January 13, 1361
Winter’s cold breath howls through Thornhill. The gallows stand tall in the market square, bodies swaying like cursed pendulums. Today, three corpses hang there: Agnes, Merewyn, and Edith. Their faces are twisted in terror. They were condemned as witches, marked as servants of Malgaroth. The name itself is forbidden for it is said that to speak it aloud draws his gaze.
Thornhill wasn’t always this way. Before the plague, the town was peaceful, known for its abundant crops and the sacred Yew tree that stood at its center, a symbol of life and protection. But that was before the tree withered, its branches blackening. Soon after, people started vanishing into the forest, only to return days later – if they returned at all – drenched in blood and whispering madness.
Some say Thornhill was cursed long ago when the first settlers defiled an ancient ground. Others believe the evil came when a great storm came through the village. In the aftermath of the plague, fear gripped the people. Anything strange became suspect and those with even a hint of difference found themselves accused of dealing with dark forces.
Mother has told me that Malgaroth walks among us in these dark times, that plague and death have brought his servants to our door. “Keep your prayers strong,” she says. “The Lord will protect you.” Yet, I feel something beneath the surface – an unease in the air when she speaks.
Our home, small and isolated at the edge of the woods, feels like the last refuge from a world collapsing into madness. But it is also filled with strange rituals, the meaning of which I do not fully understand. Every night, Mother lights six candles and mutters in a language that feels older than time. When I ask her about it, she hushes me with a warning look. “Do not question the old ways,” she whispers, fear dripping from her voice.
The villagers stare at us now as if the sickness that has spread through the town is somehow tied to our family. I’ve seen the way they look at the strange marks Mother draws in the dirt – six strokes, always six. Six, the number of Malgaroth’s seal, they whisper.
But I sense something more, something darker that stirs in my chest when I watch the flames dance. The six candles flicker, casting shadows.
January 19, 1361
Another body hangs in the square. Thomas, the miller’s son, accused of being in league with Malgaroth. He was seen near Merewyn’s house, consorting with demons, they say. The villagers’ faces are tight with fear as they make the sign of the cross. It’s a crooked symbol, something slightly off – a sign I’ve seen elsewhere, hidden in the carvings on the church doors and etched faintly into the dirt near the forest’s edge.
The village’s church bells ring each morning, calling us to mass. The stone walls are cold. I sit with my friends. Isla, a girl with bright eyes but a face masked by worry and Tamsin, whose family fell ill just last week. They both have their heads bowed in prayer, but I catch Isla’s eye, and she gives me a half-smile. It’s been months since any of us have truly smiled.
The sermons have changed. Father Osric used to speak of hope, of love, of salvation. Now he preaches of sin and punishment. “Beware of the signs,” he warns, his voice booming through the chamber. “For he walks among us, sowing doubt and disease in our hearts.”
After church, the three of us walk through the village. The streets are empty, the windows of cottages shut tight. The air feels heavier and I notice a strange marking on the side of the inn – three slashes, like claw marks, hastily scratched into the wood. I hesitate and Isla looks where I’m staring. “It’s nothing,” she says quickly, but her voice trembles.
We pass the blacksmith’s shop, where Thomas used to work before he was accused. The forge stands cold now, the iron left to rust. “Do you think it’s true?” Tamsin asks in a hushed voice. “About Thomas?”
“No,” I say, though even I can hear the uncertainty in my own voice. “They’re just scared. They don’t know what’s really happening.”
Isla stops and grabs my arm. “You’ve seen the signs, haven’t you?” Her voice is sharp, her eyes wide. “The birds… have you noticed?”
I have. Crows circling the village in a tight, unnatural formation. Every day, they gather at dawn and dusk, their cries filling the air like an omen. And then there are the dogs, appearing sick, thin, and wild-eyed and howling in the middle of the night, their sounds echo through the trees.
But the strangest sign came just last night. I woke to find a small bird, dead on my windowsill. Its wings were spread wide, its eyes staring blankly at the sky and in its beak was a twig like the very mark Mother draws in the dirt each evening. I wanted to ask her about it but fear held my tongue.
As we reach the edge of the village, Tamsin whispers, “I heard Father Osric talking to one of the elders. They think there’s someone in the village… someone marked by the Devil.”
My heart pounds. Could it be true? Could one of my friends be marked by this evil?
Later, at home, I sit by the fire as Mother lights the six candles. The flames flicker, casting shadows that dance across the room. The whispers in the night are louder now, almost deafening, though I dare not speak of them. Not to Mother. Not to anyone.
