Page 1 of The Holly King's Sacrifice

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Aspen

Therearedemonsinthe cedar swamp.

Where the woods get marshy and flooded, and the forest grows dense and dark—that’s where humans aren’t meant to tread. Only one path leads into the deep woods north of Manistique, the forest opening up like the dark maw of some otherworldly beast. That path is covered with crumbling asphalt from before the Celestial Convergence, paint chips cracked through by invading vines.

Sometimes, it’s like the woods breathe, and old legends come to life by warm fires in cozy houses. The Dungavenhooter, a giant northern alligator, lurks in the snow melt. The Michigan Dogman will race after you through the tall grasses, fangs bared to clamp down on your neck. But none of that compares to the worst of them all—or at least, the one who’s always scared me most.

The Holly King.

With a deer skull for a face and sharp antlers on its head, the Holly King prowls the cedar swamp in the dead of winter. He’s not of this world, moving too fast, and feeding on human flesh.

Before the Convergence, when I was a little girl, those monsters were the scariest ones of all. I imagined them opening my window, antlers silhouetted in the moonlight, eyes glowing yellow from inside their skulls. In my nightmares, snow drifted through as the Holly King climbed in, bracing itself over my bed and puffing out a rancid breath against my neck.

“Aspen,” it would say. “You’re mine.”

And then I would wake up.

But there’s no waking up from the post-Convergence world, where the Holly King turned out to be real.

In my world, the cedar swamps have become the hunting grounds of the wendigo, and we have no choice but to stay indoors by our warm fires in cozy houses. We don’t tell ghost stories anymore; we live them.

And I’m about to live my worst nightmare.

Because every year, the Holly King demands a sacrifice.

I was chosen on the twenty-forth of November.

Like good, God-fearing Americans, we gathered to celebrate the discovery of our nation. We sat down for a meager meal at City Hall. We prayed. The harvest gets worse each year.

Celestial warfare isn’t good for crops, it turns out.

Then we did what we always do; we gave thanks for God’s bounty, for the protection of the Heavenly Host, and for this beautiful land we call home.

Then we voted on who to give to the Holly King.

No one who cares is there to hear my shouting as I’m hauled out to the waiting mouth of the forest. The path is especially dark as I’m brought out in nothing but a white slip, a man with a torch on either side of me. The thick snow bites my toes, my feet sinking in up to my ankles and making my whole body shake.

“Hopefully she’ll freeze to death before he finds her,” one of them says.

That’s exactly what I intend to do…if I can’t convince them to free me.

“Please,” I beg. “Just let me go. I don’t want him to take me.”

“You know we have to do this for the town,” the other man says. “If we don’t give them one of our own, they’ll come and take their pick.”

“And maybe they should!” I say. “Why did everyone pick me?”

I know why; they don’t have to tell me, and they keep their mouths shut. It’s because I don’t fit in, because I ask too many question, because I’ve questioned if the Heavenly Host is truly heavenly or not…

The town council doesn’t like that.

So into the woods I’ll go.

I lift my feet so I’m not touching the snow, the cold starting to bite into my flesh, and I lose myself in the steady footfalls of the men on either side of me for a moment. The forest is quiet—tooquiet, the kind of quiet it only gets in the middle of winter. The trees give no hints as to what’s around, not even the sound of a scurrying animal or birdsong.

It’s too cold for all of that.

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