The branches of the old willow snapped in the chill autumn wind. It was a lonely thing, bent in a grassy plain with the nearest treeline indistinguishable from the horizon. Above, the dull sky, grey and flat like iron, rushed on under the guide of the wind, the clouds bereft of their usual drizzle.

The seventeen-summers old Anna Haley sat at the window, eyes lazily meandering from the sky to the tree to the plain and back again. A sheet of paper displaying half a sketch of the willow rested in her lap, her hand absentmindedly twirling a pencil as she thought. The wind changed and her eyes traced the tree as, like a crowd of beggars pleading for scraps, its branches shifted and grasped at the sky.

“You should find a better muse.”

The gravelly voice behind her belonged to her grandfather, a crooked, wrinkled fellow with round spectacles and a perpetual frown. Anna turned to face him and beamed as she always did to counter that frown of his, and as always, the corners of his mouth twitched.

“That willow’s no pleasant thing,” he huffed.

“But I should be fine just looking, right?” Anna said, gesturing out the window.

Her grandfather muttered something then waved his hand dismissively, condemning her to her decision.

“Dinner will be ready soon. Roast mutton.”

“Hooray! Did you make it?”

“Your mother. Hurry on down from that window; food is better than looking at that tree.”

“I prefer the way you fix mutton,” Anna proclaimed as she stomped past. Her grandfather’s mouth twitched again but maintained its frown.

Anna allowed herself a small chuckle as she marched down the stairs. Her grandfather was the superstitious sort, always waxing ominous about the willow. Her father, however, would have none of it. He was a proper modern man: well-read in all the sciences and able to parrot their findings expertly, even if he could not properly defend any objections to their veracity.

As such, he ensured that her and her sister’s best childhood memories revolved around that tree. It was the finish line of their races, they had learned how to climb on it, and their father had even attached a swing to it which had long since washed away in a storm. No daughter of his would be frightened by some foliage.

Still, Anna had a habit of bolting the willow-facing window at night. Something about the way it shifted in the wind while draped in moonlight unsettled her. Though when Margaret, her sister, asked, Anna claimed it was to keep the bugs away. Margaret had a habit of jumping out of nowhere to surprise Anna, as siblings are wont, startling their parents and grandfather with Anna’s subsequent shriek; she was not about to provide Margaret with something else to tease her with.

Anna made it to the bottom of the stairs and entered the kitchen, chatter, light, and the clatter of dinnerware welcoming her. Mother, father, and Margaret were scurrying about the table, heaping it with all the necessary utensils and dishes. The smell of roast mutton filled the room as her mother lugged the pot to the table, plopping it down with a thud. Anna’s mouth set to watering; she greatly enjoyed roast mutton.

“I heard something interesting at work,” her father said when they tucked in. “They finished setting up that moving picture section of the theatre and are planning to show something befitting the spirit of this evening.”

“We have to go,” Margaret said at the same time Anna stuffed her mouth to conceal her expression. She had wanted to see a moving picture ever since she heard about them, but one themed around All Hallows Eve? Why? That could not possibly be pleasant. Margaret would just tease her the whole time.

“It’s a town-wide event,” her father said.

Margaret cheered as Anna grabbed more food.

“I do not see the point of these ‘moving pictures,’” her grandfather grumbled. “Just read a book. Or go talk to real people. They move just fine.”

“Come on, Dad,” Anna’s mother said. “It’ll be fun.”

Her grandfather muttered but did not object further. Margaret chattered on about another moving picture she saw with a friend of hers (impressively, this one even had sound) as Anna consumed her food with less and less vigour.

Barely an hour later, Anna was deciding which hat to wear when a loud crash shook the downstairs. Alarmed shouting and shuffling along with the angry, growled speech of her grandfather filtered up from below, and she rushed down to find her parents helping him onto the couch. The old man’s spectacles hung askew and sweat covered his forehead.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Just another fainting spell; let me go.”

“You can barely stand, old man,” her father objected. “Lie here; I’ll get some water.”

“I told you, just—” A hacking fit interrupted him, the horrible rattling coughs frightening Anna more than any scary story. She heard them more and more recently, and during those fits sometimes fancied a hooded figure with pale, thin fingers resting his hand on her grandfather’s shoulder.

