Warning: Violence and gore.

The house on the hill stands crooked among gnarled trees and low fields. Some say it was erected by fae, cursing all who lived there to have a soul as black as the warped shingles on the leaning roof. At night, if one listens closely, they may hear the whimpers from those whose bones lie beneath the floorboard. Offerings from the fae to ensnare any foolish enough to waltz through the front doors.

Windows tinted red resemble jagged teeth carved into cracking black stones. An iron fence surrounds the estate, watching ominously over the town below. Mr. Hellsman lives within the ruby halls reeking of cigar smoke and whiskey. He stumbles most nights, so drunk that he doesn't have a care in the world. He doesn't have a care when he's sober either.

The basement is filled to the brim with wine and goods, trivial belongings that mean nothing to one who no longer sees the value of them. Gold, silver, and jeweled trinkets rest haphazardly atop beautifully crafted mahogany furniture. One trip from Mr. Hellsman and a delicate vase will shatter, but he'll laugh it off and tell Mr. Orshawl to order another. They have the coin for it, seeing as Mr. Hellsman owns the land Eidenswill sits upon. Any who live or work there owe him a fee, whatever fee he proclaims, and there's nothing they can do about it. So he wastes his day away drinking and laughing and sinning, until tonight.

"Hello?" a weak voice calls followed by a timid knock at the front door.

Orshawl barely hears the sound over Hellsman's racket upstairs with a prostitute from town. He welcomes the distraction, shuffling downstairs to the foyer. Another knock sounds at the door, accompanied again by the meek voice, "E-Excuse me, is anyone home?!"

The door swings open with a groan. Orshawl peers down at a child no older than ten shivering on the porch. His wide blue eyes rest above sunken cheeks. Dirty clothes hang on a delicate, shivering frame. There's dried blood in his hair and along the left side of his face.

"H-Hello, Sir, I know it is quite late, but, c-could I stay for the night?" The child stutters, holding up his hands pleadingly. "I'm looking for someone and so v-very far from home on s-such a windy night." He hiccups, tears building in his eyes.

"Poor thing, you must have gotten separated from your parents," says Orshawl. The boy blinks his wide eyes brimming with tears. "Fear not, we would never turn away a child in need. Please, come in."

Orshawl presses his hand to the boy's back. He doesn't catch the salt along the doorway vanishing as he welcomes the boy inside. He guides the child through the foyer to a seating area. Fire hisses in a stone fireplace encircled by iron rods and protected by gargoyle statues as tall as the child. He sits in a chair twice his size, short legs dangling off the cushion.

"Is this your estate, Sir?" asks the boy, admiring the iron chandelier hanging above. Melted candles rest on steel plates. A grandfather clock three times higher than him clicks loudly across the room. There are ashtrays everywhere and books perfectly preserved, never having been read.

"No, I am merely a worker for the master, Mr. Hellsman, who is currently...entertaining another guest," answers Orshawl. He retrieves a blanket from a cupboard concealed in the wall. When he rests it around the boy's shoulders, the child smiles.

"I will inform him of your visit. He knows all the townsfolk and probably knows where your home is so we may escort you to your parents. I'm sure they're worried sick about you," Orshawl explains, maintaining a calm tone that he has perfected over the years. Mr. Hellsman doesn't like it when they're shivering before he even enters the room.

Orshawl gently inspects the wound on the boy's head. "It looks like you've hit your head."

The boy pouts.

"Let me get you something warm to drink and something to eat so you can take some medicine."

Before Orshawl leaves, the boy holds his hand. He stops short, glancing at the child smiling up at him.

"You're so attentive to your guests, Sir. There aren't many who would care for a lost child. You, and those like you, will get what you deserve in the end," says the boy, eyes glinting in the firelight, somehow chilly compared to his cordial smile.

Orshawl nods. The boy releases his hand. The tips of Orshawl's fingers ache like the sensation of being submerged in snow for too long. He shakes it off, departing to prepare the promised meal and medicine for the boy. He'll need it.

After a meal, the child curls up by the fire. Orshawl ascends to the second floor, where all is quiet. The evening's entertainment left shortly after the boy's arrival so Hellsman sits alone in bed. A gray cloud of smoke hovers over the room, stinking of ash.

"My Lord," Orshawl calls from the door. Hellsman grunts, signaling to enter. Bowing, Orshawl explains, "A young boy has gotten lost. I believe he narrowly escaped the clutches of a fae, but doesn't remember. He's sleeping downstairs in the sitting room."

Hellsman smirks. The flickering ashes of his cigar illuminate the dark glint in his bloodshot eyes. "A young boy, you say? I imagine he's rather frightened after surviving such an ordeal."

"Indeed. I tended to his minor wound and gave him a delightful meal. He must be very grateful to you for allowing him to stay for the evening."

Hellsman rises from the bed, slipping on a silk robe. Orshawl doesn't raise his head until after Hellsman passes.

"It would be rude if the owner of the house doesn't greet their guest. I better go pay him a visit," Hellsman says, descending to the floor below.

Orshawl follows until the aching returns to his fingertips. Pins and needles stab his nerves. A chill sweeps through his veins. He chokes, gasps coming out in wisps of white. His limbs creak, incapable of moving, then he drops. Orshawl holds up his arm, whimpering upon seeing his hand colored grotesque purple. Although he sees his hand, there is no feeling in the fingertips, then his palm, then his arm.

