The Piper
The stench of death clings to everything. It’s in the air, thick and sour, making each breath a battle. It’s in the dirt, soaked deep from the rain that fell too late to wash the sickness away. Even the rats reek of it, their fur matted and oily as they scuttle over the corpses they helped create. They’re everywhere now, bold and unafraid, like an invading army that’s already won.
I sit near what’s left of the barn, though it’s hardly a barn anymore. Just a skeleton of wood and ash, brittle and blackened. My knees are pulled to my chest, my breath curling in faint clouds before disappearing into the cold. I haven’t eaten in days. The last loaf went moldy before I could bring myself to choke it down, and the sight of it turned my stomach. But hunger doesn’t matter much anymore. Nothing does.
They’re all gone. Ma, Pa, even little Annette. She was first last, her tiny body limp and hot with fever, her eyes dull as she looked at me for the final time. I couldn’t even bury her. The ground’s too hard, and the rats come no matter how deep you dig.
The others in the village don’t fare much better. We’re all waiting—for death, for salvation, for something to end this. It’s been weeks since the last priest fled, his robes flapping like a crow’s wings as he disappeared down the road. He didn’t even leave his crucifix. Just a prayer whispered too fast to mean anything.
“God help us,” the elders mutter when they’re not coughing. But God’s not here. If He was, the rats wouldn’t be.
Then I see him.
It starts with the sound, soft at first, like a bird’s song carried on the wind. A melody so gentle it barely registers against the howling in my head. But it grows louder, more intricate, weaving through the air like thread through a needle. My body tenses, my gaze snapping to the road.
He’s coming up the hill, a figure so out of place it makes my eyes ache. He’s dressed in bright colors, reds and yellows that shimmer even in the pale, sickly light. His hat is wide-brimmed and tilted, a long feather bobbing with every step. He’s playing a flute—a small, wooden thing that seems too plain to make such enchanting music. As the flute touches his lips, I catch a glimpse of his beard, coiled and dark, curling unnaturally like vines growing in fast motion. His nails, long and sharp, glint faintly as his fingers dance over the instrument, their movements unnervingly precise.
The villagers notice him too. Faces peek from behind broken shutters, their eyes hollow and suspicious. No one moves, not even the dogs, though they usually bark at anything that’s not starving like the rest of us. The music reaches us all, a ripple in the still, fetid air, and for a moment, the rats seem to freeze.
“It’s him,” someone whispers, though I don’t see who. The words spread like wildfire.
“The Piper.”
“They hired him.”
“The knights brought him to save us.”
I’ve heard the stories. A man from a faraway land, summoned by nobles and kings to drive out the rats. He’s said to have rid whole cities of them, his music a magic that bends even nature to his will. But stories are just stories, and I’ve learned not to trust them. Still, I can’t look away.
He reaches the center of the village and stops, lowering the flute. His face is half-hidden by a mask, jester-like with sharp edges and painted eyes that don’t blink. The real ones beneath are dark, unreadable, glinting faintly in a way that makes my stomach churn. He surveys us, his gaze sweeping over the ruins, the filth, the people clinging to what’s left of their lives.
“Who hired him?” someone finally asks, their voice trembling.
“The knights,” another replies. “They’re paying him with the king’s coin.”
“Will it work?”
The Piper doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. He lifts the flute to his lips and begins to play again, the melody different now. It’s livelier, more intricate, winding through the air like ivy climbing a wall. The rats stir. At first, just a few, their noses twitching as if caught by an invisible scent. Then more, until the streets seem alive with their movement. They’re coming out of the shadows, the alleys, the holes they’ve gnawed into our homes. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
The music changes again, faster, sharper, and the rats follow. They swarm toward the Piper, their beady eyes glinting in the dim light. My chest tightens as I watch, a strange mix of hope and dread clawing at me. He starts to walk, his steps deliberate, the rats flowing around his boots like a living river.
“Where is he taking them?” I ask aloud, though no one answers. The villagers stand frozen, their faces masks of fear and awe. The Piper leads the rats away, down the road and out of sight, the music fading with every step.
