The Thirteenth Night: A Christmas Horror

By S.B. Fates

"The Thirteenth Night: A Christmas Horror by S.B. Fates - Folklore, Fear, and a Fight Against Ancient Evil"

 

In the snow-covered village of St. Morwald, nestled in winter's embrace and steeped in generations of folklore and tradition, a chilling mystery unfurls in "The Thirteenth Night," a gripping Christmas horror novel by S.B. Fates.

 

The Sinister Secret of St. Morwald
As the festive lights dim, the villagers of St. Morwald are haunted not by ghosts of Christmas past, but by a terror far more ancient. Every thirteen years, on the thirteenth night after Christmas, an unspoken horror revisits the village: people vanish without a trace, leaving only whispers of myth and a palpable dread in their wake.

 

Into the Heart of Darkness
Enter Emily Hart, a tenacious young journalist and newcomer to St. Morwald. Intrigued by local history and driven by the unsolved mysteries of her new home, Emily delves into the village's dark past. But as the thirteenth night looms, her investigation triggers a series of unsettling events: strange symbols, eerie whispers, and an inescapable feeling of being watched.

 

A Quest for Truth
Armed with only her courage and a discovered diary from a long-gone villager, Emily confronts a sinister pattern linking the disappearances to an ancient ritual. In her perilous quest for truth, she befriends the enigmatic Mrs. Adler, whose knowledge of the village's secret proves as dangerous as it is crucial.

 

A Battle Against Ancient Evil
Emily's journey leads her to a shocking revelation: the heart of St. Morwald harbors a malevolent entity, imprisoned by ritual and steeped in folklore. As she disrupts the ritual to end the cycle of terror, Emily unwittingly awakens a force beyond her comprehension, unleashing a supernatural wrath that threatens to consume the world.

 

The Unraveling of Good Intentions
"The Thirteenth Night" masterfully weaves themes of tradition vs. morality, the blurred line between myth and reality, and the unintended consequences of good intentions. Emily's transformation from a curious outsider to a key figure in an ancient struggle is at the core of this haunting tale.

 

A Heart-Pounding Conclusion
As chaos descends and the ancient evil breaks free, Emily faces a final, heroic struggle. Filled with guilt and horror, she searches desperately for a way to rectify her actions, leading to an open-ended conclusion that leaves readers breathless and pondering the fine line between folklore and terrifying reality.

 

Dare to Uncover the Secrets of St. Morwald
Join S.B. Fates in this chilling journey through a village gripped by fear, secrets, and a fight against an ancient, malevolent force. "The Thirteenth Night" promises to be a mesmerizing blend of supernatural mystery and psychological tension, perfect for fans of horror and folklore-inspired tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sean Benoit
• Release date: Nov 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223545422

S.B. Fates

Sean Benoit, writing under the pen name S.B. Fates, is a masterful author specializing in the realm of dark fiction. His unique literary style seamlessly weaves together elements of horror, supernatural fiction, suspense, crime, science fiction, and fantasy, creating stories that not only captivate but also challenge the conventional boundaries of these genres. His works are renowned for their complex narratives, richly developed characters, and the ability to transport readers into worlds where the mysterious and the ordinary intertwine. In addition to his literary pursuits, Sean harbors a deep passion for drawing and comic books, engaging in these activities as personal hobbies. This artistic inclination, while separate from his writing, enriches his creative perspective and contributes to the depth and imagination evident in his storytelling. Known as S.B. Fates in the literary world, Sean stands out for his ability to blend a diverse range of elements into his narratives, making him a distinctive voice in the genre of dark fiction. His dedication to exploring and redefining the limits of genre fiction has cemented his status as a notable author in his field.

Book preview

Chapter 1: A Mysterious Beginning

The bus groaned to a halt, its weary engine echoing the fatigue of its sole passenger, Emily Hart. Stepping off onto the snow-dusted ground of St. Morwald, she felt the biting chill gnaw at her cheeks, a stark contrast to the muggy congestion of New York City. She drew her coat tighter, her breath forming fleeting ghosts in the air. The village lay sprawled before her, quaint cottages huddling under a blanket of snow, their chimneys puffing like sleepy dragons. Beyond, the pine forests stood sentinel, their boughs heavy with white.

Emily's boots crunched on the frost-hardened path as she ventured into the heart of the village. The silence was almost tangible, a stark void where the constant hum of the city used to be. She glanced at the windows of the cottages, catching glimpses of life within – a child pressing a curious face against the glass, an elderly couple sharing a meal. Each sight was a snapshot of a world so removed from her own.

