Midnight Whispers

They say not to knock on the witch’s door past midnight—unless you’re prepared to give something up.

In the quiet village of Bellwick, nestled between wilted forests and forgotten hills, everyone knew of the witch named Circe. She wore velvet like royalty and lilac like dusk. Her cats, Mischief and Moonpaw, were the kind that stared too long and blinked too little. They say her eyes changed color depending on what you were hiding—and her lips curled when someone told a lie.

Circe lived alone in a crooked little house filled with strange whispers and the smell of burnt sugar. Most stayed away. Not because she was dangerous—but because she knew too much. Her power wasn’t in hexes or curses. It was in secrets.

And lately, the village had too many.It started with dreams.Children began to wake up screaming, claiming they had wandered too far into their dreams and couldn’t find their way out. Some stopped waking at all—stuck in a sleep so deep even the healers feared they’d never rise again.Parents whispered about curses. Elders muttered about an old legend: The Hollow Muse, a forgotten spirit that fed on dreams and left behind only silence. They said only a witch who’d kissed the moon could stop it.

So, of course, they went to Circe.They came with silver coins and shaken hands. Circe accepted none of it. She simply said:

“Bring me something real. Something precious. Something you’ve lied about.”

One brought a ribbon from her dead daughter’s hair. Another, a ring never meant for their spouse. All placed their tokens at Circe’s door.And Circe went to work.She stood beneath the midnight sky, her lavender hair coiled like clouds above a storm. Her hat tilted just so, heavy with feathers and secrets. In her hand: a glowing orb that pulsed like a heart. Her scarf fluttered behind her, twisting in the wind like it had a mind of its own.

Then she whispered:

“Dreams are doors. Time to knock back.”

With a flick of her wrist and a breath that bent the air, Circe vanished—slipping into the dreamworld like ink into water.

The dreamworld was nothing like she remembered.It was too quiet.No laughter, no color. Just a thin mist and floating staircases that led to nowhere. The air tasted like forgotten promises. And ahead—lurking just beyond a shattered mirror—she saw it.

The Hollow Muse.A towering shadow made of empty eyes and stitched smiles. It sang lullabies in reverse and dangled stolen dreams like lanterns from its twisted fingers. Behind it, trapped in glowing cages, were the missing children—eyes wide, hearts frozen.Circe didn’t run. She whispered to her scarf.

“Find the truth.”

It flew from her neck like a ribbon of fury, wrapping around the Hollow Muse. It hissed and buckled, twisting as if in pain.

“You’re a lie,” Circe said, voice calm as a tide. “A hungry one.”

The Hollow Muse shrieked—but Circe raised her orb. A beam of moonlight burst forth, pure and sharp.

“You’ve fed enough.”

With a scream that cracked the sky, the Muse shattered into a thousand glimmering echoes. The cages vanished. The children blinked—and began to cry, to speak, to wake.Circe smiled. But she didn’t have long. Her time was almost up.Thirteen minutes. That’s all she ever had in the dreamworld. One more second, and she'd be pulled into sleep forever.

She reached for her orb. “Home,” she whispered.

And the world turned inside out.The next morning, the children awoke. One by one. No pain. No nightmares. No memory of what had happened—only a faint image of a woman in purple who smiled like midnight.The village sang her praises. They sent gifts and flowers. But Circe accepted none.She went back to her crooked house, poured a cup of black tea, and sat beside her cats. Mischief purred. Moonpaw curled around her boots.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop fearing me?” she asked them.

Mischief blinked slowly. Moonpaw sneezed.

Circe smiled. “Didn’t think so.”

And outside her window, the moon smiled back.