When the last note vanishes, the silence crashes down like a wave. For the first time in weeks, I hear the wind again, the creak of wood, the distant cry of a crow. But the hope doesn’t last. The Piper will come back, they say. He always does. And he always asks for payment.
I wonder what we have left to give.
The Payment
It has been only days since the Piper saved the kingdom. The rats are gone, swept away like a foul tide, leaving the streets eerily clean. The air no longer carries the rancid stench of decay, but something else—an emptiness that feels heavier than the plague ever did. People whisper about him now, huddled in their doorways, eyes darting nervously toward the castle. The Piper has returned, they say, to speak with the king. To collect what he is owed.
The scene at the castle unfolds like a play performed behind closed curtains, but the rumors are louder than any herald’s horn. The Piper, with his bright colors and strange mask, stood before the throne, his voice calm and measured, demanding payment. The king, they say, refused, his gaunt face impassive as he waved a dismissive hand. It was the knights who broke the tension, their laughter echoing through the halls like the clash of steel. They had tricked him, they boasted. Made him work for free. A charlatan like him didn’t deserve the king’s gold.
The Piper’s departure was not quiet. He stormed from the castle, his footsteps sharp against the stone, his presence radiating an anger so thick it clung to the air long after he was gone. The knights laughed still, their voices booming like thunder as they drank to their cleverness. The Piper’s colorful figure disappeared into the horizon, swallowed by the distant snow-capped mountains. By nightfall, the village was silent again, though the unease lingered like a shadow.
I was asleep when the music began. It started faint, threading through my dreams like a warm river. A melody so soft it felt like a whisper, pulling me from the depths of my slumber. My eyes opened to the dark, my body heavy with sleep, but the music kept playing, growing louder and richer, winding through the air like smoke.
I sat up, my breath misting in the cold. The room was quiet but for the faint, haunting tune drifting through the cracks in the walls. It filled me, not with fear, but with an overwhelming sense of calm. My feet touched the floor before I realized I had moved, the rough wood cool against my skin. The music tugged at me, gentle but insistent, like a mother’s hand guiding a wayward child.
Outside, the village was alive with motion. Shadows flitted between houses, small and silent. Children, dozens of them, moving as though caught in the same spell. Some crawled, others stumbled, their movements clumsy yet determined. I joined them, my legs carrying me forward without thought. The air was cold, biting at my cheeks, but the music wrapped around me like a cloak, soothing and sweet.
I saw faces I recognized—Thomas, who always begged at the market; little Agnes, her doll dragging in the snow; even Jonah, who had cried for days when his sister was taken by the plague. None of them spoke. None of us did. We didn’t need to. The music filled the spaces where words would have been, weaving us together into something larger, something inescapable.
We passed the gates of the village, left ajar as if waiting for us. The guards were nowhere to be seen, their posts abandoned. Beyond the walls, the road stretched into the dark, lined with frost-covered trees that seemed to shimmer in the moonlight. We followed the music, our footsteps soft against the frozen ground, our breaths a collective mist that hung in the air like ghostly chains.
I didn’t know where we were going. None of us did. But the music pulled us onward, its melody twisting and turning like a winding path. My thoughts felt distant, hazy, as though they belonged to someone else. All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. None of us could.
The kingdom fell away behind us, its walls and towers fading into the black. The music grew louder, richer, as though it was leading us into the heart of something vast and ancient.
The dark road ahead shifted, the straight path dissolving into a maze of tangled roots and twisted branches. The trees seemed to grow taller with each step, their skeletal arms weaving together overhead to block out the moonlight. Shadows danced across the snow, though no wind stirred to move them, and the air hung still and heavy, suffocating even the faintest sound. Every breath felt as if it carried weight, a sensation that pressed down on my chest, turning the simple act of living into a labor.
