The Thirteenth Year

The town of Greymark was like no other in New England. Surrounded by deep forests and choked by superstition, it carried a tradition older than memory. People whispered of curses, omens, and rituals that had preserved the town for generations. Outsiders thought them foolish, but Greymark endured while neighboring villages withered from famine or plague. Their secret, the elders claimed, was sacrifice—not of blood, but of separation. For when a child reached the dangerous cusp of thirteen, they were sent away. It was not exile, exactly. It was survival. Greymark’s safety depended on it. Or so the people believed. Each spring, lanterns were lit in the square. Families gathered silently, their faces drawn and pale, as the children turning thirteen stood before the elders. There were no speeches, no songs, only the heavy silence of ritual. At midnight, the children were led to the edge of the forest and given only what they could carry. They could not look back. Parents, though aching, never embraced them. To touch a child at the threshold was to invite misfortune. Then the lanterns dimmed, and the children vanished into the woods. Their thirteenth year had begun. Their survival would decide everything.

For a full year, the children of Greymark wandered the wilderness. They built shelters from branches, hunted with crude tools, and survived storms alone. Some worked in groups, but alliances never lasted—trust broke quickly under hunger and fear. Shadows in the woods were said to stalk them, testing their courage. No one truly knew what lurked in those trees, only that not every child returned. The thirteenth year was a crucible, burning away weakness. It was not meant to be kind. Greymark did not value kindness. It valued survival, and those who endured became something stronger… or something darker. When a child survived the year and turned fourteen, they could return. At dawn on their birthday, villagers gathered at the forest’s edge to see who emerged. Those who stumbled back carried scars, haunted eyes, and a silence that never left them. But they were welcomed—celebrated even. They were considered “the chosen,” proof that fate had spared them and the town. Yet behind the applause, parents grieved quietly. For every child who returned, another did not. The empty spaces at the feasts were a reminder: Greymark’s survival demanded loss. The dead were never named again, for fear of drawing them back.

What became of those who never returned was a matter of endless speculation. Some believed they died from hunger or the cold. Others whispered that something took them—spirits in the woods, older than Greymark itself. On stormy nights, villagers claimed to hear their voices echoing through the trees, calling to their families, begging to be let home. But Greymark was unyielding. The vanished were said to be cursed, their survival a threat to the town. If they came back, famine or sickness would follow. Better that they remain lost, wandering the forest forever, than doom the people of Greymark. The origin of the ritual was lost to time, but the story told by the elders was always the same. Centuries ago, when Greymark was newly founded, a sickness swept through the children. Thirteen-year-olds wasted away first, their deaths bringing ruin upon the town. In desperation, the founders prayed for deliverance, and a voice from the forest answered. It demanded that children on the brink of thirteen be sent into its depths. If they were worthy, they would return. If not, their absence would shield the village. Since then, no plague had touched Greymark. The deal had been honored.

For children of Greymark, birthdays were not celebrated with joy. The closer one came to thirteen, the heavier the dread. Friends grew distant, knowing they might not survive together. Parents became silent, torn between love and the unbreakable law. Some children begged to leave early, believing the forest would show mercy. Others tried to flee, but always they were caught, dragged back, and marked with shame. For there was no escaping the thirteenth year. Every child knew that when their lanterns were lit, they would walk the forest’s edge alone, their fate sealed by superstition older than themselves. The forest around Greymark was no ordinary wilderness. Travelers described hearing footsteps behind them, though no one was there. Shapes moved between the trees, never fully seen. Fires sputtered out without cause. Meat spoiled overnight. To the children sent there, these were not mere inconveniences—they were tests. Some said the watchers were spirits, deciding who deserved to return. Others whispered they were the ghosts of lost children, forever thirteen, lashing out at those who replaced them. Whatever the truth, no one doubted the forest was alive in its own way. And it was waiting for the next sacrifice.

