Baby Mary grew into a quiet, well-mannered child, with hair as dark as a moonless night, skin pale as the moon herself and eyes that shone violet. Mary wasn't like the other children – while they were running amok digging things up and tearing them apart, Mary would be sitting quietly, listening to and observing the world around her. She did not fit in anywhere, not with the children, who would sometimes tease her, nor with the adults, who did not really know what to do with a child like her.

There was something magical about Mary – you could feel it in the way she looked at you when you spoke, like she felt every word, rather than heard it. Even nature felt a connection to her, bending itself to her whims like she was conducting a symphony written by the gods themselves. By day, she would sit at the forest edge surrounded by woodland creatures that by nature were skittish around humans. She called them her friends. By night, she would sit atop a grassy knoll beside the parish and look up at stars she claimed were the spirits of immortal souls smiling down on her.

Then a day came – a day as bitter as the night was dark – when all that she knew and held dear would be taken from her. She felt the lure of something strange as she sat at the forest edge at sunset, something dark and dangerous, yet compelling. Something that whispered to her in a tongue she had never spoken, yet she understood every word. Her fingers traced the lines of the pendant she wore around her neck, the one her mother had given her on her seventh birthday. It was an unusual design, three interlinked spirals that always brought Mary comfort. She felt the compulsion to step beyond the tree line, but her will was strong and her mind sharp enough to fight it. She felt it pull and she pushed back hard. While a deep sense of foreboding washed over her, she sensed a curiosity from whatever was on the other side of the tug-of-war, as if it had suddenly become aware of her presence.

She ached to tell her father about it once she got home, but knew that it would only get her into trouble, for his rules were clear – she was never to go near the forest on her birthday or the day after. Mary had always wondered about his reasons for fearing the forest on those days, but she obeyed him without question.

Another young girl was not as lucky. Hours later, after having snuck out of the cottage to gaze at the stars, Mary watched in horror as a girl she knew as Lizzie walked past her and into the forest at the dead of night. She could not explain her panic, yet it consumed her like a fire raging from deep inside.

"Lizzie!" she called after the girl, not wanting to enter the woods herself. "Lizzie, you have to come back!" It appeared that Lizzie could not hear her, for she kept walking, her eyes staring unblinkingly ahead.

Mary ran for home. "Father! Father! Please, you have to come. She's gone into the woods. Father!"

As Mary drew close to the house, screaming at the top of her voice, her father came rushing from the house.

"What is it? What's wrong, Mary?" Hester's voice could be heard calling from inside the house.

She tried to speak, but was breathing too hard for the words to form, so she pointed toward the trees, her eyes wide with panic.

"Child, you best speak. Now! What has frightened you so?" Pastor John grabbed her slender shoulders and shook her lightly.

She took a deep breath and gushed, "Lizzie walked off into the forest and I called to her to stop Father but she didn't stop she just kept walking and her eyes looked funny but not the funny that makes you laugh the other one like how Mother's eyes looked that day we found her in the garden and something else is in the forest with her." She gasped for air, then continued. "You have to save her, Father. She is in grave danger."

Pastor John sighed. "Thank God. I thought something had happened to you. That you were hurt." He looked at her sternly. "Don't you give me a fright like that ever again, you hear."

"John? Mary? What is the matter?" Hester called again.

"But... but Father, she's in there. In the forest. You have to help her."

"I will, child. I need to get my coat. I will go over to the butcher's house and tell him that his daughter has snuck off into the forest at night. I would imagine to meet that young stable-boy from across town." He sighed again. "No decency left in this world."

"Father, please. She doesn't have much time." By then tears were welling up in Mary's eyes. "Something is in the forest."

"You saw something?" Pastor John glanced at the darkened tree line, his brow furrowed, expression unreadable.

"N... n... no..." she stammered, knowing how strange she sounded, but not caring if her father thought her mad. She needed to save the girl.

He put his hand on her head and ruffled her curls gently. "You are indeed a strange one, our wee Mary." Her father smiled down at her, a smile that both warmed and troubled her. "Don't go near the forest tonight, Mary. Promise me. It is a place of dark terrors."

Mary nodded.

"I should be back soon, but if I am not..." He sighed. "Go into the house and bolt the door after I leave, child." Then he left to go into town.

