The bone circle

The villagers spoke of the clearing in hushed tones, as though naming it aloud might draw its curse closer. They called it the Bone Circle. Some said it had been there for centuries, others swore it appeared overnight after a blood-red moon. What no one denied was that anyone foolish enough to linger within its boundaries was never seen again.

The clearing lay deep in the old forest, where the trees grew too tall and close together, blotting out the sky. At its center was a perfect ring made not of stones, but of bones. Human bones, some small as a child’s, others long and warped with age. No wind scattered them, no animals dared disturb them. They gleamed pale white no matter the season, even when buried in snow.

The elders warned the children: Never step inside the circle. Never touch the bones. And above all, never stay there after dark.

But stories often invite curiosity.


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The Traveler

On an autumn evening, a traveler named Elias wandered into the village. He was weary, his boots broken, his pack nearly empty. He had lost his way on the trade road, and the villagers—though polite—offered little comfort. When he asked for directions through the forest, the innkeeper’s eyes widened.

“You’ll pass by the Circle if you go that way,” the innkeeper muttered. “Best avoid it. Walk around, even if it takes a day longer.”

But Elias was stubborn. He had heard ghost stories before, in every town from here to the mountains. Most were meant to keep children obedient or to guard secrets of the land. He smiled, thanked the man, and left before dawn.

The forest was colder than he expected. The deeper he went, the quieter it became. No birds sang. Even the wind seemed muted, as though the trees were holding their breath. By midday, Elias stumbled upon the clearing.


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The Circle

The first thing he noticed was how clean it looked. No weeds or grass grew inside the circle. The bones lay in a perfect ring, bleached and untouched. Some were cracked, but none crumbled. A chill prickled his skin, though the air was still.

He should have walked around. He knew it, though he couldn’t explain why. But exhaustion won. His legs ached, and his eyelids sagged. He stepped carefully over the bone line, muttering, “Just for a moment,” and sat down in the center.

The forest responded. The hush deepened until Elias could hear his own heartbeat. The shadows of the trees stretched unnaturally long, as though reaching toward him. He rubbed his arms and laughed nervously. “Old wives’ tales,” he whispered.

Then the bones rattled.


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The Awakening

At first it was faint, like teeth chattering in the cold. Then louder, sharper, until the entire circle trembled. Elias leapt to his feet, eyes wide, but his legs locked in place. His body refused to obey him.

A whisper slid through the air, not from one direction but from all around. The voice was low, brittle, like dry leaves grinding together.

“One more for the circle.”

Elias spun, searching for the source. The bones began to rise. Vertebrae stacked on vertebrae, ribs clicked together, skulls lifted and turned, their hollow sockets glowing faintly red. They formed shapes—skeletal figures—taller and thinner than any human should be.

They circled him, moving in perfect rhythm, chanting in hollow, echoing voices.

“One more for the circle.”

Elias tried to scream, but his throat caught. His chest tightened as though invisible hands pressed against him.

The skeletons leaned closer. Their bones did not creak; they moved as if oiled by some unseen force. One reached out a long, claw-like hand and touched his shoulder. The cold burned through his flesh like ice and fire at once.


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The Offering

His vision blurred. He felt himself sinking, not into the ground, but into something deeper—something that swallowed light and sound. The circle spun faster, the chanting louder, until the forest itself seemed to vibrate.

His last coherent thought was of the innkeeper’s warning. He should have listened. He should never have stepped inside.

The moment the moon slid behind the clouds, the chanting stopped. Silence fell so suddenly it rang in the air.

When the villagers passed the clearing days later, it looked unchanged. The bones were still there, in their perfect ring. But among them lay a new addition—a skull, freshly bleached as if it had rested there for years.


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The Curse

The Bone Circle does not hunger often, but when it does, it waits patiently for the weary, the curious, or the foolish. It never loses what it claims.

And so it grows, one bone at a time.