Day 2: The First Disappearance

The morning after the ominous bell had tolled, Eira woke with an uneasy feeling. Sleep had been elusive, and the memory of the strange woman’s words haunted her. The wind outside seemed sharper, colder, as if the air itself carried the weight of some ancient curse. She tried to shake it off as she got dressed, but the sense of dread lingered.

When she made her way into town, Thornwick seemed eerily quiet. It was always a sleepy village, but this morning, something felt different. The market square, usually bustling with early morning shoppers, was nearly empty. The few people she saw hurried by without their usual greetings, eyes downcast, as if something had unsettled them all.

Eira walked past the church, its bell tower looming overhead, silent now but still radiating an eerie presence after the night before. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the bell had been a warning, a sign that something was coming.

As she approached the local inn, she noticed a small crowd gathered at the entrance, hushed whispers carrying through the cold morning air. She quickened her pace, curiosity—and a sense of foreboding—driving her forward.

“What’s going on?” Eira asked, approaching one of the townspeople.

The older woman looked at her, eyes wide with fear. “It’s old Mr. Hawthorne. No one’s seen him since last night. His house is empty, the door wide open. It’s not like him to leave without telling anyone.”

Eira’s stomach dropped. Mr. Hawthorne was one of the town’s oldest residents, a quiet man who lived alone in a small cottage near the woods. He had always kept to himself, but he was dependable, always seen at the market or attending to his small garden. The thought of him disappearing without a trace didn’t sit right.

“Maybe he went to visit someone,” Eira suggested, though the doubt was already creeping in.

The woman shook her head. “No. His coat and boots are still by the door, and his hearth was cold. It’s like he just... vanished.”

A shiver ran down Eira’s spine. The first omen. The disappearance couldn’t be a coincidence, not after everything she had heard yesterday. The curse was starting, and this was just the beginning.

She pushed through the crowd and made her way to Mr. Hawthorne’s cottage, hoping to find some clue. When she arrived, the door was indeed wide open, swinging slightly in the breeze. Inside, everything looked normal—too normal, in fact. There was no sign of a struggle, no indication that anything had been taken. The only thing out of place was the faint smell of something burnt, as if something had been singed in the air itself.

Eira stepped inside, her heart pounding. The stillness of the house felt unnatural, almost as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. She moved through the small living room, past the cold hearth, and into the kitchen. There, on the table, she found a small scrap of paper, yellowed with age.

It was an old newspaper clipping, carefully cut out and placed in the center of the table. Eira frowned as she picked it up, reading the headline: "Thornwick Witch Executed for Dark Magic—Evandra Alden Condemned by Town Leaders."

Her blood ran cold. Evandra’s name. The curse. It was all connected.

As she stood there, staring at the clipping, a chill ran through the air, and the wind outside picked up, rattling the windows. She could almost feel the presence of something watching her, lurking just beyond the edges of her awareness. The weight of the curse was pressing in, suffocating, and she knew that Mr. Hawthorne’s disappearance was just the first sign of what was to come.

Later That Day

Eira couldn’t get the newspaper clipping out of her mind. The connection between Mr. Hawthorne’s disappearance and the curse was too strong to ignore. The fact that someone had left the clipping in plain sight made her think that this was no accident—someone, or something, wanted her to see it.

She spent the rest of the day visiting other residents, asking if they had seen or heard anything unusual the night before. Most of the townspeople were quick to dismiss the strange events, attributing Mr. Hawthorne’s disappearance to old age or an accident. But the tension in their voices told a different story. Fear was beginning to spread, even if no one wanted to admit it.

As the day wore on, Eira couldn’t help but notice more peculiarities. The birds that usually flocked around the town square were gone, the sky was unnaturally gray, and the wind whispered in low tones that felt almost like voices—though no one else seemed to notice. It was as if the entire town was being watched by something unseen.

That evening, as Eira sat in her small living room, the wind howling outside her window, she felt a sense of unease settle over her. She hadn’t seen the cloaked woman again, but her words still echoed in her mind: "The witch’s reckoning."

There was a knock at the door, startling Eira out of her thoughts. She stood, her pulse quickening as she made her way to the door and opened it cautiously.

Standing on her doorstep was one of her neighbors, a middle-aged woman named Margaret, who had lived in Thornwick all her life. Her face was pale, and her hands were trembling as she clutched her shawl around her shoulders.

“Eira,” Margaret whispered, her voice shaking. “There’s something you need to see.”

The Unsettling Discovery

Margaret led Eira to the old chapel at the edge of town, the same one where the church bell had tolled the night before. As they approached, Eira felt a strange pressure in the air, as if the very atmosphere around the chapel was thick with magic.

The door creaked open, and inside, Eira’s breath caught in her throat.

There, in the center of the chapel, was a symbol—burned into the stone floor. It was an intricate design, a circle with twisting lines that radiated outward, pulsing with a faint, otherworldly glow. It was a witch’s mark, unmistakable and ancient.

But that wasn’t all. Surrounding the mark were several small objects—tokens, offerings, perhaps—each one laid carefully around the symbol. A lock of hair, a sprig of yew, and a small, cracked mirror.

“What is this?” Eira whispered, her voice barely audible.

Margaret shook her head, her face pale with fear. “I don’t know. But I’ve heard stories... old stories about how witches used these symbols to bind their power to a place.”

Eira’s stomach twisted. The woman’s warning had been clear—the witch’s power was growing, and the first omen had arrived. Mr. Hawthorne’s disappearance, the tolling bell, and now this—an unmistakable sign that the curse had begun.

“We need to leave,” Margaret whispered, her voice trembling. “This place isn’t safe.”

Eira nodded, though her eyes remained fixed on the symbol. She could feel it pulsing with a dark energy, almost as if it were calling to her. Something inside her—some old, buried instinct—told her that this was only the beginning.

As they hurried out of the chapel and back into the cold night, Eira knew one thing for certain: the witch’s curse had started, and the town of Thornwick was in grave danger.