Story 790: The Night Feasts

The village of Black Hollow stood defiant, its people clinging to the last remnants of hope. They had heard the whispers—the Pale Widow stirred, her revenants marching through the woods, a tide of death set to drown them all. Yet, still, they fought.

Torches lined the village barricade, a crude wall of sharpened stakes meant to hold back the horrors beyond. Men and women stood ready, gripping rusted swords and dented shields. Priests muttered prayers to absent gods. Their breath curled in the cold night air.

Then, silence.

A thick, unnatural fog slithered through the trees, curling around the barricade like ghostly fingers. The torches sputtered, their flames snuffed out as if swallowed by unseen mouths. The air grew thick with the scent of rot and decay.

A voice, silken and cruel, drifted through the mist.

"Brave little insects... do you truly think your wooden spears will keep the night at bay?"