Ethereal Chronicles

A famine had cursed a town where a widowed baker lived. The suffering was so severe that the earth itself seemed poisoned, and even the smallest sharings of grain had begun to dwindle with the weight of nourishing an entire neighbourhood.

The baker’s name was Lenore Crow, and she lived with her two sons conceived of the union with her and her late husband. For many weeks, friendly faces had ceased to visit her shop, and the comforting clink of coins in her pocket had become an unfamiliar feeling. Her children, too, had grown quiet and worn, their bodies thinning dangerously from the meagre loaf of bread they were forced to divide for their single daily meal.

Such times of hardship and the suffering that it had subjected her children to had gnawed at Lenore for too long a time now, and so she resorted to the use of black magic.

Magic, as most knew, was forbidden by God, so Lenore sought out the one woman in town who saw no harm in its practice.

Mirielle lived just a stone’s throw from the last of the homes that clung to the edge of the village. She was the only resident who still drew a handful of desperate customers, willing to pay for her unusual services. Herbs of healing and berries with darker purposes littered the outskirts of her weathered home, which glowed dim and celestial in the prominent darkness.

But Mirielle was not the ghastly, withered crone that one might expect a witch to be. Instead, she radiated in her outward form an otherworldly beauty, impressive and almost unnerving, though her spiritual essence seemed slightly askew.

When Lenore came to Mirielle, she hesitated at the door before delivering a light knock. The door swung open, creaking on its hinges, and an inexplicable pull urged her inside.

Mirielle lay in a worn, bronze tub before a roaring hearth, steam curling around her submerged form. Her head, a mass of thick dark curls, rested languidly, unmoved by Lenore’s presence.

“You’re new,” Mirielle sighed silkily. “What is it you seek? An ailment, perhaps?”

“You might call it that,” Lenore murmured, eyes fixed on the ground. “I want to survive this famine as you do. Comfortably. Without struggle.”

The witch tilted her head back to chuckle before lifting herself from the tub. Her bare feet met the wooden floor, and she cast a wary eye at Lenore as she crossed the room to retrieve a sheer wrap draped across a chest of drawers. Once covered, she sank into the chair by the fire, lounging lazily. After a long silence, she finally spoke.

“I live comfortably because I paid a price that you might find… difficult.” Mirielle’s eyes swept over Lenore like glinting amethysts in the dim light. “This does not come naturally. But surely you know that already.”

Lenore nodded, convincing herself that the price could not be so great if Mirielle moved with such effortless beauty. But then again, Lenore had also heard vicious rumours of Mirielle bathing her skin in blood, worshipping demons beneath the light of the moon, surrendering herself to the Devil.

“I would do anything to ensure the survival of my children,” Lenore admitted, the fleeting wish of her words tasting like ash on her tongue the moment they fell from her lips.

At this, Mirielle’s eyes lifted, a small, knowing smile curling her luscious gaze. She rose, crossing the room to rummage through a drawer, retrieving from it a small, weathered book. Her fingers traced the pages as she murmured softly to herself, eyes closed in concentration.

Lenore stood frozen, caught between horror and reluctant admiration as she watched the witch seek out an answer. At last, Mirielle’s eyes snapped open.

“Feed a loaf of bread to the Hollow Man of Hearthorn Hill,” she said. “He lives in the lonely grave beneath the bent tree that overlooks our town. Feed him each day, and your hunger will ease, as will that of your children.” She smiled again, a gleam both enticing and dangerous. “But you must remember that there is a price.”

Lenore nodded. “I know.”

“You will owe the Hollow three wishes. Once the final wish is claimed, your duty to him ends, and your hunger will not return until the famine reaches its natural end. If you fail to deliver as you have been commanded, then the consequences will be far worse than your present suffering, and far more severe than you can imagine.”

Once she had finished speaking, Mirielle placed the book back into the drawer, shut it, and glided back to her former place. She ran her fingers through her hair, preening as she waited, patient and poised like a cat watching for the perfect moment to pounce.

Lenore, knowing that she had little choice, gave her assent, and the bargain was sealed.

“Good girl,” Mirielle smiled. “He waits for you. Go.”

