The Witch of Gloamsuckle Mire

Before the rot took root, before the brambles swallowed paths and time, the swamp had a name older than any map. Gloamsuckle. A place once whispered about in reverence, where healing grew from tree hollows, and the air shimmered with unseen energy. Folk came from miles to find the healer who lived there—the woman with eyes the color of still water and hands that mended bone, soul, and spirit.

They called her Wrenna, though no surname was ever known. She wore vines as garlands and moved like wind through cattails. It was said she spoke to frogs and lizards, and the creatures of the mire adored her. With a wooden staff crowned by red-capped mushrooms and tangled leaves, she stirred her potions from swamp herbs and secrets.

For decades, she kept sickness at bay. Children with fever were brought to her door and walked away giggling. Lovers with broken hearts left with courage stitched anew. Farmers left her jars of honey or skeins of wool in return, and all was in balance. But Gloamsuckle has always asked a price. And the townsfolk grew greedy.

A drought came. The land cracked. Crops failed. Desperation twisted their hearts. When the village priest declared the swamp cursed and the witch to blame, the same hands she once healed became claws. They dragged her from her hut, tore her staff from her grip, and cast her into the mire’s deepest gullet a bog so ancient it bore no name.

She did not drown.

Instead, the swamp embraced her.

The vines wrapped round her arms and wove into her hair. Mushrooms bloomed from her crown. Her tears mingled with the waters until her sorrow seeped into every root and reed. Her name was swallowed, but her wrath grew tall. She was reborn not Wrenna, but something older. Something sacred. Something terrible.

Now, Gloamsuckle breathes.

The swamp no longer welcomes strangers. Fog curls around ankles and tugs like needy hands. Trees lean in to listen. Folk who enter without reverence find themselves turned about, walking in circles until the moss grows over their boots. Some vanish entirely. Others return, changed eyes too wide, skin marked with strange sigils traced in green.

But the brave still seek her.

They come with bones to mend or curses to lift. Some come for power. A few come simply to say sorry.

One such visitor was a girl named Tally. Her brother had fallen ill with a wasting sickness the doctors could not name. She ventured into the mire alone, clutching a ribbon of her brother’s hair and a wooden toy he once loved. The fog parted for her. Frogs croaked a path. She found the witch kneeling beneath a willow, her staff tapping gently in the mud.

“Please,” Tally whispered. “He’s only seven.”

The witch said nothing, but vines unwound from her shoulders and plucked the ribbon and toy from the girl’s hands. Then, with a flick of her moss-covered fingers, she painted a single red cap upon Tally’s forehead. “Go,” she said. Her voice was the rustle of leaves.

By the time Tally returned home, her brother was already sitting up in bed, asking for jam.

And so the legend grew. But not all stories end sweet.

A gang of poachers once entered the mire, hoping to trap the rare black herons said to nest in its belly. They brought fire. Blades. Laughing, they tore through branches, mocking the ghost stories whispered in the pub. They found the witch’s hut now nothing but a mossy mound and tossed it to flame.

They didn’t laugh long.

The vines came first snapping like ropes, coiling around ankles and wrists. The mist thickened into hands. The witch emerged not in fury, but in silence. Her staff pulsed with green light. The red caps glowed. The swamp swallowed sound, and the poachers were never seen again. Their camp was found days later, covered in mushrooms. Their boots stood side by side at the water’s edge, empty.

To this day, children leave her gifts on the forest edge painted stones, little frogs carved from wood, or letters in shaky handwriting that say things like “Thank you” or “Sorry my dad was mean.” These offerings vanish by morning. In their place: herbs strung in ribbon, tiny charms of bark and bone, or feathers that shimmer blue-green in the light.

The Witch of Gloamsuckle Mire does not forget. She does not forgive. But she listens.

On the stillest nights, if you stand very quietly and ask the swamp a question from the heart, you may hear her reply in the rustle of vines, or see her staff’s glow weaving between the trees. And if you do bow your head. Say thank you. And leave by dawn.

She walks with dusk. She guards the old magics. And her roots, once torn, have grown deep.