"H-Help," Orshawl whimpers. He spasms on the floor, clawing at skin that's too hot although ice forms atop his blue tinted skin. Crystals form in his eyes, fogging all until his vision's gone.

There is no one to hear his dying breath.

Downstairs, Hellsman's strides quicken until he opens the double doors of the sitting room. The boy stands by the fireplace. His back faces the doors that shut behind Hellsman. In the pocket of his robe is the master key. He slides the key into the lock, clicking it shut.

"Good evening, little one," Hellsman says cordially. He removes the cigar from his mouth, setting it aside in an ashtray. "I am Mr. Hellsman, the owner of this estate. I'm sorry that I'm only now visiting you, but I heard from Mr. Orshawl that you've been well taken care of. Of course, if you need anything else, I'll be happy to help."

"I do have a question," the boy replies, keeping his back turned.

Hellsman approaches. "Feel free to ask whatever you'd like."

"Do you prefer little boys or little girls?"

Hellsman halts. His hand hovers above the boy's shoulder.

"I beg your pardon?" Hellsman asks.

"Your preference. Little boys or little girls," the child repeats. "Do tell so I may adjust myself accordingly."

"Adjust..." Hellsman whispers, disturbed. Then the boy turns his head to reveal icy eyes luminant among the flickering flames. Eyes no mortal can possess. His lips draw back into a grin too full for his young face, stretching the skin so it splits at the cheekbones, bloody red and raw.

"F-Fae," Hellsman whimpers, lurching back. His foot catches on the rug, sending him to the floor. "Fae!" He repeats, looking at the door. "Orshawl, Orshawl, iron! I-I need iron!"

The prince's high pitched giggling screeches like broken glass against stone. He faces Hellsman, silhouette illuminated by the fire that dims until they are mere sparks. The room groans. Ice slithers up the windows until they're coated white. The iron chandelier glistens over. Glittering icicles pointed like spears threaten to pierce the world below.

"Orshawl!" Hellsman rushes to his feet. The slick ice beneath has him sliding to the door where his numb fingers fumble to open the lock. But the lock freezes shut. The key is lodged in the door.

"Help! Help me, please! Somebody!" Hellsman bangs on the door. His skin sticks to the ice, ripping the flesh.

The prince joins him, mimicking his actions and voice, sounding so desperate that anyone would believe his words, "Help! Help me, please! Somebody!" Then the prince looks at him, grinning ear to ear. Blood oozes from his ripped cheeks. "It has been so long since I've heard a scream. Do it some more."

Hellsman bolts for the only iron in the room. He grips the stoker for the fire, swirling around fast, but the prince is there. Hellsman's anguished scream follows the quick dismembering of his hand. His severed limbs drops to the floor, still gripping the iron rod.

"Do you know a boy named Artemis?" the prince growls, grabbing Hellsman's arm. The man whimpers, snot and tears streaming down his face. Ice covers his wound, stopping the blood spewing from his arm. If he bleeds out, the fun ends.

"A-Artemis?" Hellsman whispers. When recognition reaches his eyes, the prince grabs his face. Frozen nails pierce Hellsman's cheeks. Blood fills his mouth, gurgled between his cries.

"Tonight, you pay for what you did to him," says the prince, whose malevolent grin could never tell the true horrors that Hellsman goes through on the evening of his death. All that remains of the owner of the house on the hill is a butler frozen solid on the second floor and a red room where the corpse is painted on the walls.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾

The circus travels the Jolly Road until the late evening. None are foolish enough to leave the red bricks even to sleep. The hungry forest looms, ever watchful, patient, and cunning. In the dark, creatures lurk for a snack or soul to take. The travelers pitch tents on the road, huddling together for safety. Workers take watch, prowling the area with iron swords and fire. One never knows if they'll wake to find themselves alone or with company that will be their last.

Dovin struggles to sleep from the fear of the woods and his aching side. A deep purple welt has formed in the shape of a boot; his father's boot. Even after beating Artemis, Mr. Vassere wasn't finished. Dovin felt his wrath, loathing himself for not defending Artemis while simultaneously thanking him. The beating would have been worse without Artemis' sacrifice.

A brisk breeze strikes the tent until the flaps open. Mr. Vassere awakes, stumbling away from his sleeping wife and stepping over Dovin. He struggles to tie the flaps in the dim candlelight. A gust of freezing wind bursts into the tent. Dovin covers his head with the blankets for protection. The very air hurts his skin. Then comes the scream.

All those sleeping wake, grabbing their loved ones in hopes they aren't the ones stolen. Lamp lights illuminate the tents, humming like stars along the Jolly Road. Dovin throws off his blankets, searching the tent where only his mother remains. She's staring wide-eyed at Dovin. They turn their heads.

The tent flaps are wide open. Dovin's father is missing.

"Papa!" Dovin screams, scrambling out of the tent. Darkness greets him, a cold grasp so frightening he bites back a scream. There's something out there. A hungry beast lurking for any foolish enough to pursue. Dovin's mother grabs him, dragging him back inside.

On the Jolly Road, there are no heroes. Do not follow the screams. Pretend not to hear them growing distant then silent.

Another soul has been taken by the woods.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ:✧*⋆.*:･ﾟ✧.: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ☾