At the center of it all stood the Piper. He didn’t look back, but the music guided us like an unseen hand, pulling us forward. His colors burned unnaturally bright in the darkness, the red and yellow of his clothes shimmering as though lit from within. The mask, sharp and painted, caught the light of the moon whenever it broke through the canopy, its hollow eyes glinting like a predator’s gaze, emotionless and unrelenting. His figure seemed less human with every step, the sharp edges of his mask blending with the darkness, as if he were an extension of the forest itself.
Shapes moved in the corners of my vision, things I couldn’t fully see but knew were there. Creatures crouched on low branches, their forms spindly and wrong, their eyes too many and too wide. Some clung to the trunks of the trees, their fingers long and knotted like vines, their faces split by mouths that gaped in silent song. Others skittered across the forest floor, their legs moving too quickly, their bodies barely brushing the ground. The air crackled with their presence, a hum just below the music’s melody, sharp and electric, as if the forest itself was vibrating with life and malice. There were whispers too, faint and indistinct, carried by a breeze that didn’t stir the branches above.
The further we walked, the more the world changed. Snow melted into soft moss beneath our feet, and the cold air grew heavy and damp, clinging to my skin like a second layer. The trees thickened, their bark glistening with moisture, their roots curling above the ground like the ribs of some great beast. The forest seemed alive, its groans and creaks blending with the Piper’s tune, a harmony both beautiful and dreadful. Even the moss seemed to pulse faintly beneath our steps, as if it shared the music’s rhythm, its soft glow casting faint light on the path ahead.
We passed under archways of woven branches, their ends bound together with glistening strands that shone like silk but reeked of something sour, acrid like burnt hair. Pools of water reflected the Piper’s figure, though they showed nothing of the children trailing behind him. I saw shapes in the water, faces that rippled and disappeared before I could understand them—faces too human to belong there, yet too twisted to be real. At times, the reflections seemed to move before we did, distorted versions of ourselves walking ahead of the Piper, lost in a realm between reality and nightmare.
The others walked without hesitation, their eyes blank and unfocused, their steps sure even as the ground turned slick and uneven. I stumbled, catching myself on the jagged edge of a stone that jutted from the earth like a broken tooth. The stones grew more frequent, their surfaces etched with grooves that spiraled and twisted, the patterns making my head throb if I stared too long. The air grew warmer, the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves filling my nose, a stark contrast to the crisp cold we’d left behind. Each breath felt heavier, as if the forest were pressing against my lungs, sapping strength with every step. My legs ached, and the soles of my feet stung, but the music pulled me forward without mercy.
The labyrinth deepened, each turn revealing new impossibilities. A tree split down its middle like a gaping wound, its insides glowing with a faint, sickly light. A creature perched on a low boulder, its shape obscured by a shifting cloak of feathers that seemed to melt into its surroundings. Another crouched beside a shallow stream, its limbs impossibly thin, its face featureless but for a single, unblinking eye that tracked us as we passed. Beneath the stream’s surface, glimmers of movement betrayed something serpentine that twisted and coiled in perfect rhythm with the Piper’s tune. The sound of the stream wasn’t natural; it was hollow, metallic, as if the water were running through pipes deep beneath the ground.
The Piper led us onward, his figure weaving through the narrowing path, his music never faltering. Stones gave way to water, shallow pools spreading out into a glistening mire. The ground sucked at my feet, the moss replaced by slick mud that clung to my boots and squelched with every step. The air was thick now, humid and heavy, each breath a struggle. The mud seemed alive, clinging and tugging at us like unseen hands, slow but unyielding. In the deeper pools, shapes glided just below the surface, their outlines faint but unmistakably wrong—too large, too angular, their eyes glowing faintly before disappearing into the murk.
The forest no longer resembled the world I had known. The snowy hamlet with its walls and towers felt like a distant memory, a dream fading into the haze of the swamp. Here, the trees loomed impossibly high, their trunks gnarled and dripping with green-black slime. The water mirrored the sky, an endless expanse of gray broken only by the faint glow of something moving beneath the surface. Strange shapes hovered just below, their outlines murky, their movements deliberate, sending ripples that distorted the reflection of the canopy above. The occasional splash echoed, and with each one, my heart seized, though the music never faltered.
