A small, cramped house in a village far from the capital.
The bedroom was small and smelled of damp straw and woodsmoke. Outside, the wind rattled the loose window frame, making a sound like fingernails scratching against the glass.
A single tallow candle sat on the stool by the bed. The flame was tiny and weak, struggling against the drafts that seeped through the cracks of mud-brick walls.
The little girl, Elara, pulled the thin wool blanket up to her chin. Her eyes were wide, fixed on the long, jerking shadows dancing on the ceiling.
Her mother sat on the edge of the mattress. Her hands are rough and red from scrubbing laundry, and her face looks older than it was in the dim light.
She didn't look at the girl: she looked at the door. Her eyes were full of unknown worry.
"Mama," the girl whispered. "Is the door locked?"
The mother didn't answer immediately. She went over and checked the iron bolt. It was rusted, but it was still held firmly in place.
"It locked Elara. Now lie still, the more you move, the more the floorboards creak."
"Tell me the story," the girl said, her voice trembling. "The one about the things that don't have a face."
The mother sighed, but she still looked at the girl and tucked the blanket tightly around the girl's feet.
"You know why I tell you that story, it is not for fun. It is so you don't go wandering past the well after the sun touches the hill."
The mother leaned in closer, her voice dropping in a low, raspy murmur. "In the dark place, where the Church's bell can't be heard, the Ghouls wait. They don't have skin like us. They have hides like wet leather, and they're as thin as a winter branch."
"Do they have teeth?" Elara asked, her breath hitching.
"They don't have teeth or they don't need teeth," the mother whispered. "They have a hole where a mouth should be. They don't want to eat your bread or your meat. They want warmth in your blood. They want to steal the breath right out of your lungs while you're sleeping."
The mother reached out and pinched the wick of the candle. The room plunged into near-total darkness, letting a faint light of the moon hit the floor.
Elara squeezed her eyes shut. In the sudden dark, the smell of the tallow smoke was thick and bitter. The darkness felt heavy, like a wet blanket draped over her face.
"They have long arms, arms as long as trees," the mother continued, her voice barely reaching Elara's ears. "Arms that can reach through a crack, no wonder than a kitchen knife. They don't make noise when they walk."
The floorboards creaked in the hallway. It was just the wood settling in the cold, but Elara stiffened. She felt her mother's hand move to her shoulder; the grip was firm and steady.
"That's why you must never cry in the night," the mother warned. "The Ghouls have no ears, but they feel the vibration of the sound. The Ghouls follow the sound like a dog follows the scent of a hare."
Elara tried to slow her breathing. She forced herself to stay perfectly still, even though her leg started to itch. She didn't want to make a single sound.
"And there are the Tall Ones," the mother whispered, her voice trembling with fear. "The ones the priests don't talk about. They don't hide in the darkness; they are the darkness. If you see a man standing in the field who is too tall and has no face, you don't run."
"What do I do?" Elara's voice was so small it was almost lost in the noise of the wind.
"You close your eyes, and you pray that you are too small for them to notice," the mother said. "You become like a stone. They only want the beings who had a spark left in them."
The mother leaned back. In the grey moonlight, Elara could see the silhouette of her mother's head.
She wasn't looking at her; she was staring outside, her gaze fixed on the treeline visible through the window.
"Is that why the boy from the bakery went away?" Elara asked.
The mother's hand tightened on the blanket. "He was loud, he thought he was fast and could escape. He ran into the woods when the sun was low, thinking the spark from the Church would protect him, but Elara, the spark from the Church, doesn't reach the woods."
A distant howl echoed through the hills. It didn't sound like a wolf. It was too high-pitched, like a woman screaming with a mouthful of water.
The mother stood up, walked to the window and closed it with the wooden latch.
She didn't use the candle. She used her fingers, tracing the familiar edges of the frame, to ensure it was sealed tight.
"Sleep now," the mother said, her voice regaining authority. "If you don't sleep, you will be tired in the morning. And a tired child is a slow child."
Elara turned onto her side, facing the wall. The straw inside the mattress crunched, sounding like bones breaking in the silence of the room. She tucked her hands, her chest hiding her palms.
"Mama?" Elara whispered one last time. "Does the Hero know about the Ghouls? Will he come to the village if they get through the wall?"
The mother paused at the doorway, her silhouette blocking the faint light from the other room. She stood still for a heartbeat.
"The hero is for kings and cities, Elara," the mother said bluntly. "He is a story for the sunshine. We are just people of the dirt. We have to save ourselves."
The mother stepped out and pulled the door shut. The click of the wooden latch sounded like a tomb closing.
Elara lay in the dark. She could hear her mother's footsteps moving away. Then the sound of a heavy chair being dragged across the floor to block the front door.
The wind outside intensified. It began to whistle through a small gap in the roof, a low, mournful note that sounded like a flute.
Elara focused on the sound of her own heart.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
Thump-thump.
It felt too loud for her. She was worried the things in the woods could hear it. She squeezed her eyes shut until she saw red spots.
Suddenly, a branch snapped outside the window. It was as if something had stepped on it.
Elara froze; she even stopped breathing. She remembered her mother's words; become like a stone, cold and still.
Against the grey moonlight, a shadow appeared. It was long and thin, with fingers that had too many joints. It just leaned there, like a black smudge against the night.
The shadow stood there for a minute or two. It seemed to be listening, waiting for something like the spark. Elara's lungs were about to give up; the whole time, she didn't dare to breathe.
Finally, the shadow drifted away, vanishing into the night sky. Elara tried slowly drifting into sleep and woke up when the sun began to rise.