The sign for 'Pine Corner' beckoned her with the promise of warmth. Pushing open the door, a wave of heat and the rich aroma of coffee enveloped her. The café was a cozy cocoon, walls lined with shelves laden with books and trinkets. The owner, Mrs. Clara Benson, emerged from behind the counter, her smile as warm as the steaming cup of cocoa she offered.

Welcome to St. Morwald, Clara said, her voice a soothing melody against the crackling of the fire. First time here?

Yes, I'm... researching, Emily replied, wrapping her hands around the cup, absorbing its warmth.

Clara's eyes twinkled with curiosity. A writer, then? We don't get many visitors, especially not in winter.

Just a journalist, Emily said, though her eyes were already roaming, taking in the photos that adorned the walls – black and white images of people and places, each with a story etched into its frame.

As she sipped her cocoa, the murmur of hushed voices drew her attention. Two elderly locals, their faces etched with the lines of many winters, were deep in conversation. Their tones were a mix of fear and resignation, words slipping out in cautious whispers.

Emily's ears pricked up at the mention of a 'tradition' – a word that, in her experience, often cloaked darker truths. Her reporter's instinct, never fully at rest, began to stir from its slumber.

Every thirteen years, the man, Mr. Harold Jenkins, was saying, his voice barely above a whisper. Like clockwork...

Harold, don't, chided the woman, Mrs. Edith Morris, her eyes darting nervously around the café.

But Emily had heard enough. Her curiosity, once piqued, was a force unto itself. She finished her drink, her mind already weaving the fragments of overheard conversation into a tapestry of intrigue. It was time to delve deeper into the mystery that seemed to shroud St. Morwald.

Emily approached the elderly pair, her journalist's guise firmly in place. Excuse me, she began, her voice a blend of warmth and professional curiosity. I couldn't help but overhear. I'm Emily Hart, a journalist. Could you tell me more about this tradition?

Harold Jenkins eyed her with a mix of suspicion and resignation. Beside him, Edith Morris seemed to shrink further into her coat. It's just old village tales, Harold muttered, but the tremor in his voice belied his dismissive words.

Oh, please, Emily urged gently. I have a deep respect for local traditions. It's why I'm here.

Finally, Harold sighed, his gaze lost in memories. Every thirteen years, on the thirteenth night after Christmas, someone from the village... vanishes. Gone without a trace.

Emily's heart skipped a beat. Vanishes? How?

No one knows, Edith interjected, her voice a ghost of a whisper. It's been happening for as long as anyone can remember. Some say it's a curse, others... they say worse.

The air seemed to thicken with unspoken fears. Emily thanked them, her mind racing. This was more than she had hoped for – a mystery woven into the very fabric of St. Morwald.

Stepping back into the cold, Emily felt a shift within her. The village was no longer just a picturesque settlement in the snow; it was a labyrinth of secrets waiting to be unraveled. She strolled through the streets, her eyes taking in every detail – the way the snow lay untouched in certain alleys, the hushed conversations that ceased as she passed.

The beauty of St. Morwald was undeniable, yet beneath its serene façade, Emily sensed an undercurrent of unease. The snow-laden roofs and frosted windows, once charming, now seemed to guard hidden depths. Each step she took felt like a further entanglement in the village's enigmatic web.

As dusk began to fall, painting the sky in shades of purple and grey, Emily found herself drawn to the village archive. The building was small, its windows glowing with a welcoming light. Inside, she was greeted by Mr. Thomas Green, the librarian, his face a map of lines etched by a lifetime of books and quiet contemplation.

I'm researching the village's history, Emily explained, her eyes scanning the shelves lined with old newspapers and leather-bound journals.

Ah, the past has many stories to tell, Thomas said, his voice a soft rustle, like pages turning. He assisted her in sifting through the records, his fingers deftly navigating the archives.

As she delved into the yellowed pages, Emily began to see the pattern. Disappearances stretching back over a century, each one a puzzle piece fitting into a chilling design. The last sightings of the vanished were always near the same place – the ancient woods bordering the village.

The realization sent a shiver down her spine, colder than the winter air outside. St. Morwald was not just a village with a peculiar tradition; it was a place marked by a cyclical mystery, as regular and inevitable as the seasons themselves.

