The village of Blackthorn Hollow was steeped in tradition. Every autumn, the villagers gathered for the Harvest Festival, a celebration of the year's bounty. But the festival wasn't just about feasting and dancing. It was about sacrifice. For generations, the villagers had offered a tribute to the Harvest King, a deity said to ensure fertile soil and abundant crops. Without the tribute, crops would wither, livestock would die, and the land would turn barren.
Clara Whitaker, an anthropologist, arrived in Blackthorn Hollow to study the festival. She had heard rumors of strange rituals and was determined to document them, convinced they were nothing more than superstition. The villagers welcomed her with wary smiles, their eyes darting away when she asked about the Harvest King.
As the festival approached, Clara noticed a change in the villagers' behavior. They spoke in hushed tones, their laughter forced, their movements hurried. Children were kept indoors, and the fields were eerily silent. On the eve of the festival, Clara was invited to the gathering in the village square. The air was thick with tension, the flickering light of the bonfire casting long shadows on the faces of the villagers.
The elder of the village, a gaunt man named Samuel, stepped forward. "Tonight," he announced, his voice trembling, "we honor the Harvest King. His blessing ensures our survival. His wrath ensures our doom."
A procession began, led by Samuel. The villagers carried a wooden effigy of a man adorned with autumn leaves and dried crops. Clara followed, her camera in hand, her skepticism battling a growing unease. The procession halted at the edge of the forest, where a stone altar stood. The effigy was placed on the altar, and the villagers began to chant, their voices low and melodic.
Clara felt a chill run down her spine. The chanting grew louder, the air around her seeming to vibrate with energy. She raised her camera, snapping photos of the scene. But as she looked through the lens, she saw something that made her blood run cold. The effigy's eyes—hollow sockets made of bone and straw—seemed to glow with a faint, unnatural light.
The chanting stopped. Samuel stepped forward, holding a curved blade. "We offer this tribute," he declared, "in hopes of the Harvest King's mercy."
He brought the blade down on the effigy, and a deafening silence followed. Clara felt the ground beneath her feet tremble, the air growing heavy and suffocating. The villagers fell to their knees, their faces pale with terror.
From the forest, a figure emerged. Tall and skeletal, its body was made of twisted branches and dried vines. Its face was a mask of moss and bark, its eyes glowing with an eerie green light. The Harvest King had come.
Clara's camera slipped from her hands as she stumbled back, her breath catching in her throat. The Harvest King turned its gaze toward her, and she felt a wave of despair wash over her. The villagers prostrated themselves before the deity, their voices trembling as they begged for forgiveness.
The Harvest King raised a gnarled hand, and the earth beneath Clara's feet began to crack. Vines erupted from the ground, wrapping around her legs and pulling her down. She screamed, clawing at the ground as she was dragged into the soil. The last thing she saw was the Harvest King's glowing eyes, cold and indifferent, before the earth closed over her.
The villagers watched in silence as the ground smoothed over, leaving no trace of Clara. The Harvest King turned and vanished into the forest, the air growing still once more. The villagers returned to the village square, their faces drawn, their movements mechanical. They had appeased the Harvest King… for now.