The clock ticked away, jeering at her slavery to its beat. A new day would soon begin, and she would need a new victim to take her place. She wanted to get out of this loop, but she was too busy plotting her survival to plot her escape.

Kane’s careful footsteps were dampened by the wet, mossy undergrowth of the forest. He intentionally stayed away from the main path to keep a low profile. He knew this forest better than his own hand, having spent years tracking and hunting among the ancient trees of the Talking Forest. The Talking Forest didn’t say a word, yet it spoke volumes. Sound carried menacingly far, men were lost to its confusing terrain, and many believed that the souls of the damned were trapped among the densely packed trees. The shadow souls swirled above Kane’s head as he chanted the incantation - a protection spell he learned as a boy. Desperate to keep them away, he started to backtrack and find the main road. He grew confused as darkness began to set in. The shadow souls were said to be the victims of violent deaths at the hands of their own loved ones in the forest. They lingered to seek their revenge. Of course, many people believed these to be fire stories, meant to spook children into staying out of the predator-filled forest. The silence around him was deafening. The birds quieted, no footsteps echoed in the distance. It was as if every creature was hiding from what was coming. The surrounding darkness became dense. It wouldn’t be long before the shadows overtook him completely, leaving him trapped among the trees with the others. He started running, sound of cracking twigs and crushed leaves be damned. Low growling in the distance filled him with dread. His lungs constricted as beads of sweat formed on his brow. He broke into a sprint and heard the rumble of predators catching up. The shadows began to close in from all sides and he wondered which outcome would be worse. “Protege me ab tenebris. Obumbratio defendat me.” He repeated over and over as quickly as he could between gasps of air. He didn’t know what it meant but his mother told him to recite the protection spell anytime he was in the forest. The darkness was growing thicker as the shadows descended in full force. Kane heard the snap of hungry jaws just inches away. A yelp echoed and whatever predators loomed nearby seemed to suddenly drop to the ground. Kane kept running despite the shadows blinding him. He felt a thickness, like a spider’s web slowing him down, enveloping his body. He couldn’t run anymore. He was blind and caught in some sort of unnaturally thick air. In the stillness, Kane heard whispers. The shadow souls were all around him. Souls of the damned. Kane made a mental note to tell his mom the protection spell that everyone in the villlage thought would help was actually useless against the shadow souls. “It isn’t useless.” An ethereal voice whispered in his ear. “Who said that?” Panic bubbling up in Kane’s voice. “The incantation summoned us.” Another, more feminine voice. “Don’t they teach Latin anymore?” The first voice asked condescendingly. Several shadow souls snickered. Kane’s breath quickened. “Protect me from darkness.” A third shadow soul spoke up. “Let the shadow protect me.” The rest responded in unison like a prayer ritual. There must have been a hundred shadow souls swirling around him. Kane realized they had translated the incantation and his heart sank. He summoned his own end. He felt around for his weapon out of instinct, acutely aware that this was folly. “Don’t be afraid.” The feminine voice soothed. “We are here to protect those that summon us.” “Protect me from what?” He asked quietly, his heart still pounding. “You were being hunted by the White Wolves.” The first voice spoke again. “They almost succeeded.” The third voice added chillingly in his ear. Something familiar about this voice caught his attention, scraping against his memory as if the recognition was just out of reach. “You are free to go now.” Another new voice. “You’re safe.” Murmurs of agreement. The darkness that once shrouded him began to clear. Kane looked around and he watched as the souls ascended to their place among the trees. “Thank you.” Kane told them, feeling the inadequacy of his gratitude. Kane rushed home to tell his mother the tale. The old incantation worked in a way no one could have anticipated. He approached his family’s home near the center of the village and stopped short as a wave of recognition slammed into him. The third voice: his father. The legend of the shadow souls crashed through his mind soon after and it was as if the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle fell into place. His mother told Kane his father died in the forest. Kane always assumed it was the White Wolves or the shadow souls. He believed his mother was afraid he would meet the same fate, and insisted he recite the incantation to prevent a similar untimely death. Yet the shadow souls were protectors of the Talking Forest - scorned by their own loved ones and yet preventing harm from coming to others despite their own ill-fated endings. His father was among them. So the question formed in Kane’s mind: who killed his father?

