Some say that there lies this strange forest, where things that don’t appear real move the earth and hit the trees. Ones who are lost claim to have seen dead loved ones. Several people have been found dead from self-inflicted wounds, while those that survive claim that they saw their own memories play back when they find wolves of different shapes and sizes, yet they suffered no harm themselves. They also swear they see a ghost in the forest wielding a black blade, silently killing animals with no sound whatsoever. Some swear they were saved by the ghost, whether it had brought them food or saved them from bandits, with the few that saw its grey eyes saying that it was devoid of mercy as it killed anybody who dared hurt another. They would often leave thanks in the form of bottles, while other leave various herbs and odd plants. Nobody knows who this ghost is, nor when it came to the forest, or even if it’s real. Due to this, many stories abound about its origins.

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One story goes as such.

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ŸŸŸ

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Just above the forest, a soon to be eclipse darkens the day sky, casting a shadow over the white world below. In the frozen forest lies the ghost, seated behind a fallen tree, rotted hollow. The grey eyes that sat on her tired and dirty face are closed, keeping her ears open to the tell-tale howl of a wolf. The ghost, which this story names it as Moneta, is wearing a silver cloak, which she found on the ground, forgotten by a traveler. Its hood keeps her mess of black hair from peering animals, while the cloth hides her charred skin. Brown rags she found cover her body, though they do not offer any kind of warmth.

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Her shaky hands hold a curved black dagger, the blade burning in anticipation for a kill that would never come. All the while, her mind tries to cover up whatever memories her personal wolf had brought up in thick layers of fog.

Through the darkness of her eyes, her ears catch what little sounds the frozen forest has. A tiny stream flows water over rocks, carrying little pieces of snow. Gales plop the snow from branches, both high and low onto the ground. What few animals remain awake rustle in the bushes and trees for food.

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Deep in her ears lies a faint song. What this song is, none can say. It was a song sung to her every night as a child, a duet by two people she cannot seem to recall. Yet the song remains, forever remaining in her scattered memories. She lifts her head for one moment to try to hum it, to whistle it, to hear the tune only she can hear out in the open. But no noise comes out. Try as she might, no sound can carry from her mouth, her throat.

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She resumes her hiding spot, her stomach paining in hunger, yet no growling is heard. The snow is silent underneath her body as she rests again, her breath silent even as it turns to smoke.

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 Every now and again, she could hear quick flashes of sounds from her past, of an arrow whishing through the air, the quiet thunk of metal against meat, with a sound of success from a female voice. The clinks of glass and the popping of bubbles from boiling liquid, the clangs of heavy metal pots as they shifted around with a male muttering to himself.

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These flashes would come and go as they please, giving Moneta no calm.

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So the ghost waits, surrounded by sound, waiting for the wolf to come.

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ŸŸŸ

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In the darkening daylight, she drifts off to a half-awake sleep, where the slightest disturbance could wake her.

Forgotten memories spring forth in this half-dead state, ones she won’t remember when she wakes. Happy memories, but fleeting nonetheless.

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A lot of these memories are trapped in a fog, their events obscured by time. Many more involve a woman and man, their faces lost in the fog, their names lost to time. This particular story refers to them by Huntress and Alchemist, respectively, as those were their jobs. The Huntress had flowing red hair while Alchemist had short blue hair.

The events and dialogue in this memory may not have been what happened, but it’s the one the story uses.

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Alchemist has the little Moneta sitting on a chair in his humid study, bubbling potions in different pots of sizes, surrounding the pair as he prepares a healing potion for her bruises. What particular clothes she wore that day are also hazy, so let’s say that she is wearing the silver cloak, dirtied from a fight involving some of the youths in the village.

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The pair are in a corner of the local orphanage, for Moneta was left as a baby on its doorsteps, during a clear night. Despite her cries, no one knew she was there as they were silent by her curse. The story, through ages of retellings, has changed this part, so no one knows what the original story had. Was it that the parents not support themselves and the baby? Maybe some relative saved the baby from whoever cast the curse and brought them here? Maybe she was the result of an accident, and the mother/father hid the baby so they wouldn’t get found? Nobody is absolutely sure, but it’s a minor point in the grand scheme of things.

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"I can’t keep making these potions for you,” Alchemist says as he looks over his cabinet. He picks up a flask to observe the contents. “I’m starting to run out of ingredients because of you,” he said as he proceeds to pour it carefully into a pot, the liquid turning green. “This is why we need to keep eyes on you all the time, we can’t find you before all this happens.” As he is talking, he’s catches glances of her over his shoulder so he can make sure she’s still there.

She only responds with a look down, the pain on her body and hands a faint glow.

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Putting the flask down, he said, “You can’t keep picking fights with those kids, you need to control your anger,” he says as he stirs the potion, the green liquid emitting a lime scent.