The witch gestured towards Lenore’s apron pocket, which suddenly swelled with the weight of a fresh, steaming loaf of bread. Lenore did not linger. She fled the witch’s presence at once, though she could feel Mirielle’s cold gaze burning into her back as she left.

She did not return home. Instead, she directed her steps towards Hearthorn Hill.

…

Beyond the scattered homes of the dead, Lenore found the promised grave at the crest of the hill. A bent, hunched tree loomed over it, the branches twisted in disapproval. The headstone was split, with deep claw marks gouged into the earth beside the ditch, and within it lay an open coffin.

“You came.”

A low voice drifted from behind the tree, and a man stepped into view. To Lenore’s surprise, he bore so sign of death. Colour warmed his skin, and a head of thick hair framed his handsome face. His garments were lavish, unfaded and untouched by mud or decay.

Remembering her duty, Lenore quickly drew the loaf from her apron and held it out in offering.

The dead man smiled and accepted it eagerly, groaning with relief as he tore off piece after piece. “I was famished,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

When the bread was gone, he bade her farewell until the next night.

So it went for weeks. By day, Lenore scraped together the single loaf meant to sustain herself and her sons. By night, she watched the man consume it beside his grave. He had yet to claim a wish, and she waited in growing unease for the moment his demand would finally come.

Lenore did not wait long before the dead man voiced his first wish. It was a harmless request, one that asked only for her company, for conversation rather than a fleeting visit. Lenore obeyed without protest, remaining longer at his side and hearing his words as though he were still among the living. She did not see the death that clung to him, nor the maggots burrowing in his eyes, chewing at what little flesh remained.

As time passed, Lenore thought less and less of Mirielle’s warning. The arrangement began to feel almost ordinary. But her comfort was short-lived.

And one cold night, the dead man made his second wish; a desire for Lenore’s body.

Lenore did not want to lie with him. It felt too wrong, too unnatural, but fear outweighed her revulsion. She knew the cost of refusal. So at dusk, once her children were safely asleep, she went to him.

As always, he ate the bread she brought, savouring it hungrily. Then he climbed into his coffin, gesturing for her to join, and Lenore lay beside him and surrendered herself.

In her defilement, the illusion of perfection shattered. The gentle warmth she had felt only moments before was replaced by mangled hands and grasping fingers. An animate corpse loomed over her, drooling, reeking of a rot so foul it stole her breath. Lenore cried out as he convulsed, uttering ghastly sounds, crushing against her with such force she feared his brittle bones might splinter and give way.

She longed to tear herself from him, to go home and never return, but the witch’s warning held sway over her mind, a merciless command that bound her in place. So Lenore shut her eyes, trying desperately to drown out the stench of decay and the scrape of bone against her bare back.

The weeks that followed blurred together in a haze of obedience and despair. Night after night, Lenore returned to the grave. The dead man no longer spoke with gentle words; instead he grunted like an animal, clutching her with a hunger that grew more savage with each encounter.

Each dawn, Lenore crept back to her home hollow-eyed and trembling. She washed herself raw in the early hours, scrubbing her skin until it burned as though the pain might erase the stain of his touch.

…

Winter had crusted the land in frost by the time the man’s former appearance returned. He leaned against the bent tree, his hair dusted with snow and his posture once again human. When Lenore approached, he smiled, took her hand kindly, and lay with her.

When it was finished, he consumed the bread she brought him, and then looked at her with a calm that chilled her more than the winter air.

“You will bear a child from this union,” he said, his voice empty of malice. “Once the child is born, you are to deliver me its flesh.”

Lenore went still. She assessed his gaze for some hint of cruelty, a spark of mockery or dark amusement, but found none. His look was hollow, stripped of emotion, as though he were reciting some unalterable truth.

Lenore agreed, though she knew that she would never surrender her child. She clung to the hope that time might dull his barbaric request.

Months passed and Lenore’s belly swelled with new life. The famine remained merciless, gnawing at the village without pause, but her home was spared from its touch. When the time finally came, Lenore brought forth a beautiful baby girl, warm against her trembling touch.

Not long after, weak and aching, Lenore returned to Hearthorn Hill with another loaf of bread clutched in her hands. The dead man waited, as he always did. He smiled as she offered him the bread, devouring it with hurried hunger before extending his palms once more.