It was another unusually dry summer. Every Roman’s mouth was painfully shriveled. The drought made water so scarce, it was more valuable than wine. Aurelia was heavily pregnant with her seventh child, and Septimius had doubts about his ability to provide for another mouth once it weaned off mother’s milk. Aurelia’s long, russet brown hair gently swayed as she walked, a warm but welcome breeze blowing through the courtyard of their home. Septimius vigorously rubbed his tanned hands through his wavy chestnut hair, shaking the dust out from a long morning of chores. There was simply no water to spare for bathing until the rains came. The children were running through the house, seemingly unaffected by the drought and scarcity surrounding them. Though, this wasn’t true. They had only found a way to escape it in their minds as they ran and played, imagining another reality. Antonia hesitated to interrupt their momentary gaiety for the day’s studies, so she stood and watched them for a time. Septimius was going to the markets to buy food and other necessities to prepare for the birth and the time after, when Aurelia would need additional help. They only had Antonia to help out now, and most of the children were too young to be of much utility yet. He estimated she had about a month before she would give birth so time was dwindling quickly. He pulled a clean tunic over his head and strapped his sandals on before mounting his horse. The arid, dusty roads accentuated the heat of the blazing sun on Septimius’ skin. His eyes narrowed in the bright light, revealing every wrinkle in his face, as he slapped the reigns to speed up the emaciated horse. He knew it was cruel to push the horse so far on so little provisions, but he had little choice in the matter. The horse almost seemed to sigh with relief when he was tied up outside the markets. Septimius’ worn sandals smacked against the hard dirt path, kicking up dust in his wake as he wandered from stall to stall. The smell of unwashed commoners wafted in the air. The competing scents of fresh food from street vendors and feces from the communal bathrooms were even stronger. Flies buzzed in all directions. His coins dwindled quickly as the mental list of supplies was ticked off. He loaded the horse and stopped in the communal bathroom. He finished and wiped with the closest tersoria before dunking it back in vinegar to clean for the next user. As he exited, he was met by an old friend. They stopped to chat. He was shocked at how ragged his friend looked now and he wondered if he appeared the same. This drought has been unkind to all but the wealthiest. His friend had bound himself to a wealthy Roman household just to have a steady meal, clean water, and coins to send to his family for their own provisions. Septimius had considered it himself at one time. Once he arrived home, he unpacked the bags the horse had struggled to carry. As a reward, the horse received a ration of water and a handful of hay. Septimius said a prayer to the gods for the horse to stay healthy, and another for the rains. He wondered if the gods had forsaken the lands. Why else had the rains refused to come? Aurelia greeted him as he stored the supplies and food. “Our coins were not as far-reaching as I’d hoped.” He said simply, and then he detailed what they afforded and, notably, what they hadn’t. Aurelia stroked her belly. “The storehouses are nearly empty. This will not last us.” The worry shone on her face. Septimius had almost forgotten what it looked like when she smiled. It was gravely evident to both of them now how difficult their life had become. Neither of them were truly prepared for what the coming months would bring. One thing was certain: if the rains didn’t come soon, the next few months would be their last.

