There was once a girl. One moment, she was chasing butterflies through the fields; the next, only her small footprints remained, fading into nothing.
People searched every hollow and house, even the well in the middle of their village, but she was gone.
Years later, she returned. Her hair hung in heavy clumps like matted wool, and her eyes were always shifting, as if tracking movements no one else could see. Were it not for the birthmark on her cheek, nobody would have recognised her. And yet it was her.
Wherever she stepped, plants wilted and changed, growing in grotesque shapes. Gardens rotted overnight, trees sprouted knots like tumours, and the ground writhed with crawling things that scattered in sunlight.
When she spoke, her voice carried a chorus of whispers right behind it. She talked of shapes pressing against the world from the other side – of great tentacles coiling around it, tightening, searching for something, a vessel. One older than kingdoms, older than time itself.
Terrified, the villagers declared her cursed, a mouthpiece for demons. They burned her with holy fire, hoping to destroy the corruption with her. But neither flames nor time would destroy the dark fang nested in the ashes.
