Solstice Grove

The Gathering Dusk

   The neon gates of Solstice Grove blinked against the dusk like a fever dream—glowing sunflowers with petals spinning slowly, a giant smiling sun face whose eyes flickered with something almost human. The sign above buzzed erratically: Welcome to the Longest Day of the Year. Distant chanting hummed beneath the static crackle of warped speakers, mixing with the scent of wood smoke and damp earth. The air was thick with the sharp tang of something metallic, almost coppery.

Tasha tightened her jacket. Dez was already filming, phone steady, grinning like a kid who’d found a secret. Maya clutched a bundle of wildflowers, eyes darting like a frightened bird. Jules adjusted their crooked flower crown, offering Maya a delicate one too—thin petals tangled with dew—trying to keep her calm. Ricky, camera slung around his neck, scanned the crowd with a hunter’s focus.

“Pagan Path’s off-limits after dark,” Maya whispered. “Serious sacrifice vibes.”

“Perfect,” Dez said with a smirk. “That’s why we’re going. Viral gold.”

Jules rolled their eyes. “We’re definitely getting kicked out.”

“Or famous,” Dez shot back, heading for the side gate like it was a secret portal.

Tasha hesitated, eyes flicking to the shadowed trail beyond the lights. She’d researched this place more than anyone. The warnings were real. “Just… be careful,” she said.

They slipped through as the last families shuffled away, closing bells chiming like a death knell. The park emptied too fast—too clean.

Ahead, two wooden totems loomed, weeping faces carved deep, eyes hollow yet watching. The group paused, then crossed beneath into shadow.

The fair’s chaos faded. No music, no lights. Just crunching gravel and rustling leaves.

“Guys,” Maya whispered. “Serious sacrifice vibes.”

Dez smiled. “Welcome to the real Solstice Grove.”

First Blood

   They moved deeper into the woods, the path twisting between towering trees that seemed to lean closer with every step. The night air grew thick with smoke and the faint smell of burning wood, mingling with something sharper—like sulfur and decay.

Tasha’s flashlight flickered, casting shaky beams through the dark as Ricky raised his camera, the screen throwing ghostly light across their tense faces.

“Okay, this is sick,” Ricky muttered, his voice low and excited. “Feels... real. Like cursed real.”

The group stepped into a clearing. At its center stood a stone altar, moss-draped and cracked with age, smeared in dark, dried stains that no one wanted to identify. Around it lay scattered offerings—dried herbs, shattered coins, faded photos, brittle flowers, and something far worse: cracked human teeth and scorched bone fragments.

Maya’s eyes widened. “This isn’t just a theme park thing. This is... ritual.”

“No way,” Jules whispered. “This is too detailed. Too old.”

Tasha stepped forward, kneeling to examine a plaque embedded in the altar’s base. The metal was rusted, the words barely visible beneath grime and moss: TO BREAK THE CYCLE, THE SUN MUST DIE.

Before she could call it out, a low creak echoed from the shadows. Wood groaned. Leaves rustled. Branches snapped under something massive and slow.

From behind a twisted oak, the Harvest Guardian emerged.

A towering figure, wrapped in bark and withered leaves, its form more forest than flesh. Its face was obscured by a carved wooden mask—an eerie, too-wide grin with no eyes, only dark, hollow sockets that seemed to drink in the moonlight.

In its gnarled hands, it held a rusted scythe, the blade long, jagged, and dark with old blood.

Ricky grinned, lifting his camera. “Guys, this is the sickest footage—”

The Guardian lunged.

The scythe swung low and hard, carving through Ricky’s torso with a wet, visceral tear. Blood sprayed the altar, the trees, even the moss.

Ricky crumpled, gasping, hands clutching his ruined chest.

Then the Guardian pressed a burning bundle to the wound.

Flames bloomed. Ricky screamed—raw, animal pain—as the fire ate him alive.

When it ended, only ash remained.

The altar seemed to glow.

One down.

No Escape

   The forest path behind them had shifted—or maybe it never was what it seemed. Trees rearranged themselves in the dark, branches knitting together like the fingers of some ancient creature. When they tried to backtrack, the way had vanished. No sign of the exit. No trail back to the neon carnival gates.

A heavy silence settled, broken only by the flicker of fires in rusted barrels scattered like forgotten sentinels. Orange flames cast eerie shadows that danced and warped across the gnarled trunks. The fair had transformed—or revealed its true face.