Once her father had gone, Mary went into the house to reassure her mother.

"Are you alright, child?" her mother fussed. "What was the ruckus about?"

"Nothing that should concern you, Mother, I saw the butcher's daughter go off into the woods is all." Mary squeezed her mother's hand reassuringly.

"Oh dear, the woods at night is no place for anyone, least of all a young girl." Hester tutted softly and shook her head.

"I'm going back outside now, Mother." She hugged her mother.

"But your father said..." her mother started to protest, but Mary was already out the door. She knew that her mother could not follow; her voice was the only part of her that could travel beyond the confines of their small parish cottage.

Mary waited, anxiously pacing the small garden her mother had tended daily while she had still been alive. She sighed with relief once she saw the light of several torches crossing the field that separated the village from the forest. She could make out five dark figures in the gloom, all grown men, yet her heart was not yet at ease.

She had felt the same unease the night her mother died, three years past to the day. It had been Mary's birthday, the first time her mother had baked a cake – one made with fresh honey and chunks of dried fruit. The cake had been delicious and because it was her birthday, Mary had been allowed to stay up late listening to her parents tell stories about their childhoods. She could not remember a happier night.

Later, she sensed that something was awry, so she slipped out of bed and, from her window, saw her mother lying in the garden. A chill ran through her slender eleven-year-old frame as she rushed from the house. Eyes that always sparkled with laughter stared blankly up at her out of darkened sockets. Mouth that always wore a smile was open wide, as if grotesquely frozen in a near scream. Hands that used to ease any discomfort she had ever felt were cold as the ice that sometimes formed on the pond. Mary wailed; a sound that echoed every ounce of pain she felt in that moment. She could not remember when her father joined them nor for how long she wailed, but even the sun's morning rays felt like icy fingers raking her soul by the time the ladies from the town pried her free of the grip she had on her mother's lifeless body. Henceforth, Mary vowed never to celebrate another birthday.

It was once again the night of her birth and while she no longer celebrated the fateful day, its significance shadowed her every thought. Mary would not give her mind any rest until she knew that Lizzie had been returned safely back home. Lizzie would not be the first village child to disappear on the night of Mary's birthday. She remembered others and once overheard the grown-ups talking about the devil roaming the woods on the nights of Samhain. That was the first time she'd heard the name spoken out loud, but it sparked a memory of something she'd never knew lived inside of herself.

The night grew darker, something she could not explain in words was in the air, it surrounded the house, but somehow Mary sensed that it could not enter the parish grounds. There were screams coming from the forest, screams that chilled her blood.

"Mary," her mother's voice was shaky.

"I know mother, I can feel it too." Mary could sense her mother's anguish, so she rushed up the steps and shut the door. "It's come for me. Same as it came that night... that night..." Mary sobbed. "Oh Mother, my sweet mother," she whispered, tears streaming down her face as a long-dormant realisation hit her.

"Hush now, child. It was not your fault. None of this will ever be your fault. I am your mother, I am meant to protect you. Banish those thoughts, they serve no purpose." Her mother smiled at her, the way mothers smile at daughters they love beyond measure. "I am still here, right by your side."

Mary had never given much thought to the cause of her mother's death after the doctor had announced that apoplexy had killed her, something common in women her age. Never before had she considered that there could have been dark forces at play that night.

***

The soft light of dawn clung to the sky in shades of pink and blue, its beauty belying the horror of what was yet to come as Mary watched the men approaching from the east. The first thing she noticed was that only four men were returning. She ran out to meet them, yet she already knew what she was about to see. As she drew closer, she identified them as the butcher, his son, Alfred, the miller and Tom, the woodsman. Tom was dragging something in his wake – someone.

Mary sank to her knees, oblivious to the thorny debris piercing her flesh. "Nooooooo..." she wailed. "Oh dear God, say it isn't so. Nononononooooo..." she sobbed quietly.

The men could not meet her eyes, instead they continued on, dragging her father's corpse past her and into town. The miller patted her head as he passed and Tom mumbled a soft, "I'm sorry, Mary."

Once her tears had run dry, Mary walked back into the house she used to share with her mother and father. What she needed to do next would be the hardest thing she had ever done in her short life, but she knew that it was the only way she could protect the people she knew and loved.