Luis sneaks out from behind a pretzel tent before I even notice he had disappeared. He grins widely and slips me one coated in rich, dark chocolate. "You stole this, didn't you?" I chide.

"You're welcome!" he chirps, taking a hearty bite of his own pastry.

I turn the pretzel over a few times, investigating it out of habit. I eat it in one bite. It is warm and soft and melts in my mouth. Divine. Then a thought occurs to me. "Luis, do you remember how—?" he had vanished before I could finish my sentence. Hell, he was probably gone before I even started.

I remember it, I think to myself,  the stories we were told as children about the Middle-Night Festival...

​

The Middle-Night Festival was originally known as 'The Ritual of the Moon'. In late autumn once a year, it is said that wraiths emerge from the night to steal light from the moon. Though it was never confirmed when or why, they have always come after an especially long rainfall. People hypothesize it is because the dark sky of a storm will cover these phantoms.

To appease them, a newborn, untainted sacrifice must be given for the wraiths to corrupt instead. Thirteen people must sit together to perform the ritual, holding hands around a fire and beckoning the ethereal creatures. When the flames turn black, it is a signal that the infant is to be placed inside and remain untouched until the sun rises. The smoke from the fire turns all those who inhale it lethargic, so no eyes have actually seen the results of this ritual. Most assume the baby simply becomes ashes, but some have reported sightings of mysterious children walking about at night. They bear werewolf-like features, carry the dark aura of a wraith, and have ashy, dark fur like they just emerged from a burning fire.

I wonder to myself how such a sacred and dangerous tradition had become the funfair it is today.

In the corner of my eye I spot a prime location for scaring passersby: a small gap between two of the largest tents in the festival. I could press myself against either tent and be entirely shrouded in the shadows but still maintain a clear view of the outside. I glance around but Luis remains nowhere in sight, so I slip in alone and wait for a victim.

The moment I separate myself from the crowd, the smell hits me. Thick and musky, I am surprised that I hadn't noticed the smoke earlier. From not so far beyond the fence, there is a circle of humans gathered around a bonfire. I count thirteen, then count again because I think, surely, I am mistaken. Then, the words they are uttering, which I initially thought were campfire stories, click in. My heart sinks, "...we beseech you, exalted ones...regard not the deceitful moon...come, wraiths..."

Something draws me closer, captivating the part of me that is least inhibited. The smell of smoke becomes comforting, familiar, like an old friend. I come as close as I dare, close enough to see the black tendrils forming above the flickering flame. I lose my awareness and I nearly trip, stepping hard on a twig.

The snap causes a few humans to raise their heads. I duck quickly out of view but freeze when I meet the gaze of the man with auburn hair. He is startled, then furrows his brows in recognition. "There it is! The monster I saw in the bushes!"

One by one they rise, stopping their now-intelligible chanting. I wonder why they're still awake, then it hits me: there is no newborn sacrifice. They offered their own souls to the wraiths. And there, in their eyes, I can see it: an absence of light.

They cross the short distance between us with glares as if I just committed unspeakable crimes. No emotion in their eyes. They are nothing like the quivering, docile group of hikers I came across in the woods, no. They want blood.

My gut tells me to run, my mind tells me to take responsibility, and my heart wants to fight. There is a pang of darkness brewing in the pit of my stomach and it hungers for a kill.

I try to resist but I know no part of me wants to. So I simply give in. I feel it in my bones, reaching every fibre of my body. It is all I want to do, all I was made to do. Closing my eyes to see darkness is like shedding upon me a new light.

As I feel myself submitting my heart to the shadows, a kind of power locked inside me begins to brew. It bubbles and hisses and promises invincibility and absolute obliteration of everyone around me. It erodes the good in me to satisfy the dark. My vision turns the sickly yellow colour and I know, more than ever before, that I must strike.

They close in on me, one human swinging a baseball to my head. It makes a loud TWACK! sound. I do not feel it. Then a sharp kick to my shin. My knee bends but it feels like a tickle. I intercept the next attack easily, seizing a woman's tiny fist in my claws. I pause to see her face. No expression, no fear. How dull. I twist her arm, revelling in her cry of pain, and toss her aside like a rag.