Her father returned with a cup of water and a soaked cloth, laying it on the head of the old man, whose strength was too drained to bat it away. By this time Margaret had shown up and hovered about the couch, jabbering things like, “Is he all right? Will he be fine?”

“We will have to stay behind, I’m afraid,” Anna’s mother said, helping him drink.

“Nonsense,” her grandfather sputtered through the water. Anna’s mother held the cup closer to his lips, forcing him to drink quietly. Finally, he continued, “Just go without me. I wouldn’t have cared for it much anyway.”

“I’m still staying to make sure you don’t do anything silly,” her mother said.

“I saw your smile when that fool you married mentioned the moving picture,” the grandfather said. “You’re going.”

“Dad, listen—”

“I’ll stay with him.”

The three turned to face Anna.

“Are you sure? You’ve never seen a moving picture before—” her father said.

“There will be other times,” Anna said. “You’re the one who discovered the event and Mom and Margaret are too excited. You all go. It’ll give me quality time with Grandfather.”

After a bit more hemming and hawing, the rest finally gave way and it was settled on. Anna restrained a sigh of relief: she was free!

The others left soon enough, her mother reminding Anna to force him to drink regularly, her father demanding that “the old man” remain on the couch, and Margaret promising to describe the moving picture in gory detail. The door shut behind them with a clunk, and the only remaining sound was the ragged breathing of her grandfather.

“You just wanted to avoid Margaret’s teasing,” he wheezed.

Anna stuck her tongue out. Another fit of coughing seized him; he must have chuckled.

She set about to providing him a blanket and pillow, following after her family in her mind down the winding, dirt road and into the bustling town. They would likely stay the night with one of her father’s acquaintances; it was too dangerous to try and make the journey back after dark, especially this close to winter. And the wolves had been more active lately.

The shadows soon stretched long in the house, the sun barely lingering at the edge of the world. Anna pulled out one of their lamps and set it on the living room table, its faint glow fighting back against the fall of night. Her grandfather had already slipped into slumber, his breathing blessedly more regular than before.

Doing her best not to disturb him, she tiptoed into the kitchen and brewed some tea, panicking slightly when the pot’s shrill whistle shrieked through the house. Nonetheless, he slept on. Seating herself in her father’s armchair, Anna sipped her drink, cracking open a book with the other hand to read, every now and again glancing up to make sure he had not awakened. Before long, the comfortable chair and weariness of the day caught up to her and she fell asleep.

“Mary! Mary!”

Anna jolted awake, the shouting followed by horrible coughing interrupting a rather pleasant dream. The lamplight had almost completely faded, recasting the most innocuous furniture in a more ominous light. To make it worse, her grandfather lay on the floor, writhing as if suffering torture, his eyes bloodshot and gaping.

“Mary!” he shouted again through the coughs shaking his body.

Anna threw herself from the chair, grappling with her grandfather as he thrashed back and forth. His shrunken, wrinkled limbs flailed, knocking her to the ground, and all the time he shouted, “Mary!”, punctuated by coughing. Anna could say nothing; Mary was the name of her grandmother, long dead. He must have still been asleep, despite his bulging eyes. Occasionally he struck the table or couch, a yelp of semiconscious pain interrupting the coughs. Her teacup and saucer fell from one strike, shattering on the floor.

Finally, struggling the whole way, she lugged him from the table and couch into a more open area, hopefully preventing injury. His flailing had weakened, near-constant coughing convulsing his body and draining his strength. Anna’s heart raced and tears fell down her cheeks; she hated seeing him like this. She had heard of his fits before but never been privy to them. None of her family had ever mentioned him calling out for his wife, though; it must have been too sorrowful to bring up.

He at last grew still, shaking from the draining coughs but otherwise unmoving. With his eyes now closed, one could almost believe nothing had happened. Wiping away her tears and sighing, Anna turned away; the broken cup would need to be cleaned up.

Something grabbed her wrist, strong as iron. Anna jerked back around to find her grandfather, eyes open wide, mouth slightly agape. It was his grip that stayed her, too strong and firm for one as weakened as he. She shivered, for his hand was colder than a winter’s wind, as if it was from beyond that threshold of life that he now drew his strength.

“Stray from the willow tonight.”