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When he turns around, he leans on his desk full of herbs, liquids, and animal parts. “I can’t have you coming in here every other day with a new injury to heal. Honestly, what do you think she is going to say when sh-”

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“What is this I hear about a fight?” yells Huntress as she slams the door open, startling Alchemist. His arm slips, sending several ingredients into the pot of healing potion, causing a large boom.

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Moneta smiles at this as she can feel the lime scent on her nose.

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Time shifts to later in the day, with the ghost sitting on her bed, crayons spread out as she writes the word ghost over and over again. Both Huntress and Alchemist stand watch over the door while they discuss something, their voices muffled by the imaginary walls of the orphanage. Time is lost in this memory so she does not know how long this takes. She feels angry, her scribbles devolving into scratches of red over the ghost before she throws the crayon and book into the wall maybe even doubtful, and flops onto her bed, her head pointed away from the door. Eventually the two people walk in, skin green from the potion.

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Huntress picks up the notebook and flips through the pages, finding illustrations of the young girl firing arrows into nothing and brewing potions. Of the children yelling ghost at her. Of the ghosts marked in red. She shares the drawings with Alchemist, who raises his brow in intrigue. Huntress then kneels at the side of the bed, and asks, points to the page of red ghost and asks, “Is this why you started the fight, because they called you a ghost?”

Moneta continues to look away from them. Huntress continues as she flips to a previous page. “And the reason they called you that was because you pretended to be us. But why us?”

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Moneta turns over, showing her wet eyes to the two as she takes the notebook and flips to the first page, a drawing of the three holding hands.

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“So you consider us family then,” says Alchemist. “But why us? There’s so many other things to work for.”

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She flips through the book again before landing on pictures she drew of them, stuff she imagines them doing, with Alchemist making potions for the sick and Huntress bringing him ingredients and food for the villagers who seemed happy as well. She points at their smiling faces, hoping to prove her point.

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“So we look happy doing our jobs, and you want to make others happy,” says Alchemist. “Did I get that right?”

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She nods her head.

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“But I kill animals,” says Huntress. “And you aren’t the strongest kid around.”

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“And what I do is not child’s play. You saw what happened earlier when she barged into the room. We were lucky that only our skin turned green, it could’ve blown up the orphanage.”

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“But we didn’t, and that’s the important thing.”

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With a sigh, Alchemist moves right next to Huntress and bends down to look at Moneta, his face still blurry. “Point being, what you want is not what you need. Do you really need to be like us?” Her small head shakes up and down, her mouth shut. “You’re not going to stop even after this, are you?”

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Moneta sits up and flips through the book to a blank page. Taking a blue crayon, she writes out “speak” over the drawing of herself from earlier. She shows them it while she looks as she wipes the tears from her eyes, staring at them with determination.

With a sigh, his fingers pinch the bridge of his nonexistent nose. “Alright. It’ll take some convincing from the orphanage, but I’ll see about teaching you some basic potion making.”

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Huntress, still kneeling, wipes away the remaining tears and says “I’ll see about teaching you hunting as well. Not the animal killing part, just some strength building I guess. Some self-defense would be good.”

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Moneta eyes light up.

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“We need to teach you discipline, might as well have you be our apprentice, as it were,” says Alchemist. “Promise us that you will not use this information to hurt others.”

Huntress holds out her hand, outspread, saying “Swear on this.” She looks over to Alchemist, and with a sigh, he holds his hand out as well, kneeling again to be level with Moneta.

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Moneta wraps her fingers around both, feeling the strong hand of Huntress and the long, dexterous fingers of Alchemist. She squeezes her hand as she mouths the words I promise.

“Swear to keep your anger in control as well,” says Alchemist.

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The memory ends here, though her sleep does not. Flashes of memories from different points in her life start playing, some overlapping each other while others are too short to properly experience. The following are of interesting memories to note:

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The sloshing of potions as Alchemist taught her proportions for ingredients. The slashing of a knife as Huntress taught her how to skin an animal. “It’s not killing!” Huntress would say to defend herself.

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“Good job.” from Alchemist when she managed to brew a good healing potion for the first time after dozens of attempts and a few thrown bottles here and there. “Whooo!” from Huntress when she managed to hit the bullseye with Huntress’s bow.

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The yells of surprise as the two gifted her, nearing her adulthood, the black dagger, made from metal the Alchemist formed and designed by the Huntress. “I had to beg him to give you this. This is only as a sign of your age and not to be used under any circumstances, understood?” Huntress said.