January 27, 1361
They took Mother last night. The men came at dusk, their torches casting eerie shadows on the walls as they pounded on our door. They accused her of witchcraft, of consorting with Malgaroth. Her screams filled the night as they bound her hands and dragged her to the square. I followed in a daze, my feet numb against the icy ground, my heart racing as though it could tear free from my chest. I couldn’t believe it – how could they? My mother was no witch!
The gallows loomed ahead, its wooden frame creaking. The crowd watched in grim silence, faces pale with terror. As they tightened the noose around her neck, she did not struggle. Her eyes met mine, empty, defeated. She whispered, “Ailith, complete the seventh.”
The seventh.
A chill deeper than the winter’s frost crept through me. I had seen Mother draw six marks in the dirt, over and over again. But there was a seventh. Her words rang in my ears as her body swayed lifelessly in the cold wind. The world felt like it had shattered around me, the scene replaying in my mind. I could not breathe. My vision blurred and my knees buckled beneath me as grief and horror clawed their way through my soul.
I screamed for her, my voice lost in the roaring wind and gasps of the villagers. It was not real. It could not be. But the sight of her was undeniable. My body trembled violently as despair choked me. I collapsed in the snow, the weight of everything pressing down on me until I felt like I was drowning in my own sorrow.
February 3, 1361
I returned to the village today. My legs carried me through the streets on their own, though my heart was still numb, hollow from the loss. Everything felt different now. The faces of the people who once greeted me warmly were now cold, suspicious. They looked away, their whispers trailing behind me like ghosts. As I passed the church, I could hear Father Osric’s sermon, louder than ever.
I realized then – I needed to complete the seventh mark. I was the only one able to break the curse.
Back at home, the air felt thick, oppressive. The house seemed alive with secrets. I wandered through each room, searching for a sign, something that would explain her final words. That’s when I saw it. Etched faintly into the floorboards beneath Mother’s bed was the seventh mark, scratched out hurriedly, as if someone had tried to destroy it. My blood ran cold.
It began with the little things. A broken candle, its wax pooled in odd shapes on the table. Scraps of parchment, half-burnt, scattered across the floor, each marked with the same symbols Mother had drawn in the dirt. At first, they seemed insignificant. But as I wandered through the house, they formed a pattern, one that led me, unmistakably, back to my own room.
The realization came slowly, each clue pulling at the edges of my memory until everything snapped into focus. I stumbled upon it, etched faintly into the floor beneath my bed – the seventh mark was erased by my own hand. The same hand that had once clung to Mother in fear now trembled with the weight of the truth. It was as if the world shifted around me, the air growing thick with a stillness.
The ritual had been destroyed. By me.
I stood frozen. The drawings, the candles, the nightly prayers. It all came back in a flood of clarity. My breath caught in my throat as the truth settled over me. I was the reason for her death. I had erased the mark. The shock hit me like a blade to the chest.
I stumbled back, clutching at my chest, gasping for air that wouldn’t come. The room spun around me and I wanted to scream, to tear away the truth, but it was inescapable. This was my doing.
But before I could fully grasp the horror, something darker stirred within me. It was subtle at first, a faint whisper at the back of my mind, but then it grew. A presence, deep and ancient, wrapping itself around my thoughts like a shadow.
And then, I felt it – the shift.
It was as if a heavy door slammed shut inside my mind, sealing away my voice, locking it in a distant corner where it could no longer scream. My thoughts dulled, like the world was being seen through someone else’s eyes. I was still there, but I was no longer in control. My voice faded to the back of my head, muffled and weak. Another presence stepped forward. It was not me.
My heart, which had pounded with terror, slowed to a calm, deliberate rhythm. A cold, chilling clarity settled over me and my vision sharpened. The guilt, the grief, it was all gone, replaced by an unnatural calm. It was not that the emotions no longer existed; it was as if they had been stripped away, leaving behind only emptiness and control.
I could feel it. The power of the seventh mark coursing through my veins. My hands no longer trembled. Instead, they were steady, confident. I felt strong, invincible. Ailith, the frightened girl. In her place stood someone else. I was no longer afraid of the village. They could not touch me now. The power had made me untouchable, and soon, they would know what I had become.
I smiled, the weight of everything lifting as the darkness fully consumed me.
February 3, 1363
Two years have passed, and the asylum walls are all I know now. The villagers came for me soon after. They must have sensed the change. The other me, the one who had embraced the power has faded into the background, leaving only whispers. I am Ailith again, but the memories of what I became haunt me.
Sometimes, in the dead of night, I trace the cold stone walls and hear the echoes of Malgaroth’s laughter. But I do not answer. Not anymore.
