All Hallows

by Christopher Golden

This little girl, her soul now witch-dark, survived only by slipping into the ordinary world and luring children through the Blackthorn as offerings to her mother. One per year, in exchange for another year of life. Soft children for her larder. Fresh children for her gullet.

She had watched Arthur cut himself, had seen the images forged by smoke and fire. That had not been an illusion or a hallucination—that was magic. It should have delighted her, but instead, it made her skin crawl. All night she had felt his presence as something oppressive, no less malignant than a predator spying on them from the bushes.