Still, we followed. The music compelled us, its melody shifting as the forest did, growing darker, heavier, until it felt as though it was pulling us into the earth itself. My thoughts were a fog, the edges of my mind fraying with each step. I no longer knew how long we had been walking or how far we had gone. All I knew was the Piper, the music, and the endless, twisting forest swallowing us whole. Behind me, the children moved in unison, their small, pale faces bathed in the strange light of the swamp. Ahead, the Piper’s mask glinted once more, a beacon leading us into a world that was no longer ours. The world I had known was gone, swallowed by this new one where the rules felt rewritten, and even the stars above seemed foreign, their faint light twisted into unfamiliar constellations.
The music stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The silence that followed was suffocating, pressing down on the grove like a physical weight. The children, once moving in perfect unison, came to an abrupt halt, their wide eyes blinking slowly as if waking from a deep dream. I felt the fog in my mind begin to lift, though the air around us was thick with something far heavier than humidity. It was as if the grove itself was holding its breath, watching, waiting to see what would unfold next.
The space was unlike anything I had ever seen, both awe-inspiring and unnerving. We stood in a hollow encircled by towering reeds that swayed without wind, their tips shimmering faintly as though catching a light that didn’t exist. Massive rocks jutted out from the ground, their surfaces etched with spiraling grooves that glowed faintly with a pale, silvery light. Trees unlike any I’d known loomed overhead, their gnarled branches twisting together in unnatural patterns, forming a canopy of leaves that shimmered like molten gold and cast an otherworldly glow. The ground beneath my feet was soft, a carpet of moss that seemed to pulse faintly with each step, alive with an energy I could feel but not understand.
At the center of it all stood the Piper. For the first time, he turned to face us fully. The mask, its painted eyes hollow and unfeeling, seemed almost human in comparison to the grove around him. He stood there, silent, his head cocked slightly as if considering his audience. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and removed the mask.
The face beneath was not a face at all, at least not one that belonged to any man. His skin was a mottled brown, coarse and textured like bark. His eyes, black as a starless void, seemed to swallow the light around them, pulling it into their depths. His nose was broad and flat, his nostrils flaring as if tasting the air. His mouth was wide, too wide, with lips that curled back to reveal sharp, uneven teeth. Horns spiraled out from his forehead, curling like the branches of the trees that surrounded him, their surfaces rough and glistening with a sheen of something wet and unnatural.
He shrugged off his bright clothes, letting them fall to the mossy ground without care. What remained was something neither man nor beast. His torso was powerful, his chest broad and covered in coarse, wiry hair that grew thicker as it descended. His legs were bent, the joints oddly angled, and his feet ended in cloven hooves that struck the moss with a dull thud as he stepped forward. Every movement was fluid yet unnervingly deliberate, like a predator savoring its prey. The way his muscles coiled beneath his skin as he moved made him seem more animal than human, more ancient than either.
When he spoke, the sound was not a voice but a force. It rumbled through the grove, a low, guttural vibration that seemed to rise from the earth itself. My knees buckled as the sound washed over me, my body trembling with a fear I couldn’t name. The children around me whimpered, some falling to the ground, their hands covering their ears as if that could block it out. But the sound was everywhere, inside and outside, a presence that could not be escaped, seeping into the very marrow of my bones.
“You have come,” he said, though the words were more felt than heard. They resonated in my bones, each syllable like the tolling of a great bell. “You have followed, as all do. And now you are mine.”
He raised his hands, his fingers long and clawed, and gestured to the grove around him. The reeds swayed more violently, their tips glowing brighter, and the trees seemed to lean closer, their branches creaking as they moved. The rocks hummed with a low vibration, the grooves on their surfaces shifting and spiraling in patterns that made my head ache to look at. The air thickened further, heavy with a charge that prickled my skin, as though the grove itself were alive and responding to his presence.
