The Blood Harvest

The village of Blackthorn Hollow was a place forgotten by time. Nestled deep in the forest, it was a place of superstition and secrecy, where the old ways still held sway. Outsiders were rare, and those who stumbled upon the village were never seen again.

Journalist Sarah Collins was determined to uncover the truth. She had heard rumors of strange rituals, of sacrifices made to an ancient deity known as the Harvest King. Armed with her camera and a notebook, she arrived in Blackthorn Hollow, unaware of the danger she was walking into.

The villagers were wary of her, their eyes filled with suspicion. But Sarah was persistent, ingratiating herself with the locals and asking questions about their customs. She was particularly interested in the Blood Harvest, an annual ritual that took place on the eve of the autumn equinox.

"It's a time of renewal," one villager explained, his voice low and guarded. "The Harvest King demands a tribute to ensure a bountiful year."

Sarah pressed for details, but the villagers clammed up, their unease palpable. She decided to stay for the ritual, convinced it was the key to unlocking the village's secrets.

The night of the Blood Harvest arrived, and the village was alive with activity. Bonfires lit up the square, their light casting long shadows on the cobblestones. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and something else—something metallic and primal.

Sarah watched from the sidelines, her camera at the ready. The villagers formed a circle around the largest fire, their faces masked and their bodies cloaked in dark robes. A hush fell over the crowd as an elder stepped forward, holding a curved blade.

"We offer this tribute to the Harvest King," he intoned, his voice echoing in the square. "May he bless our fields and grant us prosperity."

Sarah's breath caught as a figure was led into the circle—a young woman, her eyes wide with fear. She struggled against the hands that held her, but it was no use. The elder raised the blade, and the crowd began to chant, their voices rising in a haunting melody.

Sarah froze, her heart pounding. She wanted to intervene, to stop the madness, but she was paralyzed by fear. The blade came down, and the woman's blood spilled onto the ground, the flames of the bonfire roaring higher as if in approval.

The chanting grew louder, the villagers swaying in unison. Sarah felt a cold, primal terror take hold, a sense that she was witnessing something ancient and evil. She turned to leave, but hands grabbed her, dragging her into the circle.

"You've seen too much," the elder said, his voice cold and pitiless. "Now you will join the Harvest King."

Sarah screamed as the blade descended, her voice lost in the roar of the fire. The villagers chanted her name, their words a prayer and a curse. Her blood spilled onto the ground, mingling with the earth as the bonfire blazed brighter.

When morning came, the village was silent, the square empty save for the ashes of the fire. The villagers went about their lives as if nothing had happened, the Harvest King satisfied for another year. But the forest whispered of the Blood Harvest, its secrets buried deep in the earth, waiting for the next outsider to uncover them.