The Witch's Countdown

The first thing the girl remembered was the rain.

It had been pouring when she woke up in the strange, dimly lit cottage. The room smelled of old wood and damp earth. Shadows flickered against the walls, cast by a single lantern hanging from a crooked ceiling beam.

And in the middle of the room, wrapped in thin blankets, was a baby.

The girl sat up on the cold wooden floor, her small hands pressing against the rough planks. Her heart pounded. Where was she? Who had brought her here?

Then the voice came.

"You are awake."

The girl flinched, turning her wide, frightened eyes toward the corner of the room. A woman stood there, tall and thin, wrapped in a tattered black cloak. Her eyes were dark pools, empty and endless.

"Who are you?" the girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

The woman's lips curled into a slow, eerie smile. "That does not matter."

The girl swallowed. "Why am I here?"

The witch stepped closer, her long fingers trailing over the wooden table beside her. "You will stay in this cottage until the time comes."

The girl shivered. "What time?"

The witch's cold gaze flickered to the bundle on the floor-the baby. "Until you are eighteen days old."

The girl's brows knitted together. "But I'm not a baby."

The witch's smile widened. "Aren't you?"

A heavy silence filled the room. The girl's heart pounded. Something was very, very wrong.

And the worst part?

The baby wasn't crying.

Not once.

Not at all.

As if it knew something she didn't.