Out of the Hallow book one: REVISED

CHAPTER 6: The Master detests lying lips, it is only the scar of a boil

"Here, this leads to the highest point of my spire. Use the stairs and stand up on the top." He couldn't go against her evil spell, so he trudged up the staircase leading to the spire and stood where she told him.

"If you are a real warrior of Hilltop'" she said, "Use your elven strength and throw yourself from my spire. Grab the ledge as you fall and pull up to your shoulders and chin. Pull up at least ten times. Prove yourself a true warrior to me."

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Crickets droned outside the small window of Sister Lisa's hut, a gentle chorus in the night's silence. The dark wooden beams above creaked occasionally, responding to the subtle shifts in in the wind.

Lisa lay beneath her animal furs, her hair spilling across her pillow. The shadows cast by the lantern flickering beside her bed danced across her features, highlighting the delicate point of her ears.

The stillness of the night was comforting, a soft cocoon that embraced her as she slipped further into sleep. But even in her dreams, unease crept in. It started with a whisper, barely more than a breath against her skin, a sensation that curled around her consciousness like a fog of tendrils.

In the adjacent bed, Priestess Hilda of the High Groves lay, her presence a silent assurance of safety. Her rhythmic breathing was a counterpoint to the unsettling sensation that was slowly infiltrating her.

Nearby, the elderly Sister Elda snored gently.

Lisa's dreams began to darken. The familiar comforting images of Hilltop gave way to an encroaching shadow that stretched and twisted across her mind's landscape. A chill pricked at her skin, and she felt the unsettling touch of fingers trailing up her legs and arms. They were slow, deliberate, and cold.

Lisa's subconscious struggled to surface from the depths of slumber. The sensation was both real and surreal, a terrible clarity that pierced through her sleep like shards of glass. Her eyelids fluttered, her mind fighting against the syrupy darkness that threatened to pull her back under.

The fingers persisted.

The touch was insistent, climbing from her legs to her stomach and then to her chest, each point of contact a clammy pressure that sank through her flesh.

Her heart raced. Lisa's instincts screamed at her to wake, to banish the nightmare that clung to her with insidious persistence.

With a gasp, she broke through the surface of sleep, her eyes snapping open to a room swathed in oppressive darkness.

Panic surged through her, hot and immediate. The weight of gripping hands on her chest remained, real and undeniable. She tried to cry out, to call for the comfort of her companions, but felt stifled and lost in the void.

The hut was silent except for the rustle of her own frantic movements as Lisa's eyes strained against the gloom, trying to pierce through the oppressive shroud that enveloped her.

Shadows loomed large, distorting the familiar into something strange and menacing.

Then, there was a new sensation. Rough fabric had been pulled over her head, scraping against her skin like burlap. It was a sack, she realized with growing terror, the coarse weave cutting off her vision completely.

The darkness was no longer a concept; it was a tangible prison that clamped down around her, suffocating and relentless.

Hands grasped her arms, fingers biting into her skin. She felt herself being lifted, her feet leaving the floor as she was dragged from the safety of her bed.

The world tilted crazily around her as she was half-carried, half-dragged from the hut that had been her sanctuary.

Outside, she felt the night air cool against her skin, a fleeting relief against the heat of fear coursing through her. The crickets' song was gone, replaced by an unnatural silence that pressed down on her.