The shadows lengthened as Emily left the archive, the last light of day retreating before the encroaching night. Drawn by an inexplicable urge, she found herself walking towards the edge of the village, where civilization gave way to the wild embrace of the ancient woods.

As she neared the forest, a sense of foreboding grew within her. The trees, gnarled and ancient, stood like silent sentinels, their branches clawing at the dimming sky. It was here, at the threshold of the known and the unknown, that she encountered him – Mr. Elias Grey, a hermit whose very presence seemed woven from the fabric of the woods.

You should not delve too deep, he warned, his voice a whisper that seemed to blend with the rustling leaves. Some truths are buried for a reason.

Emily studied him, her journalist's instinct recognizing the weight behind his words. Why? What is it that everyone fears? she asked, her voice steady despite the chill that crept up her spine.

Elias's eyes, dark and fathomless, held hers. The woods hold more than just trees and shadows, he said cryptically. Be wary, Emily Hart. Curiosity can be a dangerous thing.

Leaving her with those enigmatic words, he melted back into the forest, as elusive as the secrets it guarded.

Shaken but undeterred, Emily returned to her room above Pine Corner. The night had fully descended now, wrapping St. Morwald in a blanket of silence and darkness. As she entered her room, a glimmer of something under the door caught her eye – a piece of paper.

Picking it up, she realized it was a map, old and hand-drawn. The paper was worn, its edges frayed with age. Someone had marked a specific area in the woods with a bold X. The map offered no explanation, no clues, only the silent promise of answers hidden in the heart of the forest.

Emily sat by the window, the map spread open before her. The moon cast its pale light over the village, turning the snow into a sea of silver. The marked spot on the map seemed to pulsate with a silent call, beckoning her into the depths of the unknown.

In that moment, Emily made her decision. Despite the warnings, despite the fear that coiled in her stomach, she knew she couldn't turn away. The mystery of St. Morwald, entangled in the shadows of the thirteenth night, demanded to be unraveled. Tomorrow, she would venture into the woods, towards the place marked with an X, towards the heart of the enigma that shrouded the village.

The first light of dawn found Emily already awake, her mind a tumult of thoughts and plans. The map lay open on the table, its lines and contours now imprinted in her memory. She dressed in layers, the cold outside a minor adversary compared to the unknowns that awaited her in the woods.

As she prepared her backpack with essentials – a flashlight, a notebook, some food, and water – Emily's thoughts wandered to the villagers. Harold and Edith, with their hushed warnings; Mrs. Benson, with her warm hospitality unaware of the darkness lurking at the edges; and Mr. Elias Grey, the enigmatic hermit whose words echoed in her mind. Each one a thread in the intricate tapestry of St. Morwald's mystery.

Stepping outside, she found the village still asleep, its cottages like slumbering beasts under the snow. The air was crisp, each breath a sharp reminder of the task ahead. She made her way to the edge of the village, where the quaint charm of St. Morwald gave way to the untamed wilds of the forest.

The woods stood before her, a vast expanse of ancient trees and dense underbrush. The snow here was untouched, a pristine canvas stretched beneath the towering pines. The quiet was profound, the kind of silence that presses against your ears, heavy with anticipation.

Emily took a deep breath and stepped into the forest, her boots sinking into the soft snow. She consulted the map frequently, navigating through the labyrinth of trees and shadows. The deeper she went, the more she felt the weight of the woods around her, an oppressive sense that she was trespassing into a world not meant for her.

The sun climbed higher, its rays filtering through the dense canopy, casting a kaleidoscope of light and shadow. Time seemed to warp within the forest, minutes stretching into hours, each step taking her further into the heart of the mystery.

As the afternoon waned, Emily realized she was close. The X on the map was no longer just a mark on paper but a tangible destination, just ahead. Her heart pounded in her chest, a drumbeat echoing the thrum of the forest around her.

Then, she saw it – a clearing, unnatural in its symmetry, the trees around it standing like silent guardians. In the center of the clearing, partially obscured by snow and foliage, was an old stone structure, its purpose and origins a mystery in themselves.

Emily approached cautiously, her every sense heightened. The air here was colder, the silence deeper, as if the clearing itself was holding its breath. She reached the stone structure, its surface covered in moss and lichen, the weight of years etched into its stones.