His wheezing entreaty drew her gaze to his face. Her breath caught. Every line and wrinkle of his visage stood stark in the lamplight, defined as if cut in stone. His eyes strained in their sockets, a fell light filling them, too fierce and too piercing for those fading orbs.

“It is Samhain night. Stray from the willow. Do not go as Mary did. Stray from the willow.”

Once more, coughing overcame him and his hand fell back, the frightening shaking returning. Shortly, the light in his eyes faded and he grew still, terribly still, and the coughing and shaking stopped. Everything stopped. He breathed no more.

Outside, the wind was picking up; the house occasionally shivered from its passing. Within, however, nothing stirred, nothing spoke. Anna sat next to the corpse, staring, barely able to think. Dead? That couldn’t be true.

At last, shaking, almost collapsing, she struggled to her feet. The room whispered with a more menacing air, oppressive and cold. It was as if the house itself had become a grave. Rubbing her arms to try and keep warm, Anna just stood there, her thoughts still unable to keep pace with the present.

Then she saw it: that hooded figure, kneeling over her grandfather, its thin fingers resting on his chest. Anna screamed, her reason failing, and fled, desperately unbolting the door and running outside.

In the summer or spring the grass and earth would have felt pleasant beneath her bare feet, but the chill of autumn made it all too cold. She halted several steps from the door, the implacable veil of night knocking some sense into her. Above, the silver moon mocked the sun, its silver rays unable to reach the shadowed earth below. It was too dark, too dangerous. She could barely make out the willow beyond, and aside from that, the night was impenetrable.

Anna took a step back towards the house. No light shone within; the lamp must have drunk the last of the oil. Dark within, dark without. But within was safer, right? The sight of her grandfather’s lifeless body flashed in her mind’s eye; what if she stumbled over it? And besides, staying in the house with a corpse?

She took a step back, her eyes drifting to the willow, little more than a grey shadow against a black background. The cheerful memories surrounding that tree could be a boon in this time. Yet her grandfather’s warning echoed in her ears. Surely, even without light, she knew her way through the house well enough to make it to the stairs.

The thought of the hooded figure seized her, and she shivered. The firm logic of her father cautioned her that it could not possibly be real, but another part of her recognized that in the darkness of the house, she would never be able to see it if it tried to creep up on her. When she heard, or perhaps imagined, a sound within, the decision was made, and she ran for the willow.

The amorphous shape of the tree coalesced into its usual, mundane self as she neared, banishing the fears her grandfather’s last words had encouraged. It was the same willow as always, if at night. The tree looked more mournful than usual, almost devoid as it was of its leaves. Anna placed her hand on its trunk, tracing the initials she knew were carved there: AH, for herself, and below them MH, for her sister. She smiled; she was safe.

“Admiring the willow tree? Jolly good night for it.”

Anna jumped, the shriek catching in her throat.

“Whoops. Sorry to startle you. Here; want a peach?”

She turned to find a young man standing behind her, a wry grin on his face as he offered the fruit. He was handsome in his own way, every feature from his cheekbones to his eyebrows sharp but fine, and his vibrant green eyes sparkling as if with some hidden mischief. His head overflowed with bouncy brown curls, and what little of his teeth she could see shone like polished pearls. His clothes were what caught her attention most: they reminded her of the dappled ground beneath a sunlit forest, a mixture of greens and browns and gold, and even fashioned to look like leaves.

“Peaches are out of season,” she stammered through her surprise.

“Fair enough,” the man said, shrugging and tossing the peach over his shoulder. “What’s your name, miss?”

“Anna,” was the automatic response. “What’s you—”

“Anna! Anna. What a delightful name.”

The young man laughed as if he had said something funny. It was a clear laugh, shining like crystal, but there was this sense of abandon that made Anna recoil.

“What are you doing out by this lonely willow, dear Anna?” the man said, his infectious grin making her want to smile. His question, however, sobered her up.

“My grandfather just died,” she replied.

And with those words, it hit her, unexpectedly and abruptly. She burst into tears, covering her face in embarrassment. Warm arms encircled her and held her close, and despite the impossibility of it, she imagined it her father’s embrace.

“There, there. It is good for humans to weep in grief. Those who do not are unpleasant mockeries.”

