Author: Fraser Payne. Fraser is a writer and storyteller with a penchant for exploring the eerie and uncanny hidden within the everyday. Growing up in Scotland, Fraser developed a fascination with folklore and the dark, twisting tales whispered around the hearth. When not writing, Fraser can be found hiking through ancient forests, collecting old books, or brewing an experimental cup of coffee. “The Holly King’s Warning” is a testament to Fraser’s ability to blend the magical and macabre, drawing readers into worlds where the past lingers and bargains are never simple. This story marks Fraser’s foray into seasonal horror, a genre he hopes to explore further with his unique voice and imagination.

The snow whispered against the windows of the quaint little village of Emberholt, a picturesque hamlet that should have been plucked from the pages of a holiday postcard. Garlands of holly and ivy draped over every doorway, and candles glowed warm and golden in every window. The village square had its crowning jewel: a towering Christmas tree, adorned with glittering baubles and strands of silver tinsel, standing proudly beside a roaring bonfire.

But beneath Emberholt’s charm lay a secret as old as the frostbitten forest that surrounded it, a secret known only to those whose families had lived there long enough to fear the name of the Holly King.

It started as a story, as such things often do.

Long ago, the Holly King had been the protector of the woods, a green-cloaked figure crowned with a wreath of crimson berries, ruling with justice and an ancient, iron-bound sense of fairness. But centuries of deforestation and disrespect for the natural world had turned his heart cold. The villagers whispered that each year, on the darkest night, he walked among them, punishing the wicked and sparing only those who upheld the old ways.

This year, the tales of the Holly King were far from the minds of the townsfolk as they gathered for Emberholt’s annual Yule Feast. Tables groaned under the weight of roasted game, spiced cider, and mince pies. Children raced through the square, their laughter rising to meet the frostbitten stars. The villagers drank, sang, and reveled—until the wind shifted.

The fire’s cheerful crackle sputtered, and a long, eerie howl echoed from the woods. The flames leapt unnaturally high, throwing shadows that seemed to stretch and writhe like living things. A heavy silence fell over the crowd.

“Just the wind,” said Mayor Harker, though his voice trembled.

The children were herded back to their parents, and the festivities limped on, their earlier exuberance dampened. But many cast nervous glances at the treeline, where the Holly King was said to emerge.

A Visitor Unseen

Amelia Thorne had never believed in the Holly King. A practical woman of thirty, she’d returned to Emberholt after years in the city, drawn home by her aging mother’s frailty and the promise of a quiet life. She found the villagers’ superstitions charming, if a bit ridiculous.

She sat at the feast’s edge, nursing a mug of mulled wine, when she saw him.

He was not dressed in festive red, nor was his face jovial like the Father Christmas figures in shop windows. He wore a cloak of woven holly leaves and ivy, his face obscured by a mask of bark and berries. His eyes—deep-set and glittering like shards of ice—met hers across the square.

No one else seemed to notice him.

Amelia blinked, and he was gone.

Later that night, as the feast wound down, she wandered toward the forest edge, curious and emboldened by wine. The air seemed heavier, sharper, as though the woods themselves held their breath.

“Hello?” she called, her voice trembling despite herself.

A rustle of leaves answered, and the Holly King stepped into view, his towering form bending low as if the very weight of his presence could crush the earth.

“You are not like the others,” he said, his voice a deep rumble, like stones shifting beneath the earth.

Amelia wanted to scoff, to retort, but the words died in her throat.

“You care little for their baubles and cheer,” he continued, his head tilting as if to study her more closely. “But you do not tread lightly, either.”

“I don’t believe in—” she began, but he raised a hand to silence her.

“Believe or not, you stand on the edge of a bargain unfulfilled. The village has forgotten its debt, but I have not.”

The Bargain

Amelia didn’t return to her cottage until dawn. Her mother, Elsie, sat in her rocking chair by the fire, her face pale and drawn.

“You saw him,” Elsie said flatly.

Amelia nodded.

“He hasn’t come for decades,” Elsie whispered, her voice thick with dread. “We thought the old ways were forgotten, that he’d given up on us.”

“What bargain?” Amelia demanded.

Her mother hesitated before explaining.

Long ago, when Emberholt had first been settled, the villagers had cut too deeply into the woods, angering the spirits that dwelled there. Crops failed, livestock perished, and a bitter winter nearly wiped them out. In desperation, they turned to the Holly King, offering a pact: once a century, on the darkest night, they would present him with a gift—a tribute of blood to balance the scales.

In exchange, he would spare them from his wrath.

“Who’s the tribute?” Amelia asked, her stomach twisting.

“It’s not decided. He chooses.”

The Choosing

That night, the villagers gathered again in the square, but the mood was somber. The fire was lit, though its flames seemed smaller, as if reluctant to burn.

One by one, the Holly King called the names of the villagers, his voice carrying like the mournful cry of a winter wind. Each person approached, trembling, to stand before him. He examined them with eyes that seemed to pierce the soul, then waved them aside.

When he called Amelia’s name, a hush fell over the crowd. She stepped forward, her knees weak but her chin high.

“You do not belong here,” he said, his voice low but carrying. “You are neither villager nor stranger. You stand between.”

“I don’t understand,” Amelia stammered.

“You will,” he said, turning his gaze to the crowd.

“The tribute is not one,” he announced, his voice booming. “But many. For every year you have failed the bargain, one must pay the price.”

Gasps rippled through the villagers. Panic set in as the Holly King began pointing—this child, that elder, this family. He moved deliberately, as if weighing each choice.

“No!” Amelia shouted, stepping forward. “This isn’t fair!”

The Holly King turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Fairness is a luxury of those who forget the natural order. Will you offer yourself in their place?” Amelia’s breath caught.

A Terrible Choice

She thought of her mother, frail and sickly, and the children clutching their parents’ hands. She thought of the villagers, whose lives were small but filled with a kind of enduring hope she had never known in the city.

“Yes,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Take me.”

The Holly King regarded her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “So be it.”

He raised a hand, and the forest seemed to come alive, roots and vines snaking toward her. The villagers watched in horrified silence as Amelia was lifted off the ground, her body entwined in the Holly King’s grasp.

“I offer you this mercy,” he said, his voice softer now. “For your courage and your sacrifice.”

With a sweep of his cloak, the Holly King and Amelia vanished into the forest, leaving behind only a faint scent of holly and frost.

Legacy

The next morning, the village awoke to find the forest eerily quiet. The bonfire was reduced to ash, and the great Christmas tree stood bare, its decorations gone.

But the fields were fertile again, the livestock healthy.

Years passed, and the story of Amelia Thorne became part of Emberholt’s lore, a cautionary tale of sacrifice and the weight of forgotten promises.

Deep in the forest, the Holly King still roamed, his shadow long and his heart heavy. And somewhere, beneath the ancient boughs, Amelia’s spirit lingered, a silent guardian watching over the village she had saved.

Every winter solstice, the villagers lit a single candle at the forest’s edge, a reminder of the cost of their prosperity—and a quiet hope that the Holly King would never need to choose again.

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