When a child returned at fourteen, the town held a great feast. Tables groaned with bread, roasted meat, and ale, though few smiled. The chosen sat at the head, silent, still haunted by what they had seen. No questions were asked. It was forbidden to speak of the thirteenth year. But villagers watched closely for signs—an unblinking stare, a strange hunger, a twitch in the night. Some chosen returned changed in ways no one could explain. Yet still they were celebrated. For their survival meant Greymark would survive another year, and superstition demanded gratitude, no matter how uneasy. Whispers spread among the chosen. Though they never spoke openly, some hinted that the forest offered bargains. Food when none was left. Shelter in the coldest storms. Warmth in exchange for something else. But those bargains always came at a cost. Some chosen returned with eyes too sharp, watching the village like predators. Others whispered in their sleep, speaking in voices not their own. A few disappeared even after returning, vanishing into the forest on moonless nights as if called back. The elders said nothing, only reminding the people: the thirteenth year was sacred, and questions brought only ruin.

Once, an outsider stumbled into Greymark during the ritual season. A scholar curious about folklore, he pressed the villagers for answers. They denied everything, yet his notes tell a different story. He claimed to see lanterns leading children into the forest, their faces pale with fear. Days later, the scholar vanished. His journal was found at the forest’s edge, pages smeared with dirt and water. The final entry read: “They do not send their children away. They offer them. The forest takes what it wants. And it is always hungry.” After that, no outsiders were ever allowed inside Greymark again. Parents of the vanished bore their grief silently. To mourn openly was forbidden. If you shed tears, it was said, you risked calling your child’s cursed spirit back into the village. Instead, families burned belongings, erasing every trace of the lost. But silence could not erase sorrow. Mothers sometimes wandered into the woods, hoping to glimpse their child. Most never returned. Fathers left offerings of bread or trinkets at the forest’s edge, whispering apologies. Though they obeyed the law, every parent knew the truth: Greymark’s survival was bought with their children’s lives, and the cost never stopped rising.

The chosen bore marks beyond scars. Some had strange symbols etched faintly into their skin, burns that glowed faintly in moonlight. Others returned with voices that echoed oddly, carrying tones no human throat should hold. The elders insisted these were blessings, proof the forest had purified them. But villagers shuddered when they saw those marks, wondering if their children had truly returned—or if something else walked in their skin. Still, they were celebrated. Still, they were kept. For superstition was stronger than doubt, and Greymark could not risk questioning the very ritual that had preserved it for centuries. Over time, whispers grew beyond Greymark. Traders avoided its markets. Maps left it unmarked. By the early 1900s, the village disappeared entirely, consumed by the forest it had feared. Only ruins remained: stone foundations, rotted beams, and a broken lantern post at the forest’s edge. Yet hikers still report strange sounds there—footsteps, children crying, whispers on the wind. Some even claim to see pale figures wandering, forever young, staring with eyes full of hunger. Whether the forest finally claimed Greymark or its people abandoned their curse, no one knows. But the thirteenth year still lingers in its shadows.

Today, the story of Greymark is told as a cautionary tale. Teachers use it to warn children against blind superstition. Folklorists call it an allegory for adolescence—the dangerous threshold between childhood and adulthood. Paranormal enthusiasts insist it was real, a pact between humans and something older. But for all interpretations, the heart of the story is the same: the thirteenth year marks transformation. In Greymark, transformation meant survival or sacrifice, nothing in between. And perhaps that is why the legend endures—because everyone remembers the fear of growing older, and the uncertainty of what we might become. The ruins of Greymark may be gone, but the legend claims the forest remains watchful. Some say the pact was never broken. That on nights near the equinox, the forest still hungers for thirteen-year-olds, seeking them in neighboring towns. Children whisper of voices calling their names in the dark, urging them to step into the trees. Parents still bar doors and light candles, not knowing why, only that superstition lingers. And if you ever wander into a New England forest and hear children’s cries where no children should be, remember Greymark. Remember the thirteenth year. The forest may be waiting for you.