Moonshade, Guardian of the Forgotten Grove

There is a grove hidden deep in the folds of the world—a place where trees curl like fingers above graves no one remembers, and the moonlight filters through mist with the weight of memory. It does not appear on maps. It cannot be reached by paths. But those who find themselves wandering between sleep and waking may stumble upon it, drawn by the hush of wind through barren branches and the low sound of weeping earth.

In the center of that grove stands Moonshade.

She was not born like other ghosts. Once, long ago, she had a name and a quiet life as the keeper of a small churchyard, nestled in a forgotten wood. Her task was simple—light the lanterns, tend the graves, keep the dead company through the night. She was kind, and she was faithful. And she was terribly alone.

One night, during a blood moon eclipse, a strange wind rustled through the trees, and a voice whispered from beneath the soil. The graves began to stir. The air thickened with silence so profound it screamed. Something was rising—something that did not belong.

Moonshade did what she had always done. She lit her lantern, stepped into the dark, and whispered lullabies to the restless dead.

She never returned.

Since that night, she has become part of the grove, her form as grey and pale as the moon above. Bound between realms, she walks the edge of life and death, a sentry for those who wander too close to the boundary. Some say she exists to protect the world of the living from what lies beneath. Others believe she is merely lost herself, guarding an afterlife she can no longer leave.

But the dreamers know her best.

There are stories—half-remembered upon waking—of a black-eyed figure standing at the edge of a misty field of graves. Of moonlight on silver trees. Of voices calling gently from beneath the ground. Of a cold hand reaching out just as consciousness returns. Some dreamers find themselves returning night after night, drawn by a longing they cannot name.

And some never wake at all.

Those who seek to find Moonshade while awake will fail. She is not part of the waking world. But her presence remains—a flicker in the corner of your eye, a shadow beneath the trees, the inexplicable scent of earth and wildflowers in your room.

Because the grove is always watching. And Moonshade is always waiting.

Few know that long before her fate was sealed in mist and sorrow, Moonshade was a friend to a boy named Edmund Ravenwood. He was the son of a stonemason, curious beyond reason and brave beyond measure. He would visit the churchyard where she worked, bringing small trinkets and endless questions about life, death, and everything in between. Moonshade answered as best she could, weaving folklore into wisdom, mystery into comfort.

It was in her presence that Edmund first witnessed the unexplainable—a grave that hummed, a shadow that moved without light, a whisper that came not from lips but from roots and leaves. He told no one but her. And she listened.

After her disappearance, he returned to the churchyard again and again, hoping to find her, to speak once more with the one who opened his eyes to the veil between worlds. But she was gone.

Or so he thought.

Years later, following his first true brush with the arcane—a visit from a man named Eldrin who brought with him a vial of impossible power—Edmund found himself unable to ignore the call of the strange. Determined to unravel the mysteries that had once terrified and fascinated him, he sought out other phenomena.

His second investigation, driven by a dream that echoed the sorrow of a girl he once knew, brought him to a place not found on any map: a grove shrouded in mist, echoing with lullabies, where the trees whispered names long forgotten.

He recognized her immediately.

Moonshade did not speak, but her silence said enough. In her spectral presence, Edmund understood that she had never truly left—only changed, transformed into something ancient and beautiful and utterly beyond his reach.

When Edmund Ravenwood founded the grand house that would bear his name, he ensured it stood upon land steeped in old magic. He commissioned a hidden garden in the heart of the estate—a grove of silver trees and dark stone paths. Some say the original soil came from that nameless grove. Some say Moonshade followed.

Thus began the Ravenwood family’s long and troubled dance with the paranormal. A child’s sorrow became a family legacy. And still, Moonshade lingers, watching from the forgotten places, guarding the borders of dream and death.

Her warning, soft as falling leaves, lingers in the ears of those who nearly cross:

“This is not your place. Not yet. Turn back before the roots remember your name.”