The flickering firelight cast elongated shadows across the small, tattered home as Sara’s voice filled the room.

  “... And the hunters stalked their prey through the thick woods, each step a whisper on the frozen ground. The hunters knew the beast was near—they could feel it watching from the trees. Dry branches snapped. Snow crunched. Then, the monster lurched from the shadows, its eyes burning with hunger.”

  Her two children sank deeper into their blankets, their wide eyes reflecting the candles as their flames danced to the fable.

  Sara smiled. “You asked for a scary story,” she teased. “Shall we finish this tale another night?”

  “No, Mother,” Randal pleaded, straightening. “I’m not scared! Finish the story.”

  Taya snuggled closer to him, her voice just above a whisper. “Yeah… it’s just a story.”

  Sara held their gaze, admiring their innocence.

  “The beast charged faster than a startled boar, but the hunters didn’t flinch.”

  She lowered her voice as the story neared its end.

  “They stood fast and waited. With a growl that frightened the gods, it pounced at them. One hunter stepped forward, swinging downward with all his might! With courage as strong as the cold wind that whipped against their cheeks, he stood over the beast victorious.”

  The children loosened, letting their blankets slip from their chins.

  “And so, the Hunter’s Mark on their arms remained unscathed—ever proving that no beast, nor monster, could escape from the Hunters,” she finished.

  The fire whispered through the house until Taya’s and Randal’s laughter took its place.

  “See? It wasn’t scary!” Randal said, puffing his chest.

  “You were just as scared as me,” Taya giggled..

  “No, I wasn’t!”

  Sara rose from the edge of the bed, letting the banter fade. “That’s enough, night fell hours ago. No more stories till tomorrow.”

  She shut the door behind her. Dying embers bathed the room in a soft glow as she readied herself for bed.

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  Then, a faint sound seemed to reach to her from outside. A chill climbed up her spine.

  She crept toward the front door, listening.

  “Help...”

  The word was slurred and distant, but she recognized the voice.

  “Jack, is that you?” she asked, her voice trembling as she opened the door. The wind howled as she waited for a reply.

  “Help...”

  She turned toward the trees. Just behind a trunk, a figure stood.

  Unmoving. Familiar.

  Her heart quickened, matching her pace.

  “Jack,” she asked, “are you hurt?”

  She rounded the tree that had hidden his figure from view. And found him—what was left of him.

  His upper torso had been impaled on a thick, jagged stick that had been driven deep into the ground. His arms swayed by his sides, his face a silent scream. Fresh blood streamed from him, coating the ground in crimson.

  Sara fell back in horror. Not from the corpse of her husband, but from the way it had been staged.

  Positioned for her to find.

  The world spun, her head struck the frozen, unforgiving dirt. Her eyes locked on the void above. A scream tore through her throat as something gripped her ankle. She kicked but it paid no mind, dragging her into the forest. Sara scratched at the ground, desperate for a hidden lifeline.

  Behind her, she saw the front door flung wide, her children’s windows black.

  Still peaceful, as if nothing had changed.

  With a groan, Sara lifted her head, her backside scraping against sticks and rocks. A towering shadow marched, its huge, rotting hand wrapped tight around her leg.

  “Help!” she screamed—a plea to the gods. “Please help me!” The thing stopped. It turned toward her unhurried. Black, umbral eyes with small white stones in their centers peered into hers.

  Lonely stars in an empty abyss.

  She tried to crawl, but was lifted upside down, her leg felt as if it would rip off. She hung eye to eye with the monster.

  “Gods, save me!” she begged, reaching for her last hope.

  It tilted its head, as if it were considering her, trying to understand.

  Sara’s eyes went wide, shock stealing the last of her will. It spoke. “Gods… save… me…” But it was her voice she heard. The words were rough, but it used her voice.

  It brought its grotesque hand up, preparing.

  Her eyes brimmed with tears, her throat hoarse. “Please, don—”

  Razor-sharp claws slashed across her throat. Blood splashed against the nearby trees, staining the rough bark. Vision blurred.

  She saw the thing open its hideous mouth wide, sharp and crooked teeth glistened in the moon’s kind light. It raised her above itself, her body limp as the last breath crawled out. Her blood poured into its gaping mouth, and the monster gulped like it had never drunk before.

  At that moment, Sara understood, ‘The Hunter’s Mark’ wasn't a tale to reassure children.

  It was a warning.

  Her final thought was of her twins. Not a prayer, but a hope: that they would face a fate less cruel than her own.