You learn things when you're quiet.
Like how the wind in Dagger's Hollow carries more than just the scent of burning leaves—it carries voices. Low, dry whispers that curl beneath windowsills and behind your ears when you're not paying attention.
And you learn that not all fear is loud.
Some of it is still. Patient. Carved into the bones of the town like initials in an old tree. The kind of fear that teaches people to smile while their neighbors die, to celebrate murder like tradition.
And that fear was carved into The Carver's Rules.
---
I found the notebook in the attic.
The door was hidden behind a false panel in the upstairs linen closet. I only discovered it because I heard a thump above the ceiling at 3:30 a.m.—a dull, dragging noise like someone pulling a sack of meat across wooden floors.
I followed the noise up and found dust, cobwebs, and an old wooden trunk half-covered in burlap.
Inside it: black candles, bones (too small to be from animals), and a faded, leather-bound journal that looked handmade.
The cover had a carving: a pumpkin… with human teeth.
---
The first page was written in crimson ink:
> THE RULES OF THE CARVER
By order of Dagger's Hollow. Updated October 1992.
There were twelve rules.
They weren't suggestions. They weren't metaphors.
They were laws.
---
> Rule One: The chosen child must be marked before the final week of October. Once marked, no reversal is permitted.
Rule Two: The Carver only rises on All Hallows' Eve. From dusk until the final bell tolls at midnight.
Rule Three: The offering must be pure—untainted by sin or rebellion. (Note: Mischief disqualifies. Siblings may substitute if chosen is corrupted.)
Rule Four: Attempts to flee will awaken the Hollow. The forest will not allow escape.
Rule Five: Sacrifice must be willing, or rendered willing by the town. Fear is acceptable. Resistance is not.
Rule Six: If the ritual is disrupted, the Carver will choose ten in place of one. He always collects his due.
Rule Seven: Outsiders may not interfere. If they do, they become the twelfth offering.
Rule Eight: Fire may delay the Carver, but it may never stop him. Do not attempt incineration.
Rule Nine: The mask must never be removed. Doing so binds the Carver to the soul of the one who looks.
Rule Ten: To assume the role of successor, one must survive the full night beside the chosen and offer a piece of themselves. Flesh, or blood.
Rule Eleven: If no child is given, the curse falls on the wombs of the town. Stillbirths. Rot. Madness.
Rule Twelve: The Carver does not forget. Broken pacts carry through generations.
---
I read those rules three times, and still my hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Nathan was marked.
I had tried to flee.
And now… I'd read the rules. I knew. Which meant I was in the game, too.
I clutched the book to my chest and turned toward the attic stairs—and froze.
Mr. Gourd was standing there.
The scarecrow. The one that sat still for days on the porch was now inside, leaning against the attic doorframe. His stitched smile curved wider. His button eyes had been replaced with real ones—gray-blue, just like Nathan's.
---
I dropped the journal and bolted down the stairs.
Nathan wasn't in his bed.
I searched the whole house—upstairs, basement, back porch. I screamed his name until my throat cracked. The only answer came from the scarecrow now sitting at the kitchen table… his mouth open… and filled with teeth.
Then I heard the bells.
Soft at first—then louder. Coming from the church tower at the edge of town.
Ten chimes. Slow. Heavy. Final.
And beneath those bells… I heard something else.
A scream. Nathan's.
---
I ran through the streets barefoot, my hoodie flapping, gravel biting into my feet. Dagger's Hollow was glowing with orange lanterns and fake fog—but there was nothing festive about it.
People were out. Watching me.
Not helping.
Some wore pumpkin masks. Some wore butcher aprons. Most held hands, standing on their porches like they were watching a play.
And I realized something sickening.
They wanted me to find him.
They wanted me to see it.
---
The sound led me to the town square—a circle of old cobblestone and dead trees. In the center stood the Harvest Altar, a massive wooden platform decorated with skulls, bones, and dozens of burning jack-o'-lanterns.
Nathan was tied to it.
A crowd gathered in silence as I screamed and ran toward him, shoving past masked children and stone-faced adults.
The mayor stood beside the altar.
"We thank you for your bravery," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder like I was being given a medal. "Some siblings run. But you… You stayed. That means something."
"I'm not giving him to you," I hissed. "I'll die first."
The mayor smiled. "Then the Carver will take ten."
---
I reached Nathan and started undoing the ropes.
His eyes were wide, mouth gagged with orange cloth, his wrists bleeding.
And then the wind stopped.
A silence fell over the crowd so deep, I could hear the fire crackle inside the pumpkins. Even the bells stopped.
From the shadows behind the square…
The Carver arrived.
---
He moved like smoke—slow and drifting, his giant knife dragging along the cobblestone with a metallic whine. His mask glistened in the firelight—stitched and bloody. Bits of hair still clung to it.
I stepped in front of Nathan.
The Carver tilted his head.
The crowd didn't move. They didn't scream. They didn't breathe.
This was part of the ritual.
I raised my voice.
"You want a willing sacrifice, right? Someone pure?"
He stopped.
"I'm not. But maybe I'm enough."
He stepped closer.
I felt it then—the cold rolling off of him, like a winter grave opened too soon.
And when he raised his hand…
He pointed to me.