The DreamSnatcher

Prologue

There are footprints set in the snow, sunken marks picked out by the moonlight. They weave a path through the forest, round the ring of ancient oak trees and on towards the wooden hut. But then they stop, and the smoke curling out of the chimney is the only sign that anyone is inside. Seven cloaked figures sit round a table, their hoods pulled up despite the fire crackling in the grate. At first, they whisper together, their voices low and guarded. When the whispers fade, the only sound is a baby stirring and beginning to cry. Their heads drop and lips curl back. A chant begins, but not before the baby is taken from its grandmother and placed in a small crib in the far corner. There are no words, just grunted sounds scratching at the back of throats. One of the figures pushes back her hood and long grey hair falls about her shoulders.

'Not this!' She cries. 'You said it wouldn't be this...' she shakes her head and makes as if to stand. 'I-I won't do it. You can't take her! It's not right!'

But the others surround her, closing in like hungry shadows. The baby is now screaming, pleading to feel the warmth of her grandmother's arms around her, like a blanket. They force the old woman towards the fire and, though her legs scrabble beneath her and her arms grope for the table, the flames loom closer.
'Not my hands!' She sobs. 'Please, No!' But the others only grip her harder, joining together in a crooning chant:
'A curse we seek, we call it near,
To brand this hag who turned in fear.
Follow her close, all through her life,
Let her never escape our curse full of strife.'
The old woman falls to the floor, whimpering, but even she cannot stop the charcoal mark that seeps through the skin on her forehead. She rocks back and forth, cradling what is left of her hands.
The other figures turn back to the table and, when they are seated, repeat their wordless chant; it gathers pace, throbbing with a rhythm all of its own, and then shadows twist up from behind each figure, swelling in the air to form a cloud of darkness.
The baby stared at them with swollen eyes before whispering one more word and falling asleep; charm.
The figure at the head of the table stands, beckoning the darkness closer with long, thin fingers. Another raises and places a charm bracelet on the child's hand. It isn't a beautiful one you'd see in markets though, it was dark and bounded to her wrist. With one small chant the bracelet locked itself and held the child's wrist tightly while she snores, unaware of how this would effect her future.
The darkness settles in the outstretched hands, a black shape shifting up and down, as if breathing gently. The darkness breathed at the same pace as the sleeping baby as though the same heart. The figure withdraws a hand, reaching inside its cloak for a small glass bottle. Flicking the lid back, the figure tips the clear liquid into the darkness. The movement stops and the child's breath hitches for a second before continuing, though it was different in some way. It came out ragged making a few heads turn the child's way before they ignore it and turn back to the figure holding darkness in their hand. The shape shudders, then there is a brittle sound like frost crunching underfoot and the darkness hardens into something long and black. The figure draws back its hood and in its hand is a shard of black ice. 'So it begins,' the figure says.
And, from somewhere deep in the forest, an owl hoots and snow starts to fall.