goat, over glasses of strong whiskey, they continued the story, their voices quiet, their eyes turned toward the window where the full moon was rising again. "The Dubhghall has struck again," whispered the old woman from the market, her fingers clutching her mug. "I saw it, the mist, the lights in the woods. The three... they handed over the apple, didn't they? Seductresses, as the legends say. And now they're slaves to the elements—earth, air, water. Forever." The others nodded, crossed arms secretly, and the wind outside whispered along, as if the druid himself were listening. Kirkvale never truly slept, not on nights like these. And somewhere, deep in the woods, the vines rustled, waiting for the next Valentine's Day.