Tasha’s breath hitched. “We’re trapped.”

Dez’s phone flickered and died, battery drained in seconds. “No signal. No GPS.” His voice was tight, the edge of panic hidden beneath forced calm.

The group huddled closer, eyes scanning the smoke-hazed dark.

Ahead, a shape began to emerge—a towering labyrinth of thorn-choked vines, barbed wire, and twisted rebar, woven so densely it looked like living flesh. At its center rose a gigantic wicker man, arms wide in mock embrace, its hollow eyes seeming to follow them.

“We need to go through,” Tasha said, voice low but firm. “This maze—it’s the next stage. It wants us to enter.”

Jules shivered, fingers trembling on their wilted flower crown. “Next stage? You mean like a ritual?”

Before anyone could answer, a sharp sound cracked the air behind them.

Snap.

Twigs. Footsteps.

Deliberate. Heavy.

They spun around.

Nothing but shadow.

“Stop,” Tasha whispered. “It’s here.”

Their breath caught, visible in the frigid air. The woods seemed to tense around them.

Then—the glint of a scythe in firelight.

The Harvest Guardian had returned.

Panic erupted.

They ran toward the maze, branches clawing their arms, thorns biting skin. The path seemed to shift, punishing every hesitation.

Dez stumbled, ankle twisting. Jules cried out, blood dripping from a fresh gash.

Tasha grabbed them both. “Don’t stop. MOVE.”

Behind them—scraping steel, a low growl.

The maze swallowed them, alive and endless.

Inside, straw dolls hung at every corner, faces crudely sewn into twisted smiles.

Tasha clawed at the vines. Her voice shook.

“This isn’t a maze,” she said. “It’s a trap.”

Pinned by Thorns 

   The Wicker Maze twisted like a trap laid by the forest itself. Every turn was tighter. The vines thicker. The air heavier.

Jules stumbled over a root, slamming into the hedge wall.

“Wait—” they gasped, pushing off the vines. But the ground shifted again, and they fell hard.

“Jules!” Tasha shouted—but it was too late.

Above them, the maze inhaled.

A sound like cracking branches.

Then, from the ceiling of vines, the Harvest Guardian dropped—silent as death, swift as a falling blade.

The scythe slammed through Jules’s chest in one sickening strike. It punched through their sternum and pinned them to the wall like an offering. The impact sent a wet crunch through the maze; blood sprayed in a perfect arc, soaking the vines.

Jules screamed—but it came out wet.

Their limbs spasmed.

Then the vines moved.

They slithered over Jules’s arms, wrapping wrists and shoulders in a constricting embrace. More curled around ankles, waist, and throat—tightening, twitching like muscles.

A single vine rose from the ground. Its tip glistened with sap—and something darker. It hovered above Jules’s mouth.

“No—” they whimpered, blood gurgling at their lips.

The vine thrust downward.

It forced itself past their teeth, over the tongue, down the throat. Jules’s eyes bulged. Blood poured from their nose. Their back arched violently. They couldn’t breathe.

The air was gone.

Their body convulsed, heels kicking against the wall as the vine rooted deep inside. Tasha screamed, the sound vanishing into the choking air.

Jules twitched once more, then hung limp—mouth agape around the vine like a grotesque puppet.

Wind stirred blood-soaked leaves.

Behind them, Dez bolted. Tasha hesitated. The vines pulled Jules into the wall, swallowing them whole.

The maze sealed behind them.

Then the Guardian turned.

Its head cocked slowly, unnaturally, like sniffing the wind. The carved wooden smile never changed—but something shifted. Hunger.

It stepped toward the wall, pressed one bark-covered hand to the vines.

They writhed under its touch like obedient pets.

The Guardian lifted its scythe—not to kill, but to gesture. With a sweeping arc, it pointed deeper into the maze.

Tasha backed away.

It didn’t chase.

Dez grabbed her arm. “We have to move.”

They ran.

Sacrifice two was complete.

Whispers of the Sun

   They stumbled out of the maze into a clearing lit by sputtering torches. The air smelled like scorched hay and hot copper. In the center, half-buried in moss and dirt, lay a stone plaque, its letters dulled and cracked with age.

Tasha knelt, brushing it clean. The stone felt warm, like it had sat in the sun all day—even now, past midnight.

