The Rotting Wreaths of Winterveil

It was a truly tacit place, Winterveil—with unpredictable, looping weather and calendars that barely rang true. You would think students had grown accustomed to living such a life, but most of them had no idea, no clue of what world they had been born into.

“Do you believe in ghosts or witches or demons?” Nancy Muncey began, her voice trailing, thick like candied syrup to the back rows of desks leaving students shifting uneasily in their seats, wholly unaware of what their teacher would say next.

“If you ask me, you should, but, to live here, you cannot. Not even a tiny bit, for you will surely be cursed. Just ask your parents. I’m sure they will tell you, especially with the Eve upon us.”

The town was Summer at Christmastime, Fall in Spring and Winter for all the in-between. It rained every single day of the year and leaves were constantly crimson red with pitted yellow edges; barely a hint of green—like a crisp apple ready for cider. While some days were more humid than others, many left a chill to wander down your spine. Students and parents alike never quite knew what season to expect next—so they never waited.

The classroom fell into a suffocatingly unnatural silence. To the children of Winterveil, Nancy’s words weren't just another strange lesson to be fed. They were surrounded by ghosts, and demons, and monsters—this was true. By sitting in her class, they were committing the highest crime: a direct violation of the town's most sacred, terrifying law.

Outside the window, the unending nightfall of an orange, tepid sun caught the heavy, grey sludge filling the courtyard. The ice on the schoolyard pond remained frozen solid at the bottom, but a few feet of cold, dark rainwater rippled across its surface, splashing defiantly, freezing fish and monsters in the ‘in-beneath’ where they would lie dormant and forgotten for another rotation of the season.

This was the dawn of Blackember, a forgotten set of months on Winterveil’s calendar marked between September and December. It was the time of year when the barrier between life and death became one, and every day of the season brought a new spell or a new danger the students had to quietly learn—and hope no one would remember.

Nancy turned to the blackboard, her chalk scraping softly as she began to draw the symbols for the pending Sunderfest—marked by a series of bridges the town built every year to guide the dead who walked uncursed. Flowers, candles, and offerings would be left above and below in hopes that they too could cross.

In Winterveil, magic was never a thing of joy. It was practiced quietly, in dark, unused corners, harnessing the smoke of dying fires and the heat of roaring hearths to map the paths between this world and the next. It was an average, dismal necessity practiced by a group of fundamentally broken people, truly separated from the rest of the world by seasons that never fully came to fruition, never fully passed.

The fading Christmas lights strung across the classroom ceiling hummed and burned hot, casting a sickly, festive-red glow over the rotting autumn wreaths still hanging on the walls. The contrast of holiday cheer and internalized terror hung heavy in the damp air. Students wore thick rainboots and scarves amidst slick jackets and flannels. Some even wore traditional robes, keeping protective crystals and spells written on the insides of their hands—just in case.

"We do not speak of them anywhere else," a boy in the front row whispered, his knuckles white as he clutched a pen in one hand and the edge of his wand against the desk in the other. He didn't say the word Unmentionables. He didn't dare. To speak the name of those in transition—those dying, slipping between the rolling cliffs and waiting fog—would anchor the curse of Winterveil forever, robbing them of their crossing. It was a strict magical law, and the town's forced oblivion was their only saving grace. It was the same scary story every season.

"We don't," Nancy agreed softly, her back to the class as the cold rain lashed against the glass, "but today, children, the fire is dying. And we must learn how to see through the smoke. To re-create our own fire and repair what your parents could not. You need to be prepared, at whatever cost—be it death, or worse, banishment.”

The cold scrape of Nancy’s chalk stopped. Her fingers lingered on the half-written symbols as though compelled. Outside, the rhythm of the constant drizzling rain didn’t just change—it stopped entirely. The silence that followed was heavy, sucking the air from the room. In the courtyard below, the cold water on top of the pond was no longer rippling under the weight of dropping rainwater.

