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Every family has its legends. Ours is whispered in shadowed corners, where truth and lies twist into a knot that strangles us still. They call it a curse—a tale to frighten children and humble the prideful. But the Hag is no story. She waits, her hunger growing within, her vengeance eternal.
I had heard the stories, those whispered tales of a family legend meant to scare children into obedience. I dismissed them, like anyone would. A curse? A Hag? Just another ghost story. It wasn’t exactly a secret that our bloodline descended from ancient witches, after all. Tales like these were inevitable, woven into our past like threads in a dark tapestry. But when I sifted through Great-Grandma Olga’s belongings today, I found something I hadn’t expected—a book. Bound in cracked leather and etched with symbols I couldn’t decipher, it practically hummed with age and mystery. The stories inside weren’t bedtime tales. They were warnings, written in trembling script and interspersed with strange symbols. My great-grandmother’s voice seemed to whisper from the pages, pulling me into a world where the Hag wasn’t just a story but a looming threat.
by The Lyions Den
