Firelight Festival

Every summer, the town of Black Hollow came alive for the Firelight Festival. Lanterns bathed the streets in golden hues, fireworks crackled overhead, and the scent of roasted food filled the air. Outsiders called it charming, magical even. But for the townsfolk, it was a grim necessity.

Because the fire wasn’t for celebration. It was for survival.

Legend has it that centuries ago, an ancient evil took root in the dense woods beyond Black Hollow. It was a presence without form, a hunger without end. Every summer, when summer was at its peak, the woods stirred, stretching unseen fingers toward the town.

The festival kept it at bay.

A massive bonfire was built in the heart of the town square, its flames rising high as a beacon of protection. It had burned without fail for generations, fueled not by mere wood but by sacrifice.

And the festival’s final night was the choosing.

Lena had lived in Black Hollow all her life. She knew the festival’s joy was a mask, the laughter forced. Everyone played along, but beneath the revelry, fear ran deep.

This year, it was different.

There was a feeling in the air, something heavier, more sinister. The fire had been dimming earlier than usual, its flames flickering like dying breath.

And then came the drumbeats.

The town gathered in the square, watching as the elders brought forth the black urn. The names were inside. One of them would be called. One of them would keep the fire alive.

Lena gripped her younger brother’s hand as the mayor reached inside.

“Daniel Whitmore.”

A hush fell over the crowd. Daniel—a farmhand, barely twenty—staggered backward, shaking his head.

“No,” he whispered. “Please.”

The elders advanced, their faces emotionless. No one interfered. No one ever did.

But this time, something changed.

The fire flickered violently, as if enraged. The woods trembled, and a low, guttural sound rippled through the air. A sound no human should ever hear.

The flames weren’t enough this year.

The evil wanted more.

Screams erupted as shadows stretched from the trees, merging into something impossibly tall and wrong. It moved with an unnatural fluidity, as if it were part of the darkness itself.

The elders turned to the flames, tossing powders, chanting prayers, but the fire shrank instead of growing. The town had grown weak, its faith hollow. And now, the woods had come to collect.

Lena ran, dragging her brother behind her as tendrils of black mist snaked through the crowd, wrapping around the chosen, the guilty, the unlucky. Their screams were swallowed whole.

The fire died.

And Black Hollow belonged to the dark once more.

Days later, the town stood empty.

No laughter. No festival. Just the whisper of the trees, and the echo of what had been taken.

Then, one night, a spark.

A new fire roared to life in the square.

And the town returned, as if nothing had changed.

The Firelight Festival was coming.

And the choosing would begin again.