In this quaint little town lost within the lush, green forestry lives an old legend. It tells the story of a young man and his wife who lived happily in a quaint little house on the outskirts of the town. They loved each other very much and many a man and woman envied their happiness. Among those people was a powerful witch whom the young man had rejected when choosing his bride. In her eyes, she was scorned and vowed to herself that she would make them suffer at their happiest moment.

She waited two years after the couple’s marriage, letting them fall into a comfortable routine. Until the day that she heard about the wife’s pregnancy. The witch donned herself into her finest clothing and brought them a little congratulatory present.

The couple, not knowing any better, welcomed her with open arms. They took her false blessings with upmost sincerity and the wife drank the witch's potion without a bat of an eye. And as the last drop rolled down her throat, did they realize what a grave mistake they had made by trusting her.

In a heartbeat, the wife turned to dust and the husband was left standing before the ashen floor, listening to the witch's cackle. She cursed the wife to jump from body to body, none of which her own, and she cursed the husband to look for his bride and to realize that each time he found her, she would have found death by his hands until he was buried among one hundred corpses. Only then would the curse be lifted.

At the sound of her words, the husband went mad with sorrow. And in his madness he ripped the witch's heart out of her chest and ate it whole, for in her wickedness she needed for none. After grieving for one hundred days and one hundred nights with no food or sleep, he realized that eating the heart had given him immortality. So he set off to roam the lands, restless and maddened in search of his dear wife.

It soon came to light that the curse was not only for the couple but for the town as well. As the wife only appeared in the small quaint town on each hundredth anniversary of that dark, fateful day.

That is the legend that is being whispered around my small, quaint town as the elderly try to warn their young, sceptical granddaughters. However, their words of caution fall on deaf ears, for who would believe such a tale. Even through their scepticism, no one could turn a blind eye to the young women who had gone missing every hundred years, precisely like clockwork.

Lately the whispers have been growing louder, as this year marked the husband’s last victim and he was already a month late. No matter how unfazed people seemed, the tension in the air was proof enough of their fear. But I knew that there was nothing to be afraid of as I made my way down the forest dirt road that led to the once beautiful, small quaint house, in my finest garb to meet my husband one last time before we can truly be together again.