In the shadowed hollows of Appalachia, where whispers of the past intertwine with the rustling pines, a quiet village guards secrets that chill the bone.
The first snow came late that year, drifting down in fat, lazy flakes that blanketed Old Hollow in silence. Mae Carter stood on the rickety porch of her family’s cabin, staring out at the forest. The trees loomed like black skeletons against the pale glow of the snow, and the air was so still it felt as if the world were holding its breath. Somewhere out there, her little cousin Lizzie was missing. Four days gone, swallowed by the woods without a trace.
Mae pulled her coat tighter and turned back inside, the floorboards creaking under her boots. The cabin was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single oil lamp. Her grandmother, Etta, sat by the fire, her gnarled hands busy knitting.
“You’re pacing again,” Etta said without looking up.
“How can I not?” Mae snapped. “Lizzie’s still out there, and no one’s doing anything but telling stories.”
Etta paused, her needles clicking to a halt. “You think it’s just stories, do you?” Her voice was low, the words heavy.
Mae hesitated. She’d grown up hearing tales of the Frost Witch—a woman betrayed by Old Hollow’s founders and left to die in the snow, her spirit cursed to haunt the woods. Every winter, the elders warned of her wrath, but Mae had always dismissed it as superstition.
“I think Lizzie got lost,” Mae said finally. “And we’re wasting time blaming ghosts instead of finding her.”
Etta sighed and set her knitting aside. “You’re headstrong, just like your mother was. But mark my words, Mae, the Frost Witch is real. And she don’t take kindly to being forgotten.”
Mae clenched her fists. She couldn’t sit here listening to warnings and old wives’ tales any longer. “I’m going out to look for her,” she said. “Someone has to.”
Etta’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re set on this, you’ll need more than courage. Wait here.”
The old woman shuffled to a chest in the corner and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in faded cloth. She handed it to Mae, her hands trembling.
“What is it?” Mae asked, unwrapping it carefully. Inside was a small glass jar filled with a dark, viscous liquid and a bundle of dried herbs tied with twine.
“Protection,” Etta said. “The jar holds iron shavings and blackthorn. The herbs are yarrow. Keep them close. They might just save your life.”
Mae tucked the items into her coat pocket, trying to ignore the knot of unease in her stomach. She kissed her grandmother’s cheek and stepped back onto the porch, the cold biting at her face.
---
The woods were a different world at night. The snow glowed faintly, casting strange shadows that shifted and twisted with every step Mae took. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of her boots and the occasional rustle of branches.
She called Lizzie’s name until her throat was raw, but no answer came. Only the wind, whispering through the trees like a voice just out of earshot.
Mae stopped to catch her breath, her heart pounding. That’s when she saw it—a faint trail of footprints in the snow, small and erratic. Lizzie’s.
Relief surged through her, and she followed the trail deeper into the woods. But as she walked, the prints began to change. They grew larger, the stride uneven, as if whatever made them had started walking on two legs instead of four.
A chill ran down Mae’s spine. She thought of the stories Etta had told her as a child, of people disappearing in the woods, of tracks that led to nowhere. Of the Frost Witch.
The trees parted, revealing a clearing. In the center stood an old, crumbling stone altar, half-buried in the snow. Mae froze. She’d heard about this place—the Hollow’s founders had used it for rituals, back before they’d “cleaned up their ways.”
The footprints led straight to it. Mae swallowed hard and stepped into the clearing.
“Lizzie?” she called, her voice shaking.
The air grew colder, and a shadow moved at the edge of the clearing. Mae’s breath caught as a figure stepped into the pale light. It was a woman, her skin pale as snow, her hair a cascade of frost. Her eyes glowed an icy blue, and her lips curled into a cruel smile.
“You’ve come far, child,” the woman said, her voice like the crackle of ice. “Farther than most.”
Mae’s hand flew to her pocket, clutching the jar Etta had given her. “Where’s Lizzie?” she demanded.
The Frost Witch tilted her head, as if amused. “The little one? She came to me. Lost and afraid. I gave her shelter.”
“Let her go,” Mae said, her voice firm despite the fear coursing through her.
The witch’s smile widened. “You would bargain for her life? Very well. I will release her—if you take her place.”
Mae’s heart sank. She thought of Lizzie, her bright eyes and mischievous laugh. She couldn’t let her die out here.
She spotted Lizzie, by a tree at the edge of the woods. Slowly, she pulled the jar from her pocket and hurled it at the witch’s feet. The glass shattered, and the blackthorn and iron sizzled as they hit the snow. The witch screamed, a sound that pierced the air like breaking glass.
Mae didn’t wait to see what happened next. She turned and ran to Lizzie, in the woods, huddled beneath a tree, her face pale but alive. Mae scooped her up and carried her back through the forest, the witch’s screams echoing behind them.
---
By the time they reached the cabin, dawn was breaking, casting a golden light over the snow. Etta was waiting on the porch, her face lined with worry.
“You found her,” she whispered, pulling them both into a hug.
Mae nodded, her legs trembling. She didn’t tell Etta about the witch, or the altar, or the bargain she’d refused. But as she looked out at the woods, she knew the Frost Witch wasn’t gone.
Not yet.
And Mae would be ready when she came back.
---
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