Genevieve

In the heart of the mist-laden marshlands, where gnarled trees reached toward the sky like skeletal fingers, there lived a witch named Genevieve. Her cottage, cloaked in moss and shadows, stood at the edge of a stagnant pool that reflected the moon like a shattered mirror. Each night, as the fog rolled in, she wove spells into the air, thickening it with whispers of secrets long forgotten. Genevieve possessed an ethereal beauty, her pale skin shimmering like the surface of the water, drawing the unsuspecting travelers who dared to wander too close. They would hear her lilting voice, a haunting melody that beckoned them forward, promising solace and treasures lost in the depths of the marsh. But those who ventured too near the edge soon found themselves entranced, their senses dulled as they stumbled deeper into the mire. The marsh had its own heartbeat, a rhythm that pulsed with the lost souls Genevieve had claimed over centuries. With each traveler ensnared, her power grew, feeding off their fear and despair. They would wade through the reeds, enchanted, yet never knowing they were walking toward their doom. The moonlight would glimmer on the water, and their reflections would twist, revealing faces twisted in terror—faces they would never escape. As the night deepened, shadows danced around her cottage, whispering secrets of her malevolence. Genevieve stood at her door, a smile playing at the corners of her lips, her eyes glinting with the promise of darkness. And as the fog thickened, enveloping the land in a shroud of despair, the marsh held its breath, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to answer her call, to vanish into the depths of legend and horror. The echoes of her laughter would linger long after, a chilling reminder that not all who wander are meant to return.