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The crashes of glass, the quiet thunks of metal as they pier-

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•••

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Her dagger cuts a little slit into her hand, jolting her awake. Her heartbeat is fast as she looks around her at the white world, seemingly safe for the moment. She looks at her hand as the memories her mind tried to uncover slinks back into the fog. The cut is tiny, but the blood is still there. She plunges it into the snow, sending the cold deep into her body. Her mind wants her to go back to sleep, to keep remembering the good times that she had. But she can’t.

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Her head rests on the trunk, bringing her eyes to look up to the darkened sky, the day sky slowly turning into sunset. She holds the dagger in front of her with her uncut hand, the blade catching the last few glints of light, the bit of red blood gleaming on the edge. What were you like? Are you even still alive? A sharp pain starts in her head again, forcing her to forget the question. She shakes her head violently, the thoughts leaving her head.

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The knife is still exposed to the air, reflecting the tears she didn’t know she had. She wipes them off, her ears now silent to the world.

Should I even still be alive?

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She brings the dull edge of the blade onto her neck, feeling the cold metal sink into her skin, not enough to draw blood, but enough to find out what her prey would feel in its final moments. Fingers tighten around the handle as she keeps the blade on her neck, imagining the blood that would flow out, the warm light of the animal disappearing. She presses deeper, as if wanting her blood drip out.

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I’m still here. But should I be?

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A loud growl removes the dagger from her neck and her hand from the snow as she stands, the cloak parting way to show her weapon, held at the ready.

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A wolf with messy violet fur stands in front of her. Well, it looks like a wolf at least, though it is much bigger than one, at least as tall as Moneta. She steps back to try to get away, but her foot hits the log, stopping the movement.

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The wolf bares its lavender fangs at her as it continues to growl, the dark pupil-less eyes looking at her with a primal fury. If it were to say anything, it would be something along the lines of You can’t hide from me.

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Faint memories of sound start to play as the two stare at each other, unmoving. The closer it gets, the more it clears away the fog in her head, revealing memories she tried to hide as it gets closer. A familiar feeling, but one she would rather avoid.

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One step. She could feel the heavy paws falling into the snow, leaving deep footprints.

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Smacks of fists against her body from children in the village, their jeers leaving bruises. She tried her best, but it was a losing fight. She lost her potion in that fight, stolen by one of the children. Huntress managed to get it back before it was lost, but Moneta was inconsolable for days.

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Two steps. She lifts her foot to place it on the log, a plan starting to form through the pain.

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The faint chirping of a bloody baby bird, fallen from its nest where she couldn’t reach. Even with her healing potion, the bird died in her hands. The Alchemist tried to convince her that no healing potion could’ve saved it, but she spent days consumed by her potions, hoping to one day make one that could save anyone.

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Three steps. The wolf’s breath was invisible to the cold air.

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Cracks of the fire that engulfed the church, her body moving without thinking to save a person inside. She didn’t know who it was, just that they needed help. Flames licked at her skin as she held the blue potion, ready to break it to save both her and the person. But falling pieces of wood hits her unconscious before she could. She was saved by the villagers, but was disturbed by the death of the villager.

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Four steps. Her free hand moves to grip the cloak.

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Whines from the dying wolf that attacked her, her dagger sticking out of its chest. Neither Huntress nor Alchemist could bring her to resume her studies, her promise broken.

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Five steps. No more running. The eclipse has reached its zenith.

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The crashing of glass and the yells of people as they are slaughtered by wolves and warriors alike. She could hear the silent thunk as an arrow flies towards Huntress, the metal point pierc-

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The cloak is thrown through the air with a silent scream, as she leaps off the log, tears flying behind her as she falls towards the wolf. At this slight action, the wolf also lunges, its vision not blocked by the cloak.

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A sudden wind blows the cloak away as the blade finds itself lodged between the eyes of the wolf. Moneta’s surprise at her apparent victory quickly vanishes as the wolf continues forward, its heavy body knocking the ghost back to the ground, her head hitting the log.

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With all paws on her body, the dagger still stuck in its head, she was stuck, her arms and legs unable to move under the sheer weight of the wolf. She stared into the wolf’s maw, its many sharp fangs instilling fear into the ghost.

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When it bit into her head, her silent screams ringed inside her head as the fog started to leave her head, the memories that they hid flowing forth into her head. All the mistakes she’s done, all the injustices done to her by those her age, the deaths she could not avoid. Tears started to flow from her face as the pain grew with each memory. The pain would only stop for a moment in between the wolf’s bites, each one destroying more of the fog. She tried to struggle, to get away from the pain, but she was trapped underneath.

Eventually, all that was left was the last memory, the one the wolf almost brought forth a few moments ago. One bite and she was lost inside it, reliving the moments.

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•••

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She was lying on her bed, the dark night outside sending her room into darkness. Her reddened eyes staring at her dagger as she pondered her actions. She had run off again, but came across a wolf. It attacked her, so she had to defend. She couldn’t die.