It wasn’t just any scream. It was the most ear piercing, bloodcurdling scream Andrew Branson had ever heard. His whole body clenched in fear. Just ignore it, he told himself. It was just after midnight. He willed himself to the window and spotted it in the center of the garden maze. It snapped its gaze to him, as if it could sense his glance. Its eyes glowed yellow in the dark and he jumped back, tripping onto his bed. This was the boldest attempt yet. Every night, at midnight, it was outside his house, trying to lure him into the maze. They both knew it would be the last thing he did, if he ever gave into its screams and howls. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to block out the noises. The next morning, Andrew called his sister, unable to think clearly enough to decide what to do at this point. He had bought this property to use as a hobby ranch just a few months ago. He was convinced seclusion and a variety of farm animals would cure his disillusionment with life in the city and his corporate job. The ranch seemed like a steal of a deal. All the pieces fell into place. What a fool he had been. He was told the last owner died of old age, and that he was estranged from his family and that’s why no one wanted to inherit it. Andrew didn’t know who lied - the family or the realtor. Maybe it was both. It didn’t much matter now. “Andrew, it’s been weeks since you got a decent night’s sleep.” Emma said gently. “I told you, I’ve tried.” He rubbed his temples. “It screams every night at midnight.” “I think this thing you’ve got in your mind, it’s - have you tried talking to someone? Maybe they can give you something for the nightmares.” “Em, it’s not a nightmare.” He grew exasperated. “It’s real. This is really happening to me.” “Okay, look, you need a good night’s sleep to think clearly either way, right? So why don’t I come down and I’ll stay up tonight so you can sleep?” Emma cajoled. “It’s too dangerous.” He said sharply. “Andrew, I can take care of myself. I’ll be fine.” “Just - just promise me you’ll be here before it gets dark.” He relented. He was too tired to keep fighting it. “Promise.” Emma lived a few hours away, so Andrew knew this promise would mean a rough start to the day as she rushed out the door. The phone clicked and Andrew logged onto work for another day of fumbling through his duties and hoping he wouldn’t be fired. He downed a pot of coffee and tried to fight the jittery, jarring feeling of too little sleep and too much caffeine and adrenaline. It made him queasy. He logged off early to focus on the ranch chores. Far better to spend the afternoon mucking the stalls and feeding the goats and horses than repeatedly checking the horizon for any sign of Emma’s approach. Still, Andrew found his eyes wandering towards the road every chance he got. He locked the animals in the barn after their day of grazing. No need to leave bait out. That evening, he sat by the front door, waiting. He called Emma and asked where she was. The sunlight was fading and it was nearing 9pm. It stayed light so late in the summer here, Andrew thought, yet Emma still managed to be tardy. “My phone is dying thanks to the GPS and there were several detours. I’ll be there by eleven.” “No, just find a hotel, lock the doors, and don’t go outside for anything. You’re too close and it could be anywhere.” The static on the line shut down the connection and the call dropped. Andrew swore under his breath. He kept peeking through the curtains, certain he was seeing shadows until he blinked them away. Blurry exhaustion was taking over. Every light from the highway made him pace, wondering if the next headlights would be the ones turning toward his house. Andrew sat down on the couch to catch his breath. He slumped involuntarily into sleep before he jolted awake to the sound of Emma yelling for him to let her in. He stumbled across the living room in a fog and opened the door. He jogged down the gravel driveway and heard a scream from the garden. A bloodcurdling scream. He checked the driveway and saw the trunk of Emma’s car peeking from the side of the house. This was real - it was really Emma. I can’t let it get her, he thought. He grabbed a pitchfork from the side of the house and bounded into the maze without a second thought. It didn’t really want her, he assured himself, it wanted him. He would trade himself for her. The nearly moonless night made it almost impossible to see where he was going except by touch. The branches kept scraping his arms as he felt his way quickly along the path to the center of the maze. As he drew closer, his cell phone rang. Andrew started at the noise and glanced at the caller - Emma Branson. He stopped in his tracks. His blood chilled and he answered it timidly. “H-hello?” “I’ve been texting you. I’m here but I heard a noise and I didn’t want to get out of the car until you told me it’s safe. What was that?” A cold sweat came over him and he stopped breathing. “Drive.” Panic rose in Andrew’s throat. “Drive far and fast and don’t stop no matter what you hear.” He hung up the phone. It was now or never. He turned the corner and it met him with a wide, razor-sharp toothy grin. It stood seven feet tall, thin and bony, with large hungry eyes. Hungry for flesh. Hungry for him. It radiated a smug pride for finally luring Andrew right where it wanted him, where there was no escape. He had underestimated it. Andrew braced himself and lunged with the pitchfork. The final bloodcurdling scream was his own, just after midnight.

