The Witch of Klek Mountain

The Whispering Wind

Mara had always been different.

While other girls in Ogulin were content with tending to their families and preparing for marriage, Mara longed for something else—something beyond the confines of village life. She spent her days in the forest, gathering herbs, listening to the calls of unseen creatures, and watching Klek Mountain with a hunger she did not understand.

Her grandmother had warned her since childhood.

*"That mountain is not for you, child. The witches do not welcome strangers."*

But that only made Mara want to go even more.

One evening, she finally gave in to her curiosity. As the sky burned red with the setting sun, she packed a satchel with food and a lantern, wrapped a shawl around her shoulders, and set off toward the mountain.

The ascent was steeper than she expected. Roots snaked across the ground like fingers trying to grasp at her boots, and every gust of wind carried a whisper that made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

And then—she heard it.

Her name.

A voice, soft as breath, carried by the wind.

She turned sharply, but there was no one there.

Only the darkening forest.

The Curse of the Mountain

By the time Mara reached the summit, the last traces of daylight had vanished, leaving only the silver glow of the moon to illuminate the landscape.

The ruins of an ancient fortress loomed ahead, its crumbling stone walls swallowed by ivy and time. But it was not the ruins that made her breath catch in her throat.

It was her.

A woman stood at the edge of the cliff, her figure silhouetted against the sky. She was clad in a black cloak that rippled like liquid shadow in the wind, her hair long and tangled.

Mara took a cautious step forward.

The woman did not turn.

“You have come,” she murmured. Her voice was low, almost lost to the wind, but there was something ancient in it, something that sent a tremor through Mara’s bones.

Mara swallowed. “Who are you?”

At this, the woman finally turned, and Mara gasped.

Her face was beautiful—too beautiful, as though sculpted by something not of this world. But it was her eyes that held Mara frozen. They were filled with sorrow.

“I was once like you,” the woman said softly. “Curious. Reckless. Now, I belong to the mountain.”

Mara took a step back, suddenly aware of how far from home she was.

“You should not have come,” the woman whispered.

The wind howled, and for a brief moment, Mara swore she saw shadowy figures in the ruins behind the woman—watching.

Waiting.

The Forbidden Rite

Mara fled.

She ran down the mountain, heart pounding, feet barely touching the ground. The whispers followed her, weaving through the trees, calling her name in voices that did not belong to the living.

She burst into the village just before dawn, panting, her dress torn by branches.

She did not sleep that night.

Or the night after.

For the next seven nights, her dreams were plagued by visions—women in dark robes dancing beneath the full moon, their hands lifted toward the storm-laden sky. She saw herself among them, chanting words she did not understand.

And on the eighth night, the whispering came again.

But this time, it was not a dream.

A shadow lingered at the edge of her room, barely visible in the candlelight.

*"Come."*

Mara’s breath hitched.

The next thing she knew, she was walking through the forest, her bare feet pressing into the cold earth.

When she arrived at the mountain, they were waiting for her.

Dozens of women, their cloaks fluttering in the wind, their faces half-hidden beneath their hoods. The woman from before stepped forward.

“It is time,” she said.

Mara’s throat went dry. “Time for what?”

The woman smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“To become one of us.”

The witches raised their hands, and the sky cracked open with thunder.

Mara screamed, but the wind swallowed the sound whole.

The Price of Power

When Mara awoke, she was changed.

Her senses were sharper—she could hear the distant heartbeat of the forest, feel the energy thrumming beneath the soil. Her reflection in a pool of rainwater showed eyes that glowed faintly in the dark.

The witches had made her one of them.

She had been claimed by Klek.

But she had not yet given up her soul.

The Witches’ Call

Back in the village, people noticed.

The elders whispered. The men kept their distance. Even Luka, the mayor’s son, who had once loved her, now feared her.

“You have the mountain in your eyes,” he told her one evening, his voice shaking.

Mara said nothing.

That night, the villagers gathered with torches and holy water. They knew what she had become.

And they could not let her stay.

But Mara was already gone.

Far above, the storm broke over Klek, and in the ruins of the fortress, Mara stood among her sisters, watching the flames rise from the village below.

The Mountain’s Hunger

Mara had power now, but it came at a cost.

Every full moon, the witches gathered in the ruins, their voices rising with the storm. But while the others reveled in their magic, Mara felt hollow.

She longed for what she had lost.

She longed to be free.

One night, she confronted the woman who had first led her into the circle.

“I want to leave,” Mara said.

The woman’s expression darkened. “No one leaves, child.”

But Mara was determined.

She would not let the mountain consume her.

Escape from Klek

As the storm gathered, Mara ran.

She raced down the slopes, wind shrieking in her ears. Behind her, the witches screamed her name, their voices weaving into the storm.

She reached the village just as thunder cracked the sky.

For the first time in centuries, a witch had escaped Klek Mountain.

But was she truly free?

Epilogue: The Mountain Sleeps

Years passed.

Mara never spoke of what had happened. But on stormy nights, when the wind howled like laughter, she felt it—

The mountain was waiting.

And someday, it would call her back.

The End.