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The voices of Huntress and Alchemist drifted through her door, but she did not answer. She broke her promise. She doesn’t deserve them anymore.

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But then the glass started to crash. Screams from outside her window. She jolted upwards and saw fires start to blaze outside. Reminded of the church she shuts her eyes, but the crashing of her door returns her attention to inside her room, finding a man dressed in black on the ground with a silver dagger in his head.

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Huntress runs into the room and looks at Moneta. She moves to grab her arm, but many arrows pierce through her body, sending her to the ground. Fast footsteps leads an archer into the doorway many arrows cocked in his bow. He aims it right at Moneta but a glass flask hits his head and he’s stunned, just long enough for Moneta to leap from the bed and drive her blade through his arms, knocking him out with its handle.

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She glances back to Huntress and flips her over, the warmth fading from her fast. Moneta grabs one of the many health potions she has and props Huntress up. She forces her to drink it, but the injury is too far gone for her potion to work. Panicking, Moneta moves to grab another one, but her arm is grabbed by stopped by the strong hand of Huntress. Her mouth is full of blood as she moves to hold Moneta’s hand, the blood in her lungs not letting her talk. The two stare at each for a few moments, tears in the girl’s eyes as Huntress caresses her hair with her other hand.

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Both hands lose their strength as Huntress flops to the ground.

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Alchemist stands in the doorway now as Moneta hugs the lifeless body of Huntress. He grabs her and tries to leave the room, but she clings onto the body. He forces her to leave it as he takes one step out the door, only for an arrow to pierce his head, and he falls to the ground, dead on the spot. Another silent scream echoes within Moneta’s head as she can feel his hand falling away from her.

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She tries to push the tears away as she spots the archer on her floor start to move, groggy from his injuries. Eyes filled with red, she plunges her dagger into his head, mind filled with vengeance.

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Her red eyes then spot three yellow potions fall from Alchemist’s other hand. Knowing what it is, she downs one of them, keeping the other two as a last reminder. She can feel her reflexes increase, her natural speed getting faster. She grabs both her dagger and the silver dagger and bow and quiver from the lifeless bodies in the room and leaves, letting her anger consume her common sense.

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The rest of the memory is marred in red. Powered by the potion, she runs throughout the village, silently killing every bandit that had invaded, trying to protect whoever remained. Where these bandits came from, or why they attacked, she didn’t know. But fueled by rage, she continued to kill anybody who stood in her way. When the potion’s effects started to run out, she drank another, continuing to make her way through the relatively small village. The splatters of blood marks her skin as she continues to pick up arrows and weapons from the bandits. Even when getting bit by wolves, and hit by arrows and knives, her rage kept her going, the screams of those she killed silent in her ears as she tries to save as many villagers as she can.

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By sunrise, only a few villagers remained. The bandits had stolen some and killed most, but the ones that remained were still battered. She stands in the center of village as she tries screaming into the sky, the realization of what she has done finally creeping in. Where there was anger now lies sadness and loneliness.

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She soon leaves, taking only the black dagger, trying to leave the memory of the village behind her.

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•••

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The black dagger’s cold metal lands into the snow between her legs, the wolf disappearing into the ether, having left its mark in her mind. The world is blurry as tears fall down her face, her body weak from the emotions. She grabs her head as she tries to push these memories of regret, of blood and death into the fog, but the wolf’s bites have left them exposed, forever free of that smoke.

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She lets go, her arms tired and her eyes filled with tears. She traps her knees with her arms, bringing her legs close to her body as she stares at the snow, not bothering to wipe the tears. Her head blank from the onslaught of emotions. The memories sit there, she knows that they are there, but no longer held back, they just play in her eyes, the long hours and minutes reduced to mere seconds. The sounds they carried, the emotions they have are faint in her head.

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The eclipse overhead reaches its end as the moon starts to move away from the sun.

What now? she asks herself as she takes the blade and examines it. Should I still be here? Would they still want me to be?

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The returning light once again glints at the blade. It catches in her tired eyes, seemingly telling her a message, one only she can hear. She could’ve sworn she saw blue and red hair in that light.

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She stands up and picks up the cloak, gripping tightly onto the dagger’s handle. I’ll find some way to make up for this. Someday. So she walks deeper into the forest, her mind set as she places the cloak around her. The only sign of her fight are a few footprints, yet they were soon lost by the sun’s light melting the snow.

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•••

            Other stories abound about this ghost, having it be a boy, more characters, a less bloody past. But for some reason, this story seems to be the most prevalent one, reaching the minds of travelers who travel the forest. Is it because they find sympathy in here? They enjoy the imagination of it? I don’t know honestly. But it is certain there is something in that forest, cementing themselves into the memories of those who enter it.