The forest had always been there—older than the village, older than the stone path that wound from the chapel to the river bend, older than the bones buried beneath both. It loomed just beyond the edge of the last thatched roofs, its trees tall and twisted, their bark dark as dried blood and their limbs reaching skyward like fingers frozen in a silent plea. Mist curled along the forest floor, thick and slow like breath from a sleeping beast. It never cleared, not even at noon. It was always damp, always whispering.
And the village whispered back.
They called it Mirewood.
To speak its name was to taste something bitter. They taught their children to keep their eyes down when walking near the edge, to never speak of dreams that took them to the woods. The elders muttered prayers not found in any holy book. Doors were double-locked at night, not to keep out men, but to keep in longing.
Because once, long ago—though not long enough—women began to disappear.
It started with the children. Years back, little ones came home pale and shaken after chasing a ball too far or wandering near the misty border. They whispered stories—of shadows with no feet, of figures that smiled without faces, of a song sung by no mouth, just below hearing. But no one believed them. Not really.
Children had imaginations.
But then the dreams came.
The young women were the first to speak of them—softly, hesitantly, as if trying to forget even as they spoke. Dreams of men, beautiful men—each one different, yet each one perfect. Dark eyes that burned with desire. Gentle hands that knew exactly where to touch. Whispers that curled like silk around their spines. They would wake with trembling thighs and gasping breaths, as if they'd just been claimed.
And then, they began to go missing.
---
The first was Nala, the baker's apprentice. Barely seventeen, shy as spring snow. She vanished one morning after hanging linen on the line. The wind had carried the sheets up, and she'd laughed as she chased them… toward the forest line. She was never seen again.
A week later, Yvette, the cooper's widow, who hadn't spoken to anyone in years, walked barefoot into the mists at dawn. Her boots were still by the door. Her bed unslept in.
Then Anya, Mirielle, Sara—wives, daughters, seamstresses, barmaids. Some young. Some wrinkled. Some quiet, some wild. Different in every way, except one: they had all dreamed.
And always—always—the forest moaned in their absence.
---
The villagers called it a curse. They said the woods had grown hungry. They blamed fairies, demons, ghosts of old kings. But they never truly spoke of what they feared most: that the women went willingly. That they had been called, and had answered with open arms and parted lips.
Because there were sounds—late at night, just beneath the rustling leaves. The sighs. The gasps. The gentle, rhythmic cries of pleasure. As if the forest itself was making love.
No one went to investigate. No one dared.
Not until Lina.
---
Lina had once been the brightest spirit in the village—hair like copper flames, eyes green as crushed jade, laughter like warm wine. She was married young, to Tomas, the wheat farmer whose hands were hard but heart was gentle. She loved him. She always said she did.
But seasons passed, and the glow faded. The laughter came less easily. Tomas, too often weary, would kiss her cheek out of habit. Her nights grew silent. Her sheets cool.
And the dreams began.
They came first as flickers—sensations upon waking. A breath against her neck. A phantom hand on her thigh. Her body would ache in a way that felt unfair. Then came visions: a man made of moonlight, or of fire, or of shadow—always faceless, but always perfect. He would whisper to her from the treetops, from the stream. Come, Lina… I see what your heart hides… Let me show you.
She tried to ignore it. She prayed. She bled herbs into tea. She held Tomas tighter at night. But her eyes always drifted toward the woods. And each morning, she woke wetter, hungrier, emptier.
Then one evening, just before dusk, she stepped outside barefoot and walked. Her cotton nightdress clung to her like breath on glass. Her hair was unbraided. Her lips parted.
She didn't look back.
---
The mist welcomed Lina like an old lover.
It curled around her ankles, wound up her calves, stroked the skin of her thighs with cool, damp fingers. Each step into the forest felt like sinking deeper into a sigh. The air was thick with moisture and something more—sweetness, like crushed petals in wine, and the sharp, coppery tang of old secrets.
She didn't know where she was going, only that she was being led.
The path beneath her bare feet was soft with moss, the ground alive with unseen movements. Branches swayed though no wind touched them. Leaves whispered not to each other but to her. The words were unintelligible yet intimate, brushing against the back of her mind like forgotten memories.
"I know what you ache for…"
The voice was inside her head and around her, tender and dark like velvet soaked in rain. It was no one's voice and everyone's—a perfect harmony of yearning.
She pressed onward, the white of her nightdress translucent now with mist and sweat. Her nipples pressed against the thin fabric, hardened from the chill or anticipation—she didn't know which. The forest seemed to pulse with her breath. Each step grew heavier with want.
And then… she saw him.
Or something that wore the shape of a man.
He stood in a clearing surrounded by trees like cathedral pillars. He was tall—taller than Tomas, broader too—but not in any way that threatened. His body shimmered faintly, not of light, but of invitation. His face… was hers to imagine. Eyes as she desired them. Hair how she loved it. The creature let her see what she wanted, not what he was.