The six inches of dark, freezing water sitting on top of the solid ice began to churn, unprovoked by any wind. Small, frantic pockets of air broke the surface at first, but within seconds, the entire lake was bubbling violently. It looked like a boiling cauldron, except the water was deathly cold, throwing up thick plumes of freezing mist that threatened to swallow the newly built bridges.

“They are here. The clock starts now. The fires need to be crafted, honed, perfected. You must go now, before the water breaks.”

It was as though an army of spirits was trapped just beneath the ice, clawing their way upward, their frantic, invisible gasps creating a chaotic froth in the slush. The water didn't splash outward; it pulsed in rhythm with a low, deep thrum that rattled the classroom floorboards, a physical manifestation of the transition trying to tear its way into the living world.

There were no visible hands clawing up from the surface, no shadowless body wading through the snow. But the curse was awake, being prodded by the forbidden syllables hanging in the classroom. It clung to the outer walls, a cold, following presence that seemed to siphon the dim light directly out of the sky.

“We didn’t speak them,” the boy whispered nervously.

“But they were written, all the same,” a small girl in the middle replied, her voice shaking.

Nancy pulled her hand away from the board.

“Silence. The women of The Hollowsgrave Coven demand you be tested to ensure utmost accuracy come the commencement ceremony next week,” she said, her voice dropping into a tense, rapid whisper. “There will be no way to know until that day comes. I, we have to trust your word that you are studying the magic in private.”

She looked down at her watch, the burgundy leather strap cutting a neat swath against her pale, moonlit skin. Her dark raven hair streaked white on the edges. She almost glowed, herself. She kept several wands looped on holders around her waist, clicking softly against one another as she leaned over her desk, closer to the trembling children.

"You must know, my dearest students. You will be the last of your kind. This new generation isn't going to learn our ways, so you must rely on what you learn here to move forward. It is not only tradition, but survival.”

The green and red Christmas lights overhead flickered, casting long, twisted shadows that seemed to stretch independently toward the windows, as if trying to reach the unseen monsters waiting just beyond the eye's sight.

"Every night at this very hour, you have to be locked tightly away," Nancy warned, her eyes wide, capturing the dim, sickly glow of the festive bulbs. "Close your curtains, practice under a bed or under covers; only a candle or a small light will do. You must. Door shut and double locked, put a towel under the strip, not a peep can get out or you will be discovered. Promise me. Do not open your door for anyone. Not family, not for pets or friends, or food. Not until morning."

Her smile was a knowing, conscious, terrified smile. One meant to reassure, but I assure you, it did the exact opposite.

Behind her, a cold frost began to bloom rapidly across the windowpane, spreading in jagged, unnatural veins—not from the weather, but from the invisible thing that had just arrived on the other side of the glass, listening. Waiting. Watching.

Nobody moved. The school bell did not ring, but no one expected it to.

In Winterveil, the children were almost entirely isolated from the rest of the town. There would be no rushing out into the sleet to greet warm, loving parents. Students stayed in class at night, and locked away in their rooms to study during the day. The adults of Winterveil had long since settled into a gray, hollow existence of mere survival—chopping wood, patching roofs, and sustaining a life that had no room for ambition. It was as though the passion for life died within them the moment they became adults. Old traditions quickly lost their lure, and because they refused to enact the magic of seasonal change, the world stalled around them.

Now, the children were paying the price. The dead and the dying were left stranded in the 'in-beneath' for far longer than necessary, their heavy spirits dragging the town deeper and deeper into a forgotten, rotting land.

"The doors are barred," Nancy murmured, her gaze shifting from the window to the heavy oak classroom door. "You will not be returning to your houses tonight. The streets belong to the unmentioned now. You stay here, under the protection of The House of Haunting Hollows."

She stepped away from the blackboard, her wands clicking louder at her waist.

"The coven women will be watching from the corridors. But within these four walls, your safety is your own. Out there, is your peril. The countdown to Sunderfest begins now. Choose your desks. Pull your coats over your heads. And remember..." She leaned down, blowing out the small oil lamp on her desk, plunging the room into the sickly, bleeding red glow of the hot Christmas lights. "...not a word, or a wayward glance. Keep your eyes tightly shut until you are summoned."