They were born of ash and omen, bloodline bound to Salem’s flame.  

Summoned to a cottage veiled in bramble and bone.  

But the hearth burns with an older hatred—one who hunted their kin.  

Described as a devilish figure with clawed hands, glowing red eyes, and the ability to jump impossibly high, he terrorized Londoners with sudden attacks, eerie laughter, and even bursts of blue flame.

One family's legacy, a witch bottle filled with personal items like urine, hair, pins, nails, and bones. Made to trap and repel malevolent forces. To protect the village.

Or was it?

The sorrowful tale of a bride and her untimely demise.

Remember these rules:

Do not plant thistle in spring.  

Do not wear white on the moor.  

Do not speak her name after dusk.

You are the vow....

Fan Feardom, where your stories come to life.

Vol 1 features Emily, Jakob and @appalachianboobust 

In the quiet corners of British folklore, there’s a figure who doesn’t chase, doesn’t speak, and doesn’t bleed. He simply appears and wears what's left of you when you're gone.

In the windswept Orkney Islands, where the sea claws at the land and the lochs run deep, there is a legend older than the kirk stones and darker than the winter tide.

They say the will o’ wisp is no mere trick of the light, but a soul-hunter born of old grief and bog-bound bargains. It drifts between worlds, luring the lost with flickers of warmth, each flame a life claimed. Nell followed the eighth light into the mire, her name now spoken only in hush. But the wisp is still hungry. It seeks its ninth. And when the mist rises and the lanterns fail, you must not answer the glow—lest your name be next.

They say the mirror in Room 13 was never meant to be there. It wasn’t hung—it arrived. A tall, freestanding thing with a frame like scorched bone and glass that never quite reflects true. Those who look into it see their death. Not once, but again and again, until the image roots itself deep. Until the mirror begins to watch back. It doesn’t show what might be—it shows what will be. And once it’s shown you enough, it takes you.

When the Wild Hunt descends upon a frostbitten village, its riders demand blood and a soul.

Eira, bound by ancestral duty, steps forward—not as prey, but as gift. Her willing surrender halts the slaughter, but the Hunt does not release its claim. Instead, it reshapes her. Cloaked in ash and antler, Eira becomes one of them—a spectral rider bound to the wind, forever chasing the echoes of her former life. A tale of sacrifice, transformation, and the thin line between salvation and damnation.