The children did not speak. They stood frozen, their faces blank and pale, their eyes fixed on him with a mixture of awe and terror. I wanted to scream, to run, to do anything but stand there, but my body refused to obey. The weight of his presence was too much, pinning me in place like an insect under glass. My breath hitched, my chest tightening as though the air itself had turned against me, crushing and unyielding.
“Long have I waited,” he continued, his voice a rumble that made the ground beneath us tremble. “Long have I called. And now you are here.”
He stepped closer, his hooves sinking into the moss with each step. The grove seemed to shiver around him, the air growing thicker, heavier, until it felt as though I was breathing through water. His gaze swept over us, lingering on each child in turn, his lips curling into something that might have been a smile but held no warmth. When his eyes met mine, I felt my chest tighten, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. There was no escape from those eyes, no reprieve from the cold certainty they carried.
“You will give,” he said, his voice softer now but no less terrible. “You will give, as all must.”
The grove fell silent again, the only sound the faint rustle of the reeds and the shallow, panicked breaths of the children. He stood there, towering over us, a creature of ancient power and unrelenting malice, and for the first time, I understood that we were never meant to leave. The grove was not a sanctuary; it was a prison, and he, its warden.
The first child stepped forward without hesitation. His face was blank, his movements slow and mechanical, as though the music still controlled him even though it had ceased. The Piper—no, the thing that had been the Piper—stood waiting, its black eyes gleaming with a cold, predatory light. It beckoned with one long, clawed finger, and the child obeyed, moving toward him with an eerie calm that made my stomach churn.
I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t look away either. My legs felt as though they were rooted in the moss, my body paralyzed by a fear so profound it stole even the will to scream. The grove seemed to close in around us, the reeds swaying violently, the trees groaning as if they were alive and straining against their own twisted forms. The air was thick with an oppressive heat that made it hard to breathe, each gulp of it clinging to my throat like smoke.
The creature’s claws moved with a precision that was almost tender as it stripped the child of his clothes, exposing pale, trembling flesh to the humid air. The child made no sound, his head tilted upward as though in a trance. Then came the sound—a low, guttural wail that rose into a scream so raw and piercing it seemed to split the very air. I turned away, my stomach lurching as bile rose in my throat. The scream didn’t stop. It only grew louder, joined by the wet, sickening sounds of flesh and bone meeting an unrelenting force.
Another child moved forward. Then another. The procession was slow but relentless, like a macabre ritual unfolding before my unwilling eyes. Each time, the same thing: the blank stares, the trembling, the screams that tore through the grove and echoed back in distorted fragments. I pressed my hands over my ears, trying to block it out, but the sound seeped through, crawling into my skull like a living thing.
I squeezed my eyes shut, but the images were burned there, vivid and unrelenting. The thing’s claws glinting in the pale light. The children’s vacant expressions breaking into terror as the spell shattered in their final moments. The moss beneath them growing darker, slick with something that glistened and pulsed like the grove itself was feeding on their pain.
“You will give,” the creature’s voice rumbled, the words reverberating through my soul. “As all must.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. My legs, heavy as they were, began to move. I stumbled backward, my boots slipping on the slick moss. I turned my gaze away from the horror before me, focusing on the towering reeds that surrounded the grove. They swayed violently, their tips glowing with an unnatural light, but beyond them, I thought I could see darkness—a vast, impenetrable black that seemed to stretch on forever.
I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to go. I had to leave this place, even if it meant running into the unknown. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat like a drum driving me forward. The screams behind me grew louder, more desperate, but I forced myself not to look back. I couldn’t. If I did, I knew I would never move again.
The reeds were like iron bars, their stalks unyielding as I shoved against them. They cut at my skin, their edges sharp as blades, drawing blood that trickled down my arms and legs. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one filling my lungs with the thick, humid air that reeked of decay. My hands clawed at the reeds, pulling and tearing and splintering, the pain in my fingers a small price to pay for the hope of escape.
