The Witch of Hosts

Compiled from several sources, author names unknown.

Entry 1: The Mansion that Wasn't There

They call it The Witch's Mansion. I remember it clear as day—or was it just a dream? See, that's the thing with the mansion. One second, it's not there, and then… it's always been there. You'll swear you've passed it on your way to the market a hundred times. You'll remember walking past the iron gates, hearing the faint wind-chime laughter that always lingers.

People around Zalem Village speak about it like it's always been part of the town. A rotting, Gothic structure with turrets that pierce the heavens and ivy creeping up its weathered walls. Its windows glint in the moonlight like they're alive, and the garden—the garden—is so overgrown it could swallow the earth.

They say children disappear there. No one knows how they get in, but when they do, no one sees them again. Well… no one except her.

Entry 2: The Garden

If you stand at the gates long enough, you'll smell it before you see it. Roses—blood-red roses. The scent is intoxicating, sweet, almost too sweet, like something is trying to mask the stench of rot beneath.

I once wandered too close, trying to catch a glimpse of what lay beyond the towering hedges of the garden. I couldn't stop myself; the smell pulled me in like a magnet. The air shimmered as if the garden wasn't entirely in this world.

I never crossed the gate—I'm not that stupid—but I swear I saw something move within the maze. The hedges seemed alive, the vines slithering like snakes. I heard whispers, voices of children calling out, giggling, crying. Some sounded far away, others just behind me.

And then I saw it.

A small face. A child. But their eyes—they weren't eyes at all, just empty, black voids staring through me. I ran, and the gate slammed shut behind me.

Entry 3: The Maze

The stories about the maze are different, depending on who you ask. Some say it's endless, stretching on forever with paths that twist and turn, always leading you back to where you started. Others say it's worse than that.

One boy, Jeremiah, claimed to have made it to the center once. He said the maze tests you. It knows your fears, your regrets, and it uses them to keep you trapped. He told me the hedges whispered to him, mocking his failures, showing him visions of his parents scolding him for not being "good enough."

He never made it to the house. He swears he saw something move within the maze—something tall, hunched, and grinning.

Jeremiah doesn't speak anymore.

Entry 4: The Door

If a child is foolish—or brave—enough to make it to the mansion's front door, that's when the real terror begins.

The door is massive, carved from ancient wood that looks like it's alive. Strange symbols are etched into its surface, glowing faintly green in the dark. The knocker is shaped like a twisted hand, its bony fingers curled into a sneer.

They say if you ring the bell, you'll hear her laugh. Not the kind of laugh you'd expect from a person, though. It's a sound that burrows into your skull, tearing at your sanity. High-pitched, shrieking, and layered, as if a thousand voices are laughing all at once.

And then she appears.

Entry 5: The Witch of Hosts

No one has seen her and lived to tell the tale—not properly, anyway. The scraps we have are pieced together from delirious mutterings, the fevered ramblings of those who barely escaped.

They say she's tall—inhumanly tall. Her figure is cloaked in shadows, shifting and writhing like living smoke. Her hair moves as though caught in an eternal wind, each strand a serpent that hisses and snaps.

Her eyes—oh, God, her eyes—are a glowing, sickly green, burning with a malice that pierces straight through your soul. To look into them is to see every sin you've ever committed, every failure, every regret.

Her smile is the worst. It stretches impossibly wide, splitting her face almost in half. Her teeth are jagged, yellowed, and too many for a human mouth.

When she speaks, her voice is a cacophony, deafening and disorienting. It's not just sound—it's a feeling, a vibration that rattles your bones and squeezes your heart.

She doesn't need to touch you to harm you. The sound of her voice is enough to drive you mad.

Entry 6: What Happens to the Children

The children she lures into her garden are never seen again—or at least, not as they were. Some say she uses them to feed the maze, their souls becoming part of its twisted, living walls. Others believe she transforms them into her servants, their faces twisted into hollow masks, their laughter echoing through the mansion as they lure in more victims.

And then there are those who claim to have seen them wandering the village at night—children with empty eyes and twisted grins, beckoning others to follow them back to the mansion.

Entry 7: The Warning

The mansion isn't always there, but when it appears, you'll know it. The air will grow heavy, the wind will carry faint laughter, and the smell of roses will be impossible to ignore.

If you see it, do not go near. Do not look too long. And if you hear the bell ring—run.

Because once you step through those gates, you're hers.

Forever.

No one knows who compiled these accounts or why, but one thing is clear: the Witch of Hosts is no mere legend. The stories may be scattered, fragmented, and written by different hands, but they all point to one horrifying truth.

The mansion is out there, waiting. And so is she.