The Carver's finger stayed aimed at me, unmoving. Not trembling. Not hesitating.
The kind of point that didn't ask.
The kind that chose.
The mayor bowed his head the moment the Carver moved. "The pact is satisfied," he said softly.
"No." I tightened my grip on Nathan's wrist, his skin clammy and trembling beneath my fingers. "I'm not letting him go."
The crowd began to murmur.
And I realized—this wasn't a rescue. It was a test.
They wanted to see if I'd give in. If I'd be weak. If I'd follow their rules. But the moment I saw the fear in Nathan's eyes—the tears falling silently, the way he tried to mouth my name through the gag—I knew I would never play their game.
The Carver took one step forward.
Then another.
The firelight danced along his mask—patches of human flesh stitched together in a grotesque mosaic. A jaw that didn't move. A gash where a mouth might've once been. The blade in his hand was carved from something pale and bone-like, shaped like a butcher's knife but too long, too wrong.
I reached down to the ropes holding Nathan and tore at the knots.
They were slick with blood and pumpkin pulp.
"Chloe," he whimpered, barely audible.
"I'm here. You're okay. I've got you."
The Carver reached the edge of the altar.
Then he stopped.
---
The silence felt unnatural.
The crowd watched, silent and obedient.
The Carver slowly raised his blade—not toward me, but to the sky.
The knife shimmered, glowing faintly in the moonlight.
Then he plunged it into the altar beside Nathan, carving a long, deep line in the wood, as if marking territory.
As if saying:
This one is mine.
---
Then he turned and walked away—vanishing into the fog like he was never there.
The moment he was gone, the people exhaled, like the spell had broken. Some began clapping. Clapping.
Like they'd just witnessed a church baptism or a wedding.
The mayor stepped forward.
"The Carver has marked the offering. He will return at midnight to collect. Your vigil begins now."
"Vigil?" I snapped, shielding Nathan.
"You must stay with him. You must keep him on the altar. It is tradition."
"Go to hell."
The mayor didn't flinch. "If he leaves that platform, the Carver takes ten. We won't stop him."
---
I carried Nathan inside as fast as I could, arm around his small shoulders, my mind racing. They could try to drag us back, I thought. But they didn't.
They didn't need to.
Because he was marked.
And once you're marked… you don't need chains to be hunted.
---
Back at the house, Aunt Miriam was already waiting. She sat at the table with a candle and a cup of tea, calm as if she'd just watched the weather report.
"You interfered," she said without looking up.
"No. I saved my brother."
Her eyes lifted slowly to mine. "There is no saving in the Hollow. Only delaying."
Nathan sat at the end of the table, staring blankly at his hands. He hadn't spoken since the altar. I watched him run his thumb across his wrist, over and over, the way a child touches a scar that hasn't healed.
"He carved into the wood," I whispered. "A mark. What does that mean?"
Miriam hesitated.
"It means he's chosen. That's the binding."
"I won't let it happen."
"Then be ready to die. Or worse—watch him become something else."
---
That night, the dreams started.
Not dreams, exactly. Memories that weren't mine.
I saw the Carver's hands—not from a distance, but through his own eyes. I felt the blood on his apron. Heard the screams of those who didn't listen.
I saw the first altar, built on a cold October night in 1890, using the bones of the mayor's dead son. I saw the first pact sealed with teeth and prayer and knives.
And I heard the rule whispered in his voice—the voice of something broken:
> "All things carve back when carved deep enough."
---
I woke to screaming.
Not Nathan's.
Ours.
I rushed to his room and froze.
The walls were covered in carvings—thousands of jagged, slashed pumpkin faces etched into the plaster. Each one different. Some laughing. Some crying. Some bleeding.
Nathan stood in the center, holding a kitchen knife.
His eyes were wide and blank. His hands were covered in orange and red pulp, like he'd been carving the walls with his bare fingers.
"Nathan!" I grabbed the knife, pulled it from him.
He blinked slowly, confused.
"I… I was dreaming. But I wasn't me."
My heart skipped.
"Who were you?"
He looked at me.
"I was the Carver."
---
I told Aunt Miriam everything.
The dreams. The voices. The carvings.
She didn't look surprised.
"The mark does more than claim the body. It carves into the mind. If you wait too long, it won't be Nathan they collect. It'll be Nathan they unleash."
My stomach twisted.
"Then how do I break the mark?"
She hesitated again. Too long.
"There's one way," she said. "But it means taking his place. And even then… the Carver must agree."
"I don't care."
"You should."
---
Later that night, I watched Nathan sleep.
His chest rose and fell slowly, but his fingers twitched like they were still carving something. I stared at him and realized something horrible:
He was already changing.
I saw it in the way he moved. The way he stared longer than he should. The way he didn't blink when the shadows flickered outside the window.
The mark was working.
If I didn't do something soon… my brother would become the next Carver.
---
Just before midnight, I went back to the altar.
Alone.
The pumpkins were still burning. The air was thick with smoke and ash.
And the knife—the Carver's blade—was still embedded in the wood.
I reached for it.
It was ice cold. Too heavy for its size. The second I touched it, something whispered through my bones.
> "One must always carve."