This statement brought Anna back to reality and she extracted herself from the stranger’s embrace. He was still grinning despite her tear-stained face, and he had not the courtesy to step away. However, when she tried to remove herself, the cold bark of the willow pressed up against her.

“Dear Anna, do not stop crying,” he crooned. “The human heart shines brightest when it expresses true emotion. Sorrow. Joy.” He traced one warm finger across her cheek, lifting a tear. “Feel free to weep. Jolly good night for it.”

Anna’s heart hammered at her ribcage. Too much was happening in too quick a succession. She wanted to scream, to cry, to laugh, to shout all at once. But at the very least she had to speak.

“Would you please step back?” she muttered. The man cocked his head to the side, still grinning.

“But your heart is so beautiful from this distance. It shines in your tears, your cheeks. It would be a crime not to appreciate it. Ah; I see you do not believe me. Let me show you.”

His hand gently touched her neck, slowly trickling down to the nape. Anna could not stop shivering from the touch; it was strangely comforting while at the same time unnerving. Each time she tried to speak, her voice caught. His hand continued down to the centre of her chest and rested there for a moment.

“What a thrilling heartbeat,” he said, and plunged his hand into her chest.

Anna screamed, shutting her eyes in terror. But she felt no pain, only an unsettling discomfort. She eased her eyes open and looked down. Her clothes were unharmed. No blood welled up. She at least looked fine. And yet, one terrible truth froze the blood in her veins: the frantic hammering in her chest had stopped. She had no heartbeat.

“Beautiful.”

The young man stood further away, his eyes shining rapturously. In his hand, red and beating, was her heart.

“Oh, to have a heart,” he sighed as if all the world’s sorrow rested within him. And yet, he still smiled. “That is the surest and sole loss of faeries. Oh, to have such a heart as humans. Such a rich, vibrant, feeling thing. You just want to taste it.”

And he did. A tongue, red and much too long, slunk out of his lips and flicked across the pulsing organ. Anna almost vomited. The young man looked to her and held out the heart, his smile unfaltering.

“Dear Anna. Dear, dearest Anna. Won’t you let me have your heart?”

Anna sank to the ground, trying to think and unable to restrain her sobs. This was too much. Her grandfather had just died and now this thing held her heart in his hand. A great wind seemed to gust through her mind, throwing her thoughts into an incomprehensible whirlwind as she stood on a precipice between sanity and madness.

“No, no,” she heard the man’s voice next to her. “You mustn’t leave sanity behind. Such humans laugh without joy, cry without sorrow. Your heart won’t be so beautiful then. Go on; weep. Weep for whatever you must. Laugh as well, laugh as only humans can. Jolly good night for it all.”

Something snapped in Anna then. A horrible scream tore itself from her throat and she threw herself at the man, the grief and fear all bursting from her throat in that sound. For the first time, his smile faltered, and in that moment she seized her heart, just barely noticing the slimy, squishy, beating surface before she sprinted into the night. Madness was held at bay, just barely, the wall between her and that wild gulf the goal she had placed before herself: run. Run until she could run no more. Nothing else mattered.

“Do not run, dear Anna,” she heard the call behind her, but now it was a threat, full of the subtle menace of distant thunder. “Your heart is too precious for you.”

Anna blocked out the voice, placing it beyond the wall where madness dwelt. Run. Run. Run. This was all she was now. Run.

And no matter how much she ran, how much she feared, she felt no heart beating in her chest.

Excerpt from a local newspaper clipping, 2 November, 19—

“Yesterday at around noon, Theodore Haley, his wife Nessa, and their daughter Margaret returned home to find Nessa’s father Thomas Davies deceased. Davies had been living with his daughter’s family for the last two decades since the unfortunate passing of his wife Mary. Cause of death is reported to be some form of fever that increasingly affected Davies in recent months. As Davies’ expression is strangely one of horror, it is speculated his death might have instead been caused by extreme stress brought on by a nightmare, as he was known to suffer from hysterical fits.

Haley’s second daughter Anna, who had been caring for Davies while the rest of the family attended the All Hallows Eve moving picture event, reports that she was not in the house when he expired, having gone for a nighttime stroll. When pressed on this matter, her only reply was that “It seemed a jolly good night for it” and would say no more on the subject. A funeral is planned for this Sunday at noon. Mr. and Mrs. Haley have expressed that all may attend.”