The grove resisted. The ground beneath me shifted and buckled, as though it were alive and trying to pull me back. My boots sank into the moss, now a viscous sludge that clung to my feet and tried to hold me in place. The reeds seemed to grow taller, their tips curling downward as if to trap me in their embrace. The light from the glowing grooves in the rocks pulsed faster, their patterns shifting in ways that made my head spin.
Still, I pushed on. My mind was a haze of fear and determination, each step a battle against the grove itself. The screams faded behind me, or perhaps I had moved far enough that they could no longer reach my ears. My hands bled freely, the cuts stinging as I tore at the reeds with renewed desperation. Somewhere in the distance, I thought I heard the creature’s voice, low and rumbling, but I couldn’t make out the words. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t let it stop me.
The darkness beyond the reeds seemed closer now, the black expanse stretching out like an endless sea. My vision blurred with tears and exhaustion, but I kept moving, my body screaming in protest. The grove fought me every step of the way, but I refused to stop. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.
My fingers finally broke through the last of the reeds, their sharp edges slicing deep into my palms as I pushed forward. The ground beneath me shifted again, harder and more solid than the moss and sludge I had been trudging through. The air was different, cooler and thinner, and I gasped as it filled my lungs. I didn’t know where I was or if I had truly escaped, but for the first time, I dared to hope.
The air here was cool, crisp, and lighter than the oppressive weight of the grove. My legs wobbled beneath me, and my hands stung where the reeds had torn them, but I was free. I could feel it in my bones. The nightmare was behind me.
Then I heard it—the faint, high-pitched tinkling of bells. At first, it was distant, almost gentle, but it grew louder, sharper, like shards of glass tumbling together. It wasn’t music. It was something wrong, something alive. I froze, my breath catching in my throat, every muscle in my body screaming to move. Before I could decide what to do, it was on me.
The creature struck like a shadow, flitting from the darkness so quickly I barely had time to react. It wasn’t much bigger than a babe, but its form was grotesque, a mockery of human shape. Its limbs were too long and thin, its fingers ending in curved claws that gleamed in the faint light. Its skin was pale, almost translucent, and stretched tightly over its bones, giving it the appearance of a living corpse. Wings sprouted from its back, but they were tattered and veined like a dead leaf caught in autumn wind. Its face was the worst of all—hollow, gaunt, with wide, lidless eyes that glowed faintly, held dark black bulges around them and a mouth filled with jagged, needle-like teeth. Its smile was a twisted thing, too wide for its face, revealing gums blackened and glistening as it hissed with delight.
It moved with impossible speed, its claws slashing through the air. I stumbled backward, raising my arms to shield myself, but it was no use. The claws ripped through my sleeve, slicing deep into my forearm. I cried out in pain, falling to my knees as blood dripped onto the cold wet ground. The creature’s laughter was high-pitched and grating, like metal scraping against stone, and it circled me with a predatory grace. Its wings flared, though they barely seemed capable of flight, propelling it forward with misproportioned efficiency.
I scrambled to my feet, clutching my injured arm, and swung wildly at it with my free hand. My fist connected with its bony shoulder, and it hissed, recoiling slightly. But it wasn’t enough. It darted forward again, its claws raking across my chest and sending me sprawling to the ground. I gasped for air, the pain sharp and searing, as the creature loomed over me, its wings twitching erratically. Its glowing eyes bore into me, full of cruel amusement, as though it savored the chase.
“No escapes from Pan,” it said, its voice a chilling whisper that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The words sent a shiver down my spine, and I forced myself to roll away just as its claws plunged into the dirt where my head had been. I scrambled backward, my hands and feet slipping on the uneven ground, as it advanced with slow, deliberate steps. The ground seemed to thrum beneath its feet, as if the forest itself acknowledged its presence.
I grabbed a rock from the ground and hurled it at the creature, striking it squarely in the chest. It let out a shriek of rage, its glowing eyes narrowing as it lunged at me again. This time, I managed to dodge, the claws narrowly missing my face. I grabbed a thick branch, swinging it wildly in an attempt to keep the creature at bay. The makeshift weapon struck its side, and it let out a screech, stumbling slightly before regaining its balance. But the force of my swing jarred my already trembling hands, and the branch slipped from my grip, leaving me defenseless once more.
