The Horned

The village of Dunharrow had lived in the shadow of the forest for centuries. A dense, impenetrable stretch of ancient trees that loomed on the horizon, it had always been a place of mystery and superstition. The villagers avoided it, and for good reason—every few decades, something from within the forest would come for them.

The stories had been passed down through generations, growing more sinister with each telling. They spoke of ‘The Horned’, a creature that roamed the forest during the darkest nights of the year, a towering beast with twisted horns and glowing eyes. Its appearance was said to bring misfortune, death, or worse. But no one alive had seen it, or at least no one who had survived to tell the tale.

Margaret had grown up hearing these stories from her grandmother, who swore the creature was real. She had been a child the last time it came, decades ago, and had heard the screams of those who vanished. It was said that The Horned took its sacrifices and dragged them back into the forest, never to be seen again.

For years, the village had been safe, protected by an ancient ritual performed by the village elders. But this year, the signs had returned—strange markings on the trees, cattle found slaughtered in the fields, and a creeping sense of dread that settled over Dunharrow like a heavy fog. The elders whispered that the ritual’s power had waned. And that The Horned would come again.

Margaret wasn’t one to believe in such tales, but as the days grew shorter and colder, even she couldn’t shake the unease that had settled over her. The village was on edge, the air thick with fear. Her father, the village blacksmith, had dismissed the talk as nonsense, but her grandmother’s warning stayed with her.

“The forest remembers,” her grandmother had said, her voice low and gravelly with age. “And The Horned never forgets its due.”

The Festival Night

The annual harvest festival was meant to be a time of joy and celebration, a way to banish the darkness that crept in with winter’s approach. Bonfires were lit, food and drink flowed freely, and music filled the village square. But this year, the festivities felt hollow. The villagers danced and laughed, but their eyes kept darting to the edge of the forest, as though expecting to see glowing eyes watching from the shadows.

Margaret tried to enjoy the evening, but her thoughts kept returning to the forest, to the stories of The Horned. She had always been skeptical, but something about the way the elders had acted in recent weeks—their hushed conversations, the nervous glances they exchanged—had unnerved her.

As the night wore on, a thick fog rolled in from the forest, blanketing the village in a cold, damp mist. The bonfires flickered, casting long, eerie shadows across the square. The music faltered, and the laughter quieted as the villagers began to feel the weight of the fog pressing in on them.

Margaret’s heart raced as she stood by the fire, watching as the fog thickened. The wind picked up, carrying with it a faint, distant sound—a low, guttural moan that seemed to come from deep within the forest.

Her grandmother’s words echoed in her mind. The Horned never forgets its due.

Suddenly, the village’s elder, a stooped man named Father Edwin, stepped onto the stage in the center of the square. His face was pale, his hands trembling as he raised them to quiet the crowd.

“The time has come,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet it carried through the fog like a ghostly wind. “The Horned has returned.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd, a wave of fear and disbelief. Margaret’s stomach twisted as the fog seemed to grow darker, the forest behind Father Edwin looming like a black wall of shadow.

“We must make the offering,” Father Edwin continued, his voice shaking. “It is the only way to appease the creature and save our village.”

The villagers began to mutter, their fear giving way to confusion. “Offering? What offering?” someone shouted from the back of the crowd.

Father Edwin swallowed hard, his face ashen. “The old ways demand a sacrifice. The Horned will not leave without its due.”

Margaret’s blood ran cold. She had heard the stories, of course, but never had she believed they would come to this. Surely this was madness—this was a modern world, not some ancient time of superstition.

But as the wind howled through the trees and that eerie, guttural moan echoed again from the forest, she wasn’t so sure.

The Mark

Panic spread through the crowd. People began shouting, arguing, some demanding answers while others made for their homes, trying to escape the growing sense of doom.

Margaret looked to her father, his strong face set in a frown. “We won’t stand for this,” he muttered. “No one’s going to be sacrificed.”

But as they turned to leave, Father Edwin’s voice rang out again, this time louder, more frantic.

“The mark! The mark will decide.”

Margaret stopped in her tracks, her heart pounding in her chest. The mark? Her grandmother had spoken of it—an ancient sign that appeared on the chosen, the one destined for sacrifice.

“The one who bears the mark must go,” Father Edwin said, his voice breaking. “We have no choice.”

Margaret’s throat went dry. She glanced around, and in the flickering light of the bonfires, she saw the fear mirrored in every face. The villagers began to check each other, lifting sleeves and pulling down collars, searching for the mark of The Horned.

And then Margaret felt it—a burning sensation on her forearm.

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, trembling, she lifted her sleeve.

There, on her pale skin, was the mark.

A twisted, blackened shape, like the horns of a great beast, burned into her flesh as if by an invisible brand. The pain was sharp and searing, but it was the sight of it that filled her with dread.

“The mark,” a voice gasped from nearby.

Margaret’s father grabbed her arm, his face pale as death. “No. No, it can’t be.”

But there it was—the unmistakable symbol of The Horned. The crowd turned to stare, their eyes wide with horror and disbelief. Whispers spread like wildfire.

“She’s the one.”

“She’s been chosen.”

“We have to give her up, or we’ll all be cursed.”

Margaret’s heart pounded in her chest. This couldn’t be happening. She had never believed in the stories, in the old superstitions. But the mark on her arm was real, as real as the terror in the villagers’ eyes.

“No,” her father growled, stepping in front of her, shielding her from the crowd. “You’re not taking her.”

Father Edwin shook his head, tears in his eyes. “It’s not our choice. The Horned has chosen her. If we don’t make the offering, it will come for all of us.”

Margaret’s mind raced. She wanted to scream, to run, but the mark burned on her skin, a constant reminder of the ancient pact that had been made long before her time.

Suddenly, the fog around them thickened, swirling and darkening until the village square was barely visible. The wind howled louder, and the ground beneath their feet seemed to tremble. And then, from the forest, it came.

The sound of hooves, slow and deliberate, echoed through the mist.

The villagers fell silent, their faces drained of color. Margaret felt her blood turn to ice as the figure emerged from the fog.

The Horned.

It was larger than she could have imagined, towering over the villagers, its massive horns spiraling from its head like the branches of a twisted tree. Its body was covered in thick, black fur, its eyes glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. The air around it crackled with a malevolent energy, as though the very earth recoiled from its presence.

The creature’s eyes locked onto Margaret, and she felt its gaze pierce through her, filling her with a dread so deep it stole her breath.

“It comes for her,” Father Edwin whispered, stepping back, his face pale as death.

The Horned took another step forward, its hooves sinking into the ground with a weight that shook the earth. The villagers backed away, fear twisting their faces, but no one moved to stop it.

Margaret’s father grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “We’ll run. Now.”

But before they could move, The Horned let out a deafening roar, a sound that reverberated through the village, shaking the very air. The force of it sent Margaret stumbling backward, her father falling to his knees.

The creature advanced, its massive form blotting out the sky.

“Margaret!” her father shouted, struggling to his feet. But it was too late.

The Horned reached out with one great, clawed hand, and as it did, the mark on her arm burned with an unbearable intensity. Margaret screamed, the pain shooting through her body like fire.

The last thing she saw before the darkness took her was her father’s terrified face, his hand outstretched toward her as The Horned’s shadow consumed her.

Then everything went black.

---

Unfortunately, for the village, this wasn’t enough to appeased ‘The Horned.’
What happened here is talked about in hushed voices by the
surrounding villages but no one disturbs this silent one.
It stands as a testament to a past mired in fear.