The letter had read: “Dear Holbrook Family, For your contribution in the downfall of Oak Hill, you are cursed. However, I have generously decided to give your family one last chance to undo the curse. Reunite at your family estate on Friday at 8pm, one week from today. Choose one among you to live forever with the curse, and the rest of you will be free of it, or you will all live with the curse as you quarrel until your final days. You will have until midnight to decide and speak it in unison. You will not understand the nature of the curse until the clock strikes midnight. There will be no second chances. To the future you deserve. Cheers.” The gray stone mansion at the top of Oak Hill was dimly lit by candlelight and the occasional flash of lightening. Mature trees obscured the view of the old home from the rest of the town. Heavy rainfall drenched the estate as the last member of the Holbrook family pulled onto the expansive cobblestone driveway, just in time. The grand entrance led to an exquisitely decorated parlor, covered in a telltale layer of dust. White furniture covers lay on the white marble floor where seating had been uncovered for use. Rich mahogany columns flanked the doorway with an intricately carved pattern of native flora and fauna. A chaise joined a mahogany bookcase in a corner by the bay window, where a cushioned bench beckoned anyone who entered the room. A deep maroon leather couch and matching recliners framed a seating area in front of the lit stone fireplace. “Do you understand what will happen if we can’t come to an agreement?” Uncle James gritted through his teeth. Aunt Willa, his wife, rolled her eyes. It had been no small miracle to get everyone to agree to this meeting, letter or no letter. “Don’t talk down to me. We all know why we’re here.” My cousin and Uncle James’ daughter, Marlena, snapped back. Her belly wrenched with the movement of her unborn baby as her irritation grew. Her husband, Martin, placed his hand over hers in quiet solidarity. “I’m here.” My father, William, strolled in the front door into the parlor. He shook his hand through his hair to dispel from of the cold rainwater. My mother, Charlotte, was praying silently on the window bench. She stiffened at my father’s arrival but did not look up. “Has anyone volunteered?” William looked to his brother, James. Thunder roared in response to the blue-white flash that preceded it. My brother, Garrett, scoffed, prompting James to snap, “Unless you’re volunteering, save the fucking sarcasm.” “Why don’t you volunteer?” I retorted, with an edge in my tone. “It certainly can’t be Marlena; she’s pregnant.” I waved in her general direction. The room erupted in a fury of shouting and bickering, each person angling to save themselves. Each person, except for my mother. The only thing anyone could agree on was that it couldn’t be Marlena. “Stop.” Charlotte said quietly. No one turned. “STOP!” The thunder boomed in punctuation to my mother’s cry. Everyone turned to her, gaping at her sudden assertiveness. Other than Marlena’s unborn child, my mother probably deserved this the least. I would volunteer before anyone tried to choose her. “Something to say, Char?” James raised an eyebrow. William strained to extinguish his irritation. “No one here is going to give their own name in unison with the others. At best, we could get a 7 to 1 vote. We may as well accept our fate now.” She turned back to the window, watching the trees bend in the wind as streams ran down the glass. Her suggestion was met with apprehensive silence. Her prayers resumed. The grandfather clock chimed 8pm. My skin itched. I looked around and found the others were scratching their forearms, necks, or hands. The first symptom of the curse, I assumed. A rush of panic sent shivers down my spine. I didn’t dare vocalize my suspicions. The fighting would only intensify. “Spencer, who do you think should be chosen?” My brother asked me quietly, his forefinger subtly scratching his wrist. I looked him up and down and said nothing. The first hour passed in relative silence, everyone seemingly accepting Charlotte’s assessment. I winced when the grandfather clock struck 9pm. I wondered if another symptom would appear. I glanced around the room with relief as no one else seemed to feel the dull pain I noticed building in my back and shoulders. My mother’s whispered pleas were barely audible above the crackling in the fireplace. Time ticked away and each of us made our arguments as to why they shouldn’t be chosen: baby on the way, too young, too necessary at work, and so on. Then James added that this mess wasn’t his fault, with a pointed look to William, and the room erupted again. Amidst the arguing, Martin moved to a seat on the floor, his back to the fire, shifting around as he attempted to regain some comfort. He was rubbing his back. The grandfather clock struck 10pm. The third symptom caught everyone’s attention, spurring fresh panic as the reality began to sink in. It felt like knives in my hands, yet no protrusion was present. I looked for the source of the pain, but to no avail. It felt like it was coming from inside my skin. “It’s starting, isn’t it?” Willa’s face contorted