The scuffle felt endless, a desperate struggle for survival against a being far stronger and faster than I could ever hope to be. It slashed at me again and again, its claws carving deep gashes into my arms and legs. Blood soaked my clothes, and my vision blurred with pain and exhaustion. My breath came in ragged gasps, the taste of iron and sweat thick on my tongue. I knew I couldn’t keep this up much longer.
Then it struck the final blow. Its claws sliced through my wrist with a force that made my entire arm go numb. I stared in horror as my hand fell to the ground, blood spurting from the stump. A scream tore from my throat, raw and broken, as I fell to my knees. The creature loomed over me, its jagged teeth bared in a triumphant grin, twitching. Its wings spread wide, casting pale shadows that danced like specters around us.
“No escapes from Pan,” it repeated, raising its claws for the killing strike. Its voice was a mocking echo, the final toll of a death knell that reverberated through my very soul.
But the blow never came. There was a blur of movement behind the creature, and suddenly, it froze. A low, guttural gasp escaped its throat as a stone dagger pierced through its chest, the blade glinting with a dull, ancient light. The creature’s wings flared out, twitching violently, before it collapsed to the ground in a heap. Its glowing eyes dimmed, the cruel light within them extinguished as its body convulsed one final time.
I looked up, my vision swimming, to see a man standing over the creature’s body. He was tall and lean, his face shadowed beneath a makeshift hood. His clothes were rough and travel-worn, and his eyes burned with a fierce intensity as he looked down at me. He pulled the dagger from the creature’s body, the blade slick with black ichor, and crouched beside me. His presence was a stark contrast to the chaos of the fight—a solid, grounding force in the shifting madness around us.
“You’re lucky,” he said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying the weight of someone who had seen far too much. “Few survive the fair ones.”
The world spun around me, my strength fading rapidly. The man’s face blurred as darkness crept into the edges of my vision. The last thing I saw was the dagger, its surface etched with intricate symbols that glowed faintly in the dim light, before everything went black. The faint ringing of the bells lingered in my ears, a haunting echo that promised this wasn’t over.
The Cost
It has been years since the day I stumbled out of Pan’s grove, bleeding and broken, into the arms of the man who saved me. His name was never spoken, not by him nor anyone else, but he was the one who brought me to the Lost Boys. They were not a band of heroes, but survivors, like me, pulled from the brink of death and taught to navigate the nightmare that was Pan’s forest by the survivors before them.
The forest is ever-changing. Its trees always twisting and growing, their gnarled branches stretching endlessly into a canopy that chokes out even the faintest light. The streams flow with waters that seem to hum, as though alive, their ripples forming patterns that shift when no one is looking. The air is heavy with the cloying scent of decay, a constant reminder that nothing truly thrives here. I have grown older in this place, though time feels irrelevant. Days and nights bleed together under the oppressive sky, and even my memories of a life before Pan’s forest feel like fragments of someone else’s dream. I’ve learned to live off the land, though nothing here is safe. Each bite of fruit is bitter and foreign, its juices leaving an aftertaste that lingers too long. The animals are lean and wary, their eyes too intelligent, their movements unnatural. Every hunt feels like a challenge to the forest itself, a test of whether it will allow me to continue.
The Lost Boys saved my life, though their methods were far from gentle. They stopped the bleeding, their hands rough and practiced, and stitched my wounds with threads pulled from the reeds that grow near Pan’s grove. They fed me, their food barely more than scraps scavenged from the forest floor, and nursed me back to strength. When they saw the stump where my hand had been, they forged a replacement from the black stones that glisten in the forest streams. The hook they crafted is sharp and jagged, its surface rough and unpolished. It is not elegant, but it is strong, a tool as much as a weapon. It has become an extension of me, a symbol of what I lost and what I have become.