This was it, the X on the map, the heart of the enigma. Emily looked around, the journalist in her seeking clues, any sign that might unravel the truth of St. Morwald's thirteenth night. But as she stood there, in the silence of the clearing, she realized that this was just the beginning. The true mystery lay deeper, woven into the very fabric of the forest, of St. Morwald itself.

In the quietude of the clearing, Emily felt an acute sense of being watched. The ancient trees seemed to lean in, their branches casting long, twisted shadows that danced eerily in the waning light. She circled the stone structure, her fingers tracing the cold, damp moss that clung to its surface.

The structure was old, far older than any building in the village. It was crudely fashioned, each stone bearing the marks of primitive tools. As she examined it more closely, she noticed symbols carved into the rock – archaic and indecipherable, yet unmistakably deliberate. Her heart raced with the realization that she had stumbled upon something significant, something hidden for generations.

Pulling out her notebook, Emily sketched the symbols, their strange geometry a puzzle begging to be solved. She took photographs with her phone, knowing that these images were pieces of a larger, more ominous puzzle. The air grew colder, the shadows deeper, as if the forest itself was reacting to her discovery.

As the sun began its descent, casting the woods into twilight, Emily knew she had to leave. The mystery of the stone structure and its symbols would have to wait. She marked the location on her map, a spot she would undoubtedly return to.

Her journey back was a race against the falling night. The forest, so still and silent in the daylight, now seemed to whisper with unseen presences. Branches creaked and leaves rustled, each sound making her heart jump. She quickened her pace, the light from her flashlight a small beacon in the encroaching darkness.

Emerging from the forest, the sight of St. Morwald was a relief. The village, with its lit windows and smoke curling from chimneys, seemed a world away from the dark secrets of the woods. As she made her way back to Pine Corner, Emily's mind was ablaze with questions. What were the symbols? Who had built the stone structure? And most importantly, how did it all connect to the thirteenth night after Christmas?

Back in her room, Emily spread her notes and photographs on the table. The symbols stared back at her, a cryptic message from the past. She felt a profound sense of responsibility – she was no longer just a journalist documenting a story; she had become a part of it, a player in a game whose rules were yet unknown.

That night, as she lay in bed, the images of the day replayed in her mind. The hushed conversations of Harold and Edith, the warning of Elias Grey, the ancient structure in the clearing – all pieces of a puzzle that spanned generations. Emily knew that the days ahead would be a journey into the unknown, a path fraught with danger and dark revelations. But she was determined to uncover the truth, to shine a light on the shadows that haunted St. Morwald.

In the deep of the night, as the village slept under a blanket of snow, Emily Hart made a silent vow. She would unravel the mystery of the thirteenth night, no matter what it took. The story of St. Morwald was hers to tell, and she would not rest until its darkest secrets were brought to light.

Chapter 2: Eerie Whispers

Dawn crept over St . Morwald like a hesitant intruder, its pale light filtering through the frost-laced windows of Emily Hart's room. Shivering slightly, she pulled on her coat and stepped outside, the cold air slapping her cheeks awake. The village, blanketed in snow, was waking up to another day, its quaint charm hiding the unsettling undercurrents she had begun to sense.

As Emily strolled down the main street, her investigative instincts kicked in. On the windows of several buildings, including the bakery owned by Mrs. Jenna Collins, peculiar symbols were etched into the frost. They were intricate, deliberate, and unlike any pattern formed by mere chance. Emily’s fingers traced the cold, crystalline designs, her mind racing with questions. Who had made them, and more importantly, why?

Continuing her walk, she found herself outside the old church, its spire piercing the grey morning sky. Perched atop were ravens, an entire flock, eerily silent and unnervingly observant. Their black eyes followed her every move, a silent audience to her solitary presence. A shiver that had little to do with the cold ran down Emily's spine. This was no ordinary gathering of birds.

Drawn to the local general store for a warmer respite, Emily entered to find a hubbub of subdued conversation. The owner, Mr. Samuel Davies, was discussing the raven gathering with several villagers. Their words were tinged with superstition and a palpable fear.

It’s a bad sign, ravens watching like that, one villager muttered.

Just like before the disappearances, another added, her voice a whisper of dread.

Emily absorbed their conversation, her reporter's mind piecing together the fragments of folklore and fear. In St. Morwald, superstitions seemed to be woven into the very fabric of reality, blurring the line between myth and truth.

Later, as she walked back to her room, a movement in the shadows caught her eye. A figure, distant and indistinct, stood watching her. Its presence was ominous, a silent sentinel. Emily quickened her pace, but when she looked back, the figure had vanished as if it were a trick of the light.

