The Queens Curse

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished. Dark and thick, the water surged against the current, bubbling like sludge as it crawled back into the earth’s maw. A foul stench, sharp and metallic, hung in the air as if something ancient and rotten had awakened from beneath the kingdom of Arindale. Those who lived near the banks whispered of voices rising from the water, calling for anyone who ventured too close. The whispers carried secrets—terrible, hungry secrets.

It had been days since the sun last rose. The sky above remained locked in a bruised twilight, the light drained away to a dull, sickly purple. The chill grew deeper, and people spoke of shadows moving where they shouldn’t, of a feeling that something unseen was drawing closer. The Queen’s disappearance had left the land shrouded in a dreadful stillness that seemed to weigh on every breath.

Jaclyn, the Queen’s apprentice, felt that heaviness the most. She had been at the Queen’s side, in the forbidden chamber deep within the castle, during the ritual meant to seal away a darkness from an age long past. The walls of the chamber, carved with ancient runes, seemed to pulse as the Queen spoke the incantation. Jaclyn remembered the flickering light of the candles, the way it cast strange, shifting shadows on the stone. Then came the Queen’s scream, raw and jagged, tearing through the silence—a sound so filled with terror that it seemed to echo even after her voice had fallen silent.

The Queen had vanished that night. But something else had lingered in the darkness—a shadow Jaclyn saw slithering across the floor before disappearing into the stone. It had reached for her, stretching out like a hand, before slipping away, leaving the air heavy with the smell of burnt hair.

Now, standing at the entrance of that same chamber, Jaclyn felt her skin prickle with an icy fear. The darkness seemed thicker here, almost tangible, and the whispers had returned, faint and distorted. She forced herself forward, descending the stone steps as a cold draft drifted up to meet her. The chamber had changed since she had last been here. The runes, once faintly glowing, were now scorched into the stone, black veins spreading outward from each carved symbol like the roots of a dead tree.

At the center of the room stood a figure. It wore the Queen’s dress, though the fabric was torn and stained with something that glistened like tar. The figure’s back was to Jaclyn, and her heart hammered against her ribcage as she took a step closer. “Your Majesty?” she whispered, though part of her already knew it wasn’t the Queen who stood before her.

The figure turned slowly, revealing a face that was both familiar and horrifically wrong. The skin was flayed and raw, with strips of flesh hanging loosely. Its eyes were hollow pits, as if gouged out, and from its gaping mouth came a ragged sound—half a rattle, half a wet croak, like a dying thing struggling to speak.

Jaclyn stumbled back, her foot sinking into a pool of dark liquid that seemed to move with a life of its own. The blackness clung to her, its touch unnaturally warm, as if it were breathing. She tried to pull free, but the more she struggled, the more it gripped her, winding its way up her legs, its surface rippling as though eager to swallow her whole.

As the tar climbed higher, Jaclyn felt it seeping through her skin, spreading through her veins like ice. A voice whispered inside her head, soft and broken, but unmistakably her own:

“You shouldn’t have come back, Jaclyn.”

The figure shambled toward her, limbs jerking at odd angles. Its mouth moved, forming words that spilled from its lips in Jaclyn’s voice.

“She let us in… she let us in… Now you’ll join her.”

The room spun, darkness closing in around the edges of her vision. She felt the pull of the blackness wrapping around her throat, tightening with a grip that felt almost familiar—like a cold, comforting hand that had waited for this moment all along.

Jaclyn’s thoughts grew hazy as the darkness pressed closer. In a sudden burst of clarity, she remembered the ancient legends of the Hollow Ones—creatures that fed on despair and hollowed out the souls of the living. The stories spoke of a terrible hunger that could never be sated and a darkness that devoured all light. She had always thought them to be old wives’ tales. Now, with her body trembling and her breath growing thin, she knew the truth.

The Queen had not vanished; she had been consumed.

As Jaclyn struggled, she noticed the walls shifting, like they were alive, the stone pulsing as veins of black spread across them. She could hear screams within the stone, countless voices wailing in agony. With a final, desperate surge of strength, she tried to break free, but the tar gripped her tighter, dragging her down to the floor. The figure stood over her, its face splitting open into a wide grin, its hollow eyes dripping darkness onto her skin.

“Join us, Jaclyn,” it whispered, its voice a horrible mix of her own and the Queen’s. “The darkness welcomes you.”

With a final scream, Jaclyn was pulled under, swallowed whole by the darkness. The tar filled her mouth, her lungs, her very soul, and the last thing she felt before everything faded away was a terrible, gnawing hunger.

The next morning, the river was dry, and not a trace of Jaclyn or the Queen remained. But the whispers didn’t stop. They drifted on the air, weaving through the kingdom, calling for anyone foolish enough to listen.

Because now, the darkness was hungry for more.