And she wanted. Gods, how she wanted.
He stepped forward, and she trembled—not with fear, but with the sharp, desperate pang of longing finally fulfilled.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He reached out, and his fingers brushed her cheek, trailing down her throat. Her knees buckled from that single touch. His hands were warm and precise—strong, yes, but reverent, like he worshiped every part of her. When he kissed her, it was not lips but pure need—hot, deep, endless.
The forest seemed to hush.
The trees leaned closer.
And Lina surrendered.
---
She didn't remember how the night unfolded—only how it felt.
Each sensation etched itself into her skin like a sacred text. Her body became a prayer. The moss beneath her was softer than any bed; the mist above her, a veil hiding her shame and stoking her sin. He touched her as if he'd known her forever—as if her every secret was his to taste.
And she gave them all.
Her moans echoed through the trees, answered by the creak of branches and the rustle of unseen things. The forest seemed to pulse with her rhythm. With each climax, something slipped away—some pain, some burden, some piece of herself.
And she welcomed the loss.
---
At dawn, Tomas awoke to an empty bed.
The fire had gone cold. The sheets still held the faint, musky scent of his wife, but she was not there. Nor in the kitchen. Nor out in the fields.
He searched frantically—calling her name, asking neighbors. No one had seen her. Only the youngest child, Mira, tugged on her mother's skirt and whispered, "I heard her. Last night. In the woods. She was singing… but it was a sad song."
By evening, he had reached the edge of the forest. He dared not go in, but he called her name into the mists. "Lina!" His voice cracked.
The only reply was a low, rhythmic sound, like moaning carried on the wind.
It came from deep inside the trees.
And it wasn't alone.
The villagers gathered by the edge of the forest the next day, called by the rising panic in Tomas's voice and the dread that lived in the roots of their bones. No one wanted to say it, but they all knew—Lina was not the first.
Old women exchanged glances over their shawls. Young wives clutched their husbands' arms. Even the children had grown quieter, their games left unfinished in the mud.
Father Brenik, the village priest, made the sign of the cross and muttered prayers, but his eyes lingered too long on the tree line.
"You said you heard… sounds?" he asked Tomas.
Tomas was pale, sweat beading his brow. "Moaning. Like she was… enjoying herself. And… not alone."
An audible shiver passed through the crowd.
The silence was finally broken by Maela, the herb woman. Her skin was lined like old bark, her hair a tangled crown of silver. "It's begun again," she rasped. "I warned them—warned all of you."
She hobbled forward, her walking stick sinking into the damp earth.
"It starts with the wind. Then the dreams. Then the women vanish."
The crowd parted around her like reeds in the current. They had heard her tales—dismissed them as the ramblings of an old crone, the fancies of fading memory. But now, with Lina gone, her words settled like ash on their tongues.
"There's something in the forest," Maela whispered, "something older than the village, older than our blood. It waits… it watches… and it wants."
She turned her eyes to the trees. "It takes their faces, their desires, their hopes. It wears them like masks. It makes them feel worshipped. And then, when they've given it everything—every moan, every cry, every sacred inch of who they are—it takes what's left."
She pointed a crooked finger at the woods. "And leaves nothing but a whisper."
Tomas shook his head, refusing to believe it. "No. She just… got lost. Or maybe she ran. Maybe she's angry at me—"
But even as he spoke, the wind picked up.
It carried a sound through the branches.
Soft.
Breathless.
Moaning.
Lina's voice, unmistakable.
Torn between pleasure and pain.
The sound passed over the villagers like a fever, and each turned away, afraid to admit what they had heard.
---
That night, no one slept.
Doors were bolted, candles kept burning to keep shadows at bay.
But the forest had already sunk its claws in.
Mira, the child who had first heard the singing, awoke at midnight to find her window open.
The mist curled into her room like a finger beckoning her back.
She heard Lina's voice—softer now, deeper—and behind it, something else.
"Come see."
She didn't go. But she would always remember the feeling.
Of being wanted.
Of being seen.
---
In the weeks that followed, the stories began.
They whispered that Lina had run away with a lover she'd kept secret.
That she'd grown tired of Tomas and the small life of the village.
Others insisted they'd seen a man at the edge of the forest—beautiful beyond reason, waiting for her beneath the willows.
But Maela knew better.
And so did Elira.
---
Far from the village, in a cabin swallowed by ivy and dusk, Elira knelt beside an old leather-bound journal. The pages were worn with time, the ink faded—but every word was hers.
She ran a finger along the final line:
"Desire is the truest form of surrender."
And then, beneath it, scrawled in darker ink:
"It's still alive."
She looked toward the window. The trees beyond swayed as if breathing. A low, strange murmur drifted through the branches.
The creature still hunted.
And it was her fault.