Back in the safety of her room, Emily discovered a note slipped under her door. The message was scrawled in jagged, hurried handwriting: Leave the past buried. The words sent a pulse of adrenaline through her. Someone in St. Morwald was watching her, wary of her probing. The mystery of the village was deepening, and with it, the sense of danger.

That evening, Emily decided to dine at the Pine Corner Café, seeking both warmth and a semblance of normalcy. The café, with its rustic charm and the comforting aroma of coffee, felt like a haven amid the swirling mysteries of St. Morwald. As she settled into a corner with a steaming cup of cocoa, Mrs. Clara Benson, the owner, chatted amiably about the village. But Emily's mind was elsewhere, tangled in the web of enigmas that seemed to tighten around her.

Mid-conversation, a sudden chill swept through the café. Emily felt it in her bones, a coldness that seemed to seep in from the walls themselves. The lights flickered, casting eerie shadows across the room. Clara laughed it off, blaming the old wiring, but Emily sensed something more sinister. The temperature drop, the flickering lights – they felt like manifestations of the same malevolent force that was gradually revealing itself in St. Morwald.

Later that night, in the solitude of her room, sleep eluded Emily. Her thoughts were a whirlpool of symbols, ravens, and shadowy figures. Eventually, exhaustion took over, and she drifted into a restless slumber. But peace was not to be found even in her dreams.

She found herself wandering through the ancient woods surrounding St. Morwald, following a shadowy figure that always remained just out of reach. The dream was vivid, filled with the rustling of leaves and the oppressive sense of being pursued. She awoke with a start, her heart racing, the remnants of the dream clinging to her like cobwebs.

The next morning, Emily observed more oddities that added to the unsettling atmosphere of the village. The local cats, usually so indifferent to human affairs, were behaving strangely. They avoided certain areas, hissing and arching their backs at unseen threats. Emily watched them, a sense of unease growing inside her. The animals were reacting to something beyond human perception, adding another layer of mystery to the already thickening plot.

In search of answers, Emily visited the village library. Among the dusty shelves and ancient tomes, she discovered an old, unmarked book. Its pages were filled with descriptions of rituals and symbols eerily similar to those she had seen around the village. When she asked Mr. Thomas Green, the librarian, about the book, his discomfort was palpable. He offered vague responses, his eyes darting away, as if afraid of the book's contents.

Determined to confront the mysteries head-on, Emily decided to venture to the edge of the woods. As she approached the forest, a sense of foreboding grew within her. The trees seemed to loom larger, their branches like gnarled fingers reaching out.

It was there that she encountered Mr. Elias Grey again. The hermit's appearance was as sudden as it was unsettling. You're unearthing things best left untouched, he warned, his voice a grave whisper.

Despite the warning, Emily's resolve only strengthened. The secrets of St. Morwald, buried beneath layers of fear and superstition, beckoned her. She knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger, but her quest for the truth was unwavering. The village's dark heart was calling to her, and she was ready to delve deeper into its shadows.

Emily spent the following days immersed in her investigation, each step forward unraveling more of St. Morwald's enigmatic tapestry. The villagers, initially friendly, began to regard her with a mix of suspicion and fear, their eyes darting away as she passed. Their behavior only fueled her determination to uncover the truth lurking beneath the village's serene façade.

One frosty morning, Emily revisited the bakery, the site of the first strange symbols she had noticed. Mrs. Jenna Collins, the baker, was tight-lipped when Emily inquired about the designs on her window. Old village symbols, nothing more, Jenna muttered, but her eyes betrayed a deeper concern.

As Emily delved further, the peculiarities escalated. She witnessed more animal anomalies – birds flying erratically, dogs barking at empty spaces. The natural world seemed in disarray, reacting to a disturbance unseen but deeply felt. Emily documented each oddity, her notes becoming a catalog of the bizarre and unexplained.

Her encounters with the villagers grew increasingly terse. Whispered conversations ceased as she approached, replaced by wary glances and hushed tones. It was as if the entire village was guarding a secret, a collective pact of silence that Emily was determined to break.

Her nights were restless, plagued by dreams more vivid and disturbing than before. She wandered through shadowy forests, chased by unseen entities, and awoke each morning with a lingering sense of dread. The lines between reality and nightmare began to blur, leaving Emily questioning what was truly