The hush of evening settles over the village, thick with dread more than peace. Mothers whisper hurried prayers, while fathers check locks twice, their faces pale against the last light. Children are ushered away from windows, their wide eyes reflecting the fading glow outside. Only the wind moves freely, carrying ancient warnings through the alleys.
No one speaks her name aloud, yet every child knows her legend. In low voices, they recount tales of the Night Witch—a shadowy figure who hunts as the world sleeps. She leaves no trace but the chill in the air and the whispering walls that seem to breathe with secrets. Parents sit by their children’s bedsides, eyes darting to the locked windows, hearts pounding with dread.
A child stirs beneath a thick quilt, shivering as whispers seep from the corners of the room. "Come closer… I won’t hurt you…" The words coil through the silence, soft as breath, impossible to ignore. The child’s fingers tremble as they clutch a faded teddy, eyes locked on the window that was supposed to be sealed. A gust of air brushes their hair, and the room feels suddenly crowded by something unseen.
Morning reveals what the night has stolen. No screams broke the quiet, no doors were forced. Parents find only the eerie trail of tiny prints, halting abruptly as if swallowed by the ground itself. The village gathers, grief and terror mingling in the pale dawn. A single toy lies abandoned in the grass, its button eyes staring into the woods.
It glides across the floor without sound, its presence chilling the air. The walls ripple as the figure reaches through, hand passing effortlessly as if the wood were mist. "You’re not afraid, are you?" The child wakes, eyes wide, but no scream escapes. The room is emptier than silence itself, save for a single ancient toy left behind, cold and watching from the floor.
Children no longer sleep near windows, and every window is nailed shut. Yet still, at night, the whispers return, curling through dreams and drifting beneath doors. The forest looms, ever hungry, and the old toys remain—silent witnesses to the night’s secrets. In the hush before sunrise, all that remains is cold air, the memory of small footprints, and the chilling promise that the Night Witch is never far away.