The man who saved me never explained much. He didn’t need to. The Lost Boys’ stories are all the same. Children drawn into the grove by Pan’s flute, lured by its haunting melody, only to be devoured by the monster who wears the mask. Those who escape are the lucky few, but even they are forever changed. The forest is relentless, its horrors unyielding, its dangers constant. Girls rarely make it to our camp. They are too small, too fragile to survive the grove’s trials. Most are claimed by Pan before they can even begin to run. The girls who manage to escape Pan rarely survive long; they are used by the boys in ways I will not describe. It is a truth we do not speak of, one buried beneath the weight of our collective shame. It is an unspoken rule among us: some truths are better left buried.
There are whispers among the Lost Boys about what lies beyond the forest. Some say there is nothing, that this place stretches forever in all directions, a closed world where Pan reigns supreme. Others believe the forest is a labyrinth, its boundaries twisted and reshaped by Pan’s will, trapping us in an endless loop. No one has found proof. No one has returned with tales of escape. I have dreamed of home, of the village I left behind, but even those memories feel faded and unreal, like the remnants of a long-forgotten story.
We call this place Neverland. The name started as a bitter joke among the older boys, whispered in the dark as we huddled around our campfires. “We’ll never leave, we’ll never grow old, and we’ll never know anything beyond these cursed trees,” they’d say, their laughter brittle and hollow. But the name stuck. It fit too well, this place where time spirals endlessly, where the sun never rises high enough to banish the shadows, and where hope is a thing you bury deep to avoid its sting.
Here, the forest is its own world, boundless and unyielding, with its labyrinth of reeds, streams, and ancient trees that seem to watch your every move. The name feels like both a mockery and a warning. Neverland. Never out. Never free. Never safe.
Within Neverland, the Lost Boys have taught me to survive, to fight, to endure. We move in silence through the forest, hunting what we can, avoiding the creatures that stalk the shadows. The fairy that took my hand was not the only one of its kind. They flit through the trees, their glowing eyes watching, their laughter echoing in the dark. The reeds near the grove still sway without wind, their tips glowing faintly, a constant reminder of the place where Pan waits. Each time I see them, a chill runs down my spine, and I tighten my grip on my hook.
Tonight, as I sit by the dim glow of our campfire, I hear it again. The sound of the flute. It drifts through the trees, faint but unmistakable, its melody weaving through the forest like a thread pulling at my mind. The others hear it too. Their faces grow tight, their movements sharp. We all know what it means. Another group of children has been lured into the forest.
I grip the hilt of my hook, the jagged edge biting into my palm. My heart pounds as the familiar dread rises within me. The flute’s melody is softer now, almost gentle, but I know better. I know what lies at the end of that sound. I know what waits for those children. My chest tightens as memories flood back, sharp and painful, but I push them aside. There is no room for weakness here.
We move as one, silent and swift, slipping through the shadows of the forest. The flute grows louder, its notes winding through the trees, pulling us forward. I can see their shapes now, small figures stumbling through the underbrush, their faces slack, their eyes wide and empty. The grove looms in the distance, its glowing reeds swaying, its twisted trees reaching out like skeletal hands.
We will try to save them. We always do. Some we manage to pull back, to break from the trance and bring into our fold. But most… most never make it out. Pan always gets what he wants.
The melody crescendos, the grove glowing brighter as we draw near. My hook gleams faintly in the dim light, a cruel reflection of the man I have become. Each step feels heavier, the weight of countless failures pressing down on me, but I keep moving. I have to. The children’s faces, pale and frightened, blur together with those I could not save before. I clench my jaw, pushing back the despair. This time will be different. It has to be.
The flute plays on, its song echoing through the endless, ancient forest. The grove comes into view, its reeds swaying in time with the melody, its twisted branches forming an ominous awning. The children are close now, their small, fragile forms illuminated by the faint glow of the grove. My breath catches in my throat as I step into the shadows, the hook in my hand gleaming like a sliver of hope in the encroaching darkness.
The forest watches, silent and unyielding, as we prepare to face Pan once more as we listen to that damned flute.