Each year, when the sun hangs high and the night is at its shortest, villagers across Europe light fires to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve. They dance. They laugh. They drink under skies glowing with flame and folklore.
But in one forgotten valley, hidden by time and shadow, the fire doesn’t celebrate the sun.
It’s a warning.
A curse.
And every summer solstice, something ancient crawls out of the forest to claim what it is owed.
The Forgotten Village and Its Burning Secret
There’s a place locals refuse to name on any map—a cursed village where Midsummer is not a celebration, but a sentence. Its people once struck a deal with a forest spirit, something old and wild, offering their loyalty in exchange for good harvests and protection.
But when they broke the pact—when they burned the old shrine and mocked the rites—the forest retaliated.
On the first summer that followed, the sky darkened at noon. The crops withered, and children vanished into the trees. In their place came whispers—and a figure wreathed in flame and bone, crowned with antlers, walking the village on burning feet.
The Curse Returns Every Midsummer
Since then, every year on the summer solstice, the village holds the Festival That Burns. They light their bonfires—not to celebrate the sun, but to keep the shadows back. To appease the creature they once betrayed, known now only as The Midsummer King.
He comes wearing a mask of wood and ash. He is seen in the treeline just before dusk, his antlers scraping against the clouds. He walks with a slow, patient gait, as if time bends around him.
One villager disappears every year. Always at midnight. Always without a sound.
And those who try to flee the village before the solstice?
They don’t make it far.
Folklore or Forgotten Truth?
Skeptics write it off as an old legend, an eerie echo of pagan tradition. But those who’ve visited the area speak of strange dreams, blistering heat with no fire, and shadows that move wrong.
A few claim to have found the village ruins—charred foundations, blackened trees, and a circle of stones at the center of a scorched clearing. There’s always a single black feather, still warm to the touch.
Others say the curse is spreading. That as Midsummer fires burn brighter across Europe and beyond, so too does the hunger of the thing that waits in the ash.
Don’t Celebrate. Don’t Dance. Don’t Look at the Fire.
If you hear music on Midsummer’s night when there should be none…
If the wind smells like pine and smoke, even indoors…
If you dream of antlers and flame—
Don’t follow it. Don’t speak. Don’t accept the invitation.
Because once you do,
you’re part of the festival.
And the Midsummer King never forgets his guests.
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