“I don’t have any more bread,” Lenore whispered.

The dead man clicked his tongue and shook his head, a sickly smile plastered upon his face. “I think you know what I am waiting for. Your newborn, where is she?”

Fear hardened in Lenore’s chest. He had not forgotten. He had been waiting this whole time.

“If you cannot provide what you owe,” he continued calmly, “then you will pay dearly.”

“No!” Lenore cried. “I…I’ll give you the child. Tomorrow night. You have my word.”

“Good girl,” the dead man nodded, softening his smile. “I look forward to it.”

Lenore returned home heavy with grief. She lifted her miracle child from the cradle and held her close, cherishing the scent of purity as she stared out at the world beyond her home.

A lone deer grazed beside a nearby bush. As Lenore watched it, an idea took hold. She would kill the beast, and let it take her daughter’s place.

With a pumping heart, she laid the baby back in her crib and went to take a blade from the kitchen.

The deer continued to eat as Lenore slipped from the house and crept towards it. She hesitated for a breath, struck by the innocence of the creature, then steeled herself and struck. The animal collapsed with a sharp cry, thrashing and moaning as blood darkened the earth beneath it and reached out to stain Lenore’s shoes.

Once the beast had quietened and lay still, she gutted it with quivering hands, carving the flesh into small portions that resembled what the dead man expected to receive. She stuffed the pieces into a sack, washed her hands clean, and prayed that the dead man would not notice her trickery.

…

The following night, Lenore made her way to Hearthorn Hill for what she hoped would be the final time.

“My debt to you is done,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “I am free.”

She set the sack at his feet, and the dead man descended upon it like a vulture upon carrion, tearing free a chunk of flesh and biting into it with ravenous hunger.

In an instant, his body convulsed. A guttural, inhuman shriek tore from him as his form began to warp and collapse.

“YOU LIE”” he bellowed. His borrowed youth rotted away, skin sloughing and withering as his eyes burned with unrestrained fury. “You have cursed yourself and your children! Never again shall meat or drink satisfy you, and your wretched spawn will starve!”

His final words bubbled as his body collapsed inward, congealing into a foul heap of bone, blood, and foaming flesh.

Lenore staggered back, horrified at what remained, and at the certainty of what she had brought upon herself.

By the time Lenore reached her home, she was already famished. She tore through her shelves for food, but there was none. Remembering the deer beyond her walls, she stumbled back out into the cold night and fell to her knees beside its carcass, tearing away what flesh remained and cramming it into her mouth. The hunger only worsened, roaring louder than before.

With each passing day, it grew. The more Lenore fed herself, the less she noticed her children, who thinned and quieted until they scarcely stirred at all.

One morning, Lenore returned home to a terrible silence. Her sons lay stiff and cold in their beds, and her infant daughter rested lifeless in her crib.

Pain lanced through Lenore’s heart as she looked upon the children she had lost everything to save. She collapsed to the floor, wailing and clutching her chest, but the hunger did not relent, and a strange, wicked thought possessed her. Blinded by desperation, Lenore gathered her infant into her arms, feasting and groaning with pleasure until there was nothing left at all. But it was not enough.

Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the still forms in the other beds. Sobs tearing from her chest, she moved towards them, each step heavier than the last. Tears melted down her face as she gorged, delivering the curse what it was owed.

Once she had finished, and the beds were filled with sticky blood that covered her hands and dripped from her open mouth, the hunger finally dulled.

Lenore sank to lay her head down on the floor, breathless and shaking.

Relief lasted only a heartbeat before horror broke her spell. She screamed, the sound raw and animal, as the realisation of what she had done crashed over her. Her body grew swollen with a fullness that turned her stomach. Flesh rose to the back of her throat, unable to fit inside her, and she retched as metallic blood filled her mouth.

With a groan, Lenore struggled to lift herself. Her body had grown grotesquely large so that each movement felt laborious, each step a torment, but she managed to stagger towards the knife that she had still left out. She gripped the hilt, let out a final scream, and drove it into her chest. Her bulging stomach split with a sickening sound, and she crumpled to the floor.

Lenore’s final breath left her lips just as a cold gust of wind swept through the graveyard below Hearthorn Hill, and the pile of muck beneath the crooked tree began to stir.