The chill came early that year.

By the first of October, 1582, frost already laced the edges of the brook. A place steeped in folklore, said to have once housed both Heaven and Hell. It had once been called Eden’s Brook.

Now, it was simply known as The Red Hollow.

The summer’s harvest had barely been stored, and the villagers spoke of the early frost as a bad omen, a warning of a long and cruel winter ahead. Nights that would stretch longer than they should. Cold that would refuse to break. Candles burning down to their nubs before dawn.

But the real terror was not the winter.

Shadows at dawn had begun to lengthen unnaturally, not merely dark shapes cast by the sun, but living things. Creatures whispered about for generations, though never seen. Beasts from the storytellers’ lips, said to have brought ruin to Eden’s Brook. Children still believed those tales; the grown dismissed them.

Still, there was something unsettling about living in a place where the stories might be true.

A heavenly village torn apart.

A tree planted by the Devil.

Men and women turned into monsters by the fruit’s temptation.

And a false prophet orchestrating it all.

No one had ever proved it. There was only a ruined village, an abandoned castle, and no Devil’s Tree in sight. No monsters. No corpses. Just emptiness as if everyone had simply vanished.

Only one thing was ever found: the journal of a man named Finnian Copperleaf, who had written the unbelievable tale of Eden’s Brook’s fall. Too imaginative to believe, and yet... something had once lived there and many believed something still lingered.

The villagers renamed it The Red Hollow, after the blood-stained history described in Finnian’s notes. The name fit. The place felt hollow, drained, cursed, and alive in its stillness.

Marta could feel it. She always could, even as a young girl. Now, a widow of thirty winters, she was no stranger to the turning seasons or the superstitions of the old villages. But on the morning of October third, when she went to gather eggs, she found every hen dead and their small bodies torn apart.

Large black feathers lay scattered across the ground and the stench of death hung in the air. The paranoia crept under her skin. Whatever had done this, she knew it wasn’t human.

Acres away, Thomlin’s goats had bolted into the woods. When found hours later, their entrails hung like garlands over the hedgerows. His son, Hugh, swore he saw a man with wings watching from the hayloft. But when they searched, they found only blood and feathers.

Thomlin blamed vandals and nothing more.

But that night, when the wind carried with it the sound of laughter across the valley. A sound that was long, distorted, and cruel. Hugh knew it was something far worse.

It was a warning.

And no one yet knew what was coming.

By the night of October fourth, a creature circled above Marta’s farm Its monstrous shadow blotting out the moon. It was the thing from legend, the one said to have haunted Eden’s Brook.

Part man.

Part vulture.

Marta would later call him Deathfeather.

By dawn, her eldest son was missing. He had kept watch through the night, hoping to see whatever had slaughtered their hens. When he had disappeared without a trace, she knew something was wrong. Marta searched the coop, calling his name into the cold silence, but received no answer.

Black feathers drifted past her in the breeze. Then she saw him or what was left of him. He was near the hedgerow. Torn apart, bones picked clean. Before she could even scream, the creature swept overhead, snatching his remains in its talons and vanishing into the sunrise.

The horror spread fast. Thomlin and Hugh confirmed her story, and when that stubborn old man spoke, people actually listened. Something was out there