Chapter 1: The Mist of Hollow Vale

The village of Dunwich never slept after sundown. Even in autumn, when leaves fell like whispers from the sky, the wind carried rumors sharper than any blade. On All Hallows’ Eve, the villagers spoke only in hushed tones, crossing themselves at the mention of Hollow Vale.

“They say she steals hearts,” Old Marla had whispered to the scholar that morning, her eyes wide beneath a tattered shawl. “A witch. A monster. And the fog… it’s alive. It’ll claim you before the night ends if you linger too long.”

He had smiled politely, dismissing her words. A scholar did not cower before superstition. Legends were for the fearful; he dealt in facts.

But as he approached the edge of Hollow Vale, the mist swallowed the horizon like ink spilled across parchment. Trees loomed tall and gnarled, their branches twisting together as though conspiring. Shadows moved with intent. Even the path beneath his boots seemed hesitant, shivering under the weight of unseen eyes.

A raven croaked, startling him. Then another. And another, until the sky above blackened with wings that were too large, too purposeful to be ordinary birds. The fog thickened, curling around him in tendrils that whispered his name: “Elias… Elias…”

He froze. His rational mind argued: wind. Echo. Imagination. But the voice—soft, mournful, and almost human—clung to his ears.

A flicker of movement caught his eye. Through the silver-gray haze, he saw her: a figure as pale as moonlight, cloaked in flowing black, hair cascading like spilled ink down her back. Her eyes glimmered with an impossible light, both inviting and dangerous. She vanished as quickly as she appeared, leaving only the scent of autumn leaves and something… old.

He pressed forward, heart thrumming with a mixture of fear and fascination. The fog seemed to part before him, guiding him deeper into the valley. Jack-o’-lanterns appeared suddenly along the path, their carved mouths twisted into wicked smiles, glowing with a faint, unnatural flame. Shadows danced across the mist, elongating into shapes he dared not name.

Elias’s pulse quickened. Legends spoke of monsters, of witches who consumed hearts to fuel their own magic. But this… this felt different. There was no malice here, only a quiet, melancholy power, as though the valley itself breathed through her.

A sudden gust extinguished the lanterns, plunging him into darkness. The whispering fog thickened, and then, impossibly, a voice spoke—not from the wind, but from within his chest:

“Why have you come, mortal?”

He spun, searching the mist. Her eyes were upon him, unblinking, glowing faintly like embers in the gloom. The shadows of the valley swirled around her as though obeying her will, yet she did not move closer.

“I… I seek the truth,” he said, voice trembling despite himself. “The legend… is it real?”

Her laugh was soft, musical, yet edged with sorrow. “Truth?” she whispered. “Truth is a fragile thing. And here… it is dangerous.”

The wind carried the faint rustle of chains and the scent of earth turned cold with magic. Elias realized, with a chill crawling down his spine, that he had stepped into a place where stories lived—and some, perhaps, had the power to kill.

The witch of Hollow Vale had not yet touched him. But her gaze… it had already stolen something: the certainty that he could leave the valley unchanged.

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