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The village of Grönhammar lay beneath a blanket of frost, the air sharp as shards of glass against Elin Marklund's cheeks. Aside from a few weathered figures trudging past with heads bowed, the streets lay empty. She had already spoken to several of them, but each response left her colder, more like a shiver than a revelation.
“Gold butter, you say?” Old Karl asked, his voice thick with suspicion as he tugged his woolen hat lower over his brow. “Aye, it’s... special. You won’t find it anywhere else.” He didn’t meet her eyes. “Best to leave it alone.”
Elin pressed her lips into a thin line. “I’m here to find out why. Why has it exploded in popularity this year? No suppliers, no herds... what’s going on, Karl?”
Karl’s knuckles whitened around his cane. “You’ll find what you’re looking for. But not here.” He turned, shuffling into the dimming light, leaving her with only the lingering chill.
Exhaling slowly, she felt her resolve harden like the ice beneath her boots. There had to be more to this. At the edge of the village had lived the late Alma Korp—the widow everyone had whispered about. The one no one had dared approach. But Elin sensed the pull, a story hidden in the silence, a truth buried beneath layers of fear. Alma’s cottage sat distant from the others, veiled in decay and neglect. It beckoned.
Nightfall came quickly in these parts, and by the time Elin reached the path leading to Alma's cottage, snowflakes had grown thicker, blurring the line between earth and sky. In the dark, the cottage loomed like a skeleton, its windows blank and uninviting. Yet something else stirred. Through the stillness, the air began to hum—a subtle vibration, an unspoken presence.
She crept closer, breath shallow, fingers cold as they wrapped around the rusted gate. The faint sound of a churn—slow, methodical—slipped through the cracks in the door. It wasn’t the rhythmic sound of an old woman’s hands working butter; it was something... more alive. More insistent. Her heart quickened.
At the threshold of Alma Korp’s cottage, she paused, breath shallow as the wind bit at her skin. The door hung ajar, a cold draft slipping out—as if the house itself exhaled something malevolent. She had expected it—the mystery, the emptiness. What she hadn’t anticipated was the feeling that something had changed, as if the place itself waited for her.
The small, dimly lit room seemed untouched since Alma's passing—except for one thing. The churn, still in the center of the floor, motionless but heavier, more ominous than before.
As Elin crossed the threshold, a shiver crept down her spine, her boots thudding softly against the wooden floor. In the air hung the sickly-sweet scent of butter, tainted by something darker—feral, almost alive. Scanning the room, her gaze settled on the far corner, where shadows stretched farther than they should, thick and unnatural.
Then, she saw it.
It was the eyes that caught her first—two glowing orbs of molten amber. A sinewy, catlike form emerged from the darkness, its fur matted and streaked with dirt. It was no ordinary animal. Elongated and twisted, its body seemed caught between the spectral and the solid. With eerie grace, its limbs shifted, fluid and deliberate. From across the space, its gaze locked onto her—sharp, calculating, and disturbingly aware.
Elin’s heart lurched in her chest. The folklore had been clear: a creature of nightmares, bound to a master by ancient, blood-soaked rites. But here, in front of her, it was real. Free.
For a beat, neither moved. The creature's gaze bored into her, as though assessing her every inch. Its lips curled back in a slow, predatory grin, revealing rows of sharp teeth, gleaming in the faint light.
“Missi Massi...” Elin’s voice was a hoarse whisper, barely more than a breath.
With a slow blink, the troll-cat’s pupils dilated, as if savoring her fear. Closer it crept, each step fluid, almost hypnotic. With every movement, the air grew thicker, heavy with tension.
Then, it spoke. Its voice, low and raspy, was undeniably human.
“She’s gone,” it said, its words dripping with a strange cadence. “No more binding. No more... master.”
Elin’s stomach twisted. In a rush of memory, the old stories surfaced—how Alma had once kept it in check. But with her gone, the creature now roamed free, and already, the village had begun to feel its hunger.
Elin’s eyes flicked to the dark, silent corners of the room. The folklore. Among the words she’d uncovered in Alma’s journals was a chilling revelation: the creature could only be controlled by a living master—one willing to perform the rituals and offer the sacrifices.
“Then... what happens?” Elin found her voice, trembling with dread. “What will you do?”
Missi Massi tilted its head, eyes never leaving hers. “What will I do? What will you do, little one?” It stepped closer, its breath warm and fetid against her face. “You have the choice. Take her place. Or... I will take yours.”
Elin recoiled instinctively, her back hitting the wall. Her mind raced, but she couldn’t escape the pull of the creature’s gaze. She thought of the livestock drained, the eerie quiet that had fallen over the village since Alma’s death. The butter, once a simple luxury, now a commodity people fought for.
“You need a master...” Elin murmured, the realization sinking in like cold stone. “A living master. But why... why me?”
The creature’s lips curled into a smile full of teeth and malice. “Because you’re curious. Because you want to know. You’re so close, aren’t you? But you don’t know how close you are to needing.”
Elin swallowed hard. “I won’t... I won’t do it. I’ll destroy you.”
Missi Massi chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on Elin’s neck stand on end. “Destroy me? You think you can destroy me?” With a sickening fluidity, the creature’s body rippled—stretching and contorting in ways that defied nature—until it rose onto its hind legs, towering over her. “You haven’t even begun to understand. I am the hunger.”
Before Elin could react, the creature darted past her, claws scraping across the wooden floor with a screech. She turned quickly, breath catching as it moved toward the door, disappearing into the night like a shadow.
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On the edge of ruin, the village teetered. Panic spread like wildfire—a storm of whispers, dread, and desperation. All around, livestock lay torn open, bodies drained, their eyes frozen wide in eternal terror. The people spoke in fractured sentences, darting glances at the woods, at each other—everyone was afraid. But what terrified Elin most was the realization that her fame, once a ticket to recognition, had become a curse.
Leaked footage of Missi Massi, glowing eyes and feral grin, had gone viral. Elin’s name was everywhere. The world wanted answers. She had the story—the story—but it wasn’t enough. She felt the weight of it, the way her ambition pressed against her chest, like a hand around her throat.
In the dead of night, Elin sat at her desk, fingers trembling over the journal she had found in Alma’s cottage. The pages were yellowed with age, filled with cryptic symbols and instructions. She had read them over and over. This was her only option. She had to bind Missi Massi herself.
Her phone buzzed again—another notification, another call for answers. To the people, it was all confusion and fear; they didn’t understand. They didn’t know what ending this would demand—the trolls, the rituals, the binding. This wasn’t just a story. It was a pact, sealed in blood and silence.
She glanced at the door to Alma’s abandoned cottage, the empty churn standing silently in the corner, as if waiting for her. Then she stood, resolute.
On paper, the ritual was simple. Yet as Elin laid the markings on the floor and whispered incantations that clung to the air like thick smoke, her heart began to pound faster. Every word, every gesture tethered her deeper into the web, drawing the creature closer. Missi Massi was out there—she could feel its presence, like a shadow crawling beneath her skin.
A low growl echoed from the darkness outside. Elin clenched her fists, forcing her breath to steady.
The door creaked open.
From the shadows, the troll-cat’s glowing eyes emerged first, slithering into view like liquid fire. It watched her intently, its gaze both knowing and hungry. Around her, the air thickened with the scent of butter and blood—of things that could never be undone.
Elin’s voice wavered as she spoke the final words of the binding. "By the old ways... by the blood of the land, I call you, Missi Massi. I command you... bound.”
The room seemed to tremble as the creature moved forward, its sinewy form unfurling like smoke. It circled her, its fur rippling in the dim light, a predator sizing up its prey. Then, it stopped, sitting on its haunches, head cocked slightly to the side, watching her with an eerie sense of understanding. The stillness wrapped around Elin like a suffocating blanket.
Something changed. The ground beneath her feet felt too solid, as though it had become a part of her. Her breath quickened. Her pulse pounded in her ears. The air constricted, and then... there it was—a presence inside her, twisting and knotting, as if her very essence was being pulled into something else. A dark, consuming hunger that was not hers, but would soon be.
"Do you understand?" Missi Massi’s voice whispered into Elin’s thoughts. "You called me. You gave me purpose. But now... you are mine."
Elin gasped, her hands shaking as the ritual surged through her. In the wavering firelight, the cottage walls blurred, flickering like the edges of a dream. She no longer knew where she ended and the creature began. The binding had worked—but it came at a cost: her autonomy, her spirit, her very soul now entwined with the troll-cat’s will.
The creature stepped closer, nuzzling her hand with cold, damp fur. Its purring vibrated through her chest, a hum that sank into her bones, filling every corner of her mind.
She should have fought it. She should have resisted. But as the last of her resistance drained away, she realized something else—something darker. She was no longer Elin Marklund, the ambitious food blogger who sought the truth. She was something else now, something far more sinister, bound to the creature that had haunted the village for centuries.
In a quiet surrender, Elin turned to the churn—but the churn was no longer hers. Crouched beside it, the troll-cat convulsed, its body twitching with unnatural rhythm. From its gaping maw, thick coils of butter spilled forth—slick, pale, and steaming. Her fingers hovered uselessly at her sides, the familiar act of churning replaced by something grotesque. What had once been a symbol of pride now oozed from the creature like a curse, each dollop a reminder of the pact that had hollowed her out.
The cottage, once Alma's, was now hers. And as the last remnants of Elin’s identity faded, the world outside would never know that the village’s prized butter had been churned not by its new mistress, but by the Missi Massi.
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I’m excited to announce that Cumberland Chronicles is now live on Books2Read! If supernatural, horror, and weird tales are your thing, this one's for you. If not, sharing it with others who might enjoy it would be a huge help. Thanks for all the support!
