The Witch of Blåkulla

The Forbidden Island

The night of Walpurgis was meant to be a time of celebration, of warding off evil. Fires burned bright in Västmark’s village square, their glow flickering against the timbered houses. People danced and feasted, their laughter rising into the cold April air.

Ingrid should have been among them. But her mind was elsewhere.

For days, she had overheard the whispers.

“The lights were seen again,” her father had murmured to the priest. “Glowing over the water.”

“No boat. No traveler. Just the glow of witch-fire.”

The priest had been grim. “It is Blåkulla’s call. Someone will be taken.”

Ingrid’s heart had pounded at those words. She had always been skeptical of the old stories, dismissing them as tales meant to frighten children. But the urgency in her father’s voice made her wonder—what if there was truth to them?

So when the fires burned high and the villagers lost themselves in their revelry, Ingrid slipped away.

The docks were empty, the lake stretching before her like a black mirror. A lone fishing boat was tied to a post, rocking gently with the waves.

She hesitated.

Then, swallowing her fear, she untied the rope and pushed off.

The mist thickened as she rowed, clinging to the water’s surface. Silence wrapped around her, swallowing the sounds of the village behind her. The further she went, the colder it became. A deep, unnatural cold that crept into her bones.

And then, through the fog, she saw it.

Blåkulla.

A jagged, craggy land, its silhouette stark against the moonlit sky. The trees were gnarled, their branches twisted into clawed fingers. The air smelled of damp earth and something else—something old, something watching.

Ingrid’s hands trembled as she secured the boat and stepped onto the island.

The Witch’s Domain

The ground beneath Ingrid’s boots felt soft, almost unnatural, like the land itself was breathing. Shadows moved in the periphery of her vision, shifting between the trees, but when she turned, there was nothing there.

She pressed forward.

The deeper she ventured, the stranger the island became. The trees loomed high, their bark blackened as though burned by an ancient fire. A whispering sound curled through the air, though there was no wind.

And then she saw it—the house.

It stood in a clearing, hunched and rotting. The wood was dark with age, the roof sagging, but the windows… they glowed. A faint, sickly yellow light pulsed within.

Something about the sight made Ingrid’s stomach tighten.

But she had come this far.

She stepped forward and pushed the door open.

The scent of burning herbs filled her nose, thick and heady. Strange symbols were carved into the walls, their meaning lost to time. At the center of the room, a figure stood, wrapped in a tattered cloak.

The witch of Blåkulla.

She was not the crone Ingrid had imagined. She was tall, with long silver hair cascading down her back, her face pale and ageless. Her eyes—dark and burning—locked onto Ingrid’s with an intensity that made her breath hitch.

“You are bold to come here, child,” the witch murmured, her voice soft yet carrying a power beneath it.

Ingrid swallowed hard. “I wanted to know the truth.”

A slow, knowing smile spread across the witch’s lips. “Then let me show you.”

With a single motion, she raised her hand—

And the world changed.

The walls of the house melted away, dissolving into darkness. The ground beneath them shifted, transforming into cold, black stone. The ceiling disappeared, revealing a sky thick with swirling stars.

At the center of it all was a pool of water.

Dark. Still.

And yet, it pulsed, as though it were alive.

The witch gestured to it. “Look.”

The Bargain

Ingrid hesitated.

But something in the water called to her.

She stepped closer, peering into its depths.

At first, she saw nothing. Only darkness.

Then, images flickered to life.

Her village, peaceful and whole. Her father tending to the fields. The children playing by the river.

But then, the scene shifted.

The fires of Walpurgis turned wild, consuming the homes. People screamed, their faces twisted in terror. And standing in the center of it all—

Was Ingrid.

She recoiled, her heart hammering. “What is this?”

“The future,” the witch said simply.

“No.” Ingrid shook her head. “I would never—”

The witch raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you?”

Ingrid clenched her fists. “Tell me what it means.”

The witch tilted her head. “It means you have a choice.”

She lifted her hand, revealing a blackened mark on her palm. “I was once like you. A girl who sought the truth.”

The firelight flickered in her eyes. “But knowledge comes at a price.”

Ingrid’s breath came in shallow gasps.

She had come seeking truth.

And now, truth demanded something in return.

The witch’s voice was soft, almost kind. “You can leave, forgetting all you have seen.”

She stepped closer. “Or… you can stay. Take my place.”

The Legacy of Blåkulla

The silence stretched between them, heavy as the weight in Ingrid’s chest.

She looked again into the water.

The fire. The destruction.

Her village would burn.

Unless…

She turned back to the witch, her voice barely above a whisper. “If I take your place, will my village be safe?”

The witch studied her for a long moment.

Then, she nodded.

Ingrid closed her eyes. She already knew her answer.

“I will do it.”

The witch smiled—a sad, knowing smile. She reached out, pressing her hand against Ingrid’s.

Pain seared through her palm, white-hot and relentless.

Ingrid gasped, her knees buckling. The darkness around them swirled, folding in on itself.

When she opened her eyes, she was alone.

The house was gone. The clearing empty.

But she was not the same.

Her hand throbbed where the mark had been burned into her skin.

Blåkulla had a new guardian.

Rowing back to the village, she saw the fires still burning in celebration. The people laughed, unaware of the danger that had loomed over them.

She had saved them.

But at a price.

And in the distance, across the dark waters, Blåkulla remained.

Waiting.

For the next soul to seek the truth.

The End