“TO BREAK THE CYCLE, THE SUN MUST DIE.”

Her stomach dropped.

“This isn’t just theming,” she said. “This park—it’s built on something older.”

Maya let out a shaky laugh that curdled into a sob. “No. It’s just a scare park. A fucked-up LARP. We’re not… sacrifices.”

“I saw Jules die,” Tasha snapped. “Something tore Ricky apart like kindling. You think this is a game?”

“No,” Maya whispered, hugging herself. “But it can’t be real.”

Dez stood off to the side, arms crossed, eyes on the treeline like he heard something the others couldn’t.

“We need to keep moving,” he said.

Tasha frowned. “What’s wrong with you?”

Dez didn’t answer. He turned, walking deeper into the woods, leaving torchlight behind.

Maya paced in frantic circles. “Four elements. Four of us. It’s a ritual.”

“What?” Tasha asked.

“Earth. Air. Fire. Water,” Maya said, holding trembling fingers. “Ricky burned. Jules choked. That’s air. I—I don’t want to be water. I can’t drown—”

Her breath hitched.

Then she bolted.

“Maya!” Tasha screamed, chasing—but Maya’s panic made her fast, disappearing like smoke through fingers.

Dez didn’t move.

He just watched her vanish, lips pressed tight.

“You’re just letting her run?” Tasha shouted.

Dez turned slowly. “She made her choice.”

Something in his calm twisted her stomach. No urgency. No fear. Just… calm. Too calm.

Tasha stepped back. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer—eyes fixed past her, toward burning torches and silent trees.

For the first time, Tasha felt truly alone.

Even though she wasn’t.

The Drowning Bloom

They reached the Flower Basin — a circular pool slick with moss and algae, its dark water still beneath the sickly moonlight. The air reeked of wet earth, rotting leaves, and iron — old blood that had soaked too deep to ever scrub clean. Once a site of cleansing, now it pulsed with rot and memory.

Maya collapsed to her knees, shivering. Her hands trembled as she splashed water on her face — cold, slimy water that clung like mucus. She whispered fevered prayers, lips quivering. Each breath snagged in her throat.

But the basin did not offer grace.

The water quivered, then convulsed — bubbles belching to the surface in thick, oily spurts. A sound slithered out — a wet scraping, like flesh dragged across stone.

Then the claws came.

Pale, waterlogged, bloated with death. Fingers curled like hooked roots burst from the surface, nails split and jagged. They raked across Maya’s face with surgical violence. Skin peeled in curling strips. Muscle parted like wet gauze. One nail caught the corner of her mouth and tore it wide open.

Her scream was raw and choking, bubbles erupting as blood spilled from the gaping wounds. She clawed at her face, only to feel the soft give of exposed cheekbone. Her nails dug into ruined flesh as if trying to hold herself together.

The claws didn’t stop. They tore down her jaw, ripping cartilage, snapping teeth free. One eye ruptured under the pressure. A geyser of blood burst upward, mixing with the basin’s surface into thick ribbons.

Icy water surged into her shattered mouth and throat, flooding her lungs. She gagged violently, coughing out chunks of torn tissue. Her limbs flailed, but more hands emerged — skeletal, blistered things — seizing her wrists and ankles.

They yanked her down hard, her body slamming the water with a sickening splash. Bones cracked beneath the force. Her legs kicked once, then spasmed.

Her vision flickered. Darkness crawled in. Her hands twitched limply as blood poured from her face, throat, and eyes, painting the basin in coils of red.

Then came silence.

Only her flower crown remained, floating like a cruel joke — delicate petals stained crimson.

Tasha and Dez stood frozen, unable to breathe, let alone scream. Tasha doubled over, retching. Dez stared, fists clenched, eyes hollow.

The ritual had taken her. And the basin still hungered.

Mask of The Guardian 

   Only Tasha and Dez remained.

They stood at the edge of the Grove, where trees bowed unnaturally inward, forming a jagged circle. Beyond, the park seemed to breathe—structures shifting, shadows pulsing like veins. Beneath their feet, the ground hummed with ancient energy.

Tasha’s body ached, clothes torn and crusted with dried blood. Her voice was hoarse. “We have to end this.”

Dez said nothing. He stepped forward, kneeling at a moss-covered stone. Nestled among rotting flowers lay the wooden mask—cracked but pulsing with light from runes carved into its face.

Tasha’s heart skipped. “What are you doing?”

Dez stood, mask in hand. “It’s not a curse. It’s a succession. The Guardian isn’t a person—it’s a role. The park chooses.”

“No,” she said, backing away. “You knew. You led us here.”

His expression didn’t change. “I guided us, yes. But I didn’t kill them. The park did. I just… made sure we followed the right path.”

“You sacrificed them.”

He slipped the mask over his face.

The runes blazed gold. Dez convulsed, screaming—but the sound twisted, becoming something unnatural, almost giddy. His spine cracked, bones shifting as the Grove lit up.

Torches flared.

Floodlights burst alive.

From every path emerged figures—hundreds, cloaked and masked. Some tall, some childlike, moving with inhuman grace. They encircled the Grove, silent, reverent.

Tasha spun, breath short, as the sun effigy above burned—flames dancing like tongues.

A chant rose: low, guttural, ancient.

Dez—no, the Guardian—turned to her.

“You’re the last element,” he said, voice distorted. “The final piece.”

She understood: she wasn’t meant to escape.

She was meant to complete the offering.

Burning The Ritual 

   Tasha stumbled into the clearing, breath ragged. Torches blazed brighter, forming a jagged sun around the flower basin.

Maya’s body floated facedown, arms spread like a broken offering. Her shredded face and clawing hands frozen. One limp fist clutched her ruined flower crown.

Near the basin, Ricky’s blackened corpse slumped against a scorched stump, limbs twisted grotesquely. Jules’ blood-slick body hung crucified in vines, eyes glassy, mouth stuffed with petals.

Tasha gagged.

Footsteps behind her.

Dez stepped forward, donning the carved wooden mask. It fused wetly to his face with a crack. Glowing runes ignited along his arms like molten veins.

The faceless cult gathered silently.

“I was chosen,” Dez rasped. “But the sun had to die first.”

Tasha stepped back. “You let them all die for this?”

He raised the scythe.

Tasha dropped to her knees at the basin, tearing the flower crown from Maya’s cold grip. Petals floated like torn flesh on water.

She screamed, “TO BREAK THE CYCLE—THE SUN MUST DIE!”

And slammed the crown onto Dez’s head.

The runes flared white.

Dez froze.

Then screamed.

The mask melted into his flesh. Skin bubbled and split. Blood poured from boiling eyes. Ribs cracked outward like a blooming flower as fire erupted from his chest. He dropped the scythe, claws grasping peeling flesh as muscle sloughed off steaming in chunks.

“IT’S MINE!” he howled—then burst.

Bone. Ash. Blossoms. Guts.

Silence.

The cultists collapsed like puppets with cut strings. Torches hissed out.

Tasha stood alone, soaked in blood and water, trembling.

The mask smoldered beside her. Cracked.

She reached for it—then stopped.

A whisper stirred the trees. Just wind.

But the vines twitched behind her.

Watching.

Waiting.

Cycle Renewed

   Dawn cracked the horizon, pale and cold. Fire-scorched trees hissed in the mist. Smoke curled like escaping spirits.

Tasha sat at the stone altar, legs folded beneath her, soaked in dried blood and wilting petals. Her eyes were open but distant, rimmed red. The wooden mask lay beside her—split and blackened with ash.

Around her, the corpses were gone.

Only the crown remained, rebloomed with fresh white flowers.

Birdsong returned. Sunlight pierced the trees.

Tasha didn’t flinch.

She stared blankly, lips parted, whispering words only the soil could hear.

She was Earth now—rooted and wide-eyed, blooming where the blood had dried.

—

One year later

The gates of Solstice Grove creaked open once more.

The park had “rebranded.” New rituals. New attractions. A sold-out reopening. Influencers posed under vine-wrapped arches, unaware of the stained earth beneath their feet.

Visitors wore flower crowns handed out at the entrance.

At the center, on a platform woven from branches and stone, sat the Blossom Queen.

Tasha.

She wore white robes, stained crimson at the hem. Her crown was fuller now—lush, radiant, pulsing faintly.

Her face serene.

Her smile wide.

Her eyes—

Empty.

As the crowd chanted her name, she raised a hand in blessing. Flowers rustled, and deep below, vines began to stir again.

The mask was whole.

Waiting.

Far beneath the roots, blood nourished the cycle anew.