in pain as she looked at the back of her hands. Behind her, Marlena laid her arms across her belly, holding the life inside her and hoping the baby wasn’t part of this. Garrett struck a match and lit a cigarette. James rummaged through the liquor cabinet and poured a four-knuckle glass of scotch. “If no one will volunteer, why don’t we draw straws?” Martin chimed in, adding, “Leave Marlena out of it.” I responded, “If it will end this faster, then fine. I don’t particularly want to go through any more symptoms unless I have to.” Nods of agreement. Martin grabbed some stirrer straws from the liquor cabinet and found a knife to cut one in half. “Marlena, since you’re not in this, you mix up the straws and hold them.” She complied. One by one, we each drew a long straw until only two remained. James and William stared at the final straws. James hesitated and then drew his straw – cut in half. The room was a mix of horror at James’ fate and relief at their own. “The letter said we have to say the name in unison, so are we ready?” Marlena rushed. Staring at the ill-fated straw, James said, “I...I can’t be the one. I shouldn’t be. This isn’t fair.” His voice began to rise in panic with each sentence. “William is the one who started all this. If he had any honor, he would shoulder this burden!” The room fell uneasily silent. A flash, then thunder. “Honor?” William said quietly, but forcefully. “Honor?! If anyone lacks honor, it’s you. You forced my hand after dad died. You cornered me into decisions I didn’t want to make. And when it all went to hell, you ran. Like a fucking coward, you ran. It’s no surprise you’re using what you set in motion – what you forced me to be a part of – to twist this around on me. For once in your life, YOU have some honor.” “I won’t say my name.” All eyes on him. “‘in unison.’” James mockingly air quoted, his biting tone reigniting dread in the rest of us as, yet again, we had no answer. Marlena wiped a silent tear from her eye and my mother resumed her prayers by the window. Rage flickered in William’s eyes as James sat down and continued nursing his scotch, not daring to look my father in the eye. Garrett met my gaze and dropped it, knowing which side we’d each taken in the family war. I wished I could tell him that I would go back and change things if I could. The grandfather clock struck 11pm. Everyone turned to each other expectantly. The fourth symptom struck our mouths – a piercing pain in our gums like none of us had ever experienced. The previous symptoms intensified, bringing some of us to our knees. James’ scotch glass shattered against the marble as thunder rumbled outside. “We should just try to say James’ name together anyway. See if it works.” Marlena pushed. Her fear was palpable. Murmurs of agreement followed. James’ eyes shot daggers at his daughter and wife. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” “We have less than an hour. I’m not going to live with whatever this curse is for the rest of my life because you’re a coward.” Willa snapped. “You gold-digging whore.” James grabbed the bottle of scotch and took a swig. I laughed derisively. “Wow.” “Let’s not forget that some of the choices William made were all his own idea. I may have played a part in contriving some of the situations, but he is just as much at fault as I am.” “We’re all to blame, in some way or another.” My mother spoke up. “We probably deserve this.” She added quietly. “I’m not going out like this.” Willa retorted. “Come on, we have to try.” All of us, aside from James, gathered in front of the fireplace. “We choose James.” Nothing happened. Nothing, except the symptoms continued to increase in intensity. It dawned on me what we were facing, what the nature of the curse would be. My heart pounded, adrenaline filled my veins as if it would take on a life of its own and burst out of me. “Fuck all of you.” James raised the bottle, tipping it in mock tribute before taking another swig. The pain was growing, my bones felt like they might snap under the pressure. Thunder roared in tune with a bright flash. The wind and rain increased, drowning out my mother’s continued prayers as she strained to fight the symptoms. We huddled near her in solidarity for her pleas, gripping each other’s shoulders in support. James sat in agony with his scotch, alone. The grandfather clock struck midnight. We waited, but nothing happened. The bottle of scotch slipped from James’ limp hand and broke open on the floor. I never should have taken James’ side all those years ago. That selfish bastard was never going to accept his fate, but I wouldn’t let him ruin my life a second time. While everyone else joined my mother by the window, I took the knife Martin used to cut the straw and jammed it into James’ trachea. I joined my family by the window and convinced them to say his name together again, as one last ditch effort, minutes before midnight. The symptoms faded. We sighed in echo of the relief we felt. Willa was the first to notice James. She screamed in shock. Marlena nearly fainted. To my surprise, James’ eyes opened. They had a new glow about them. He turned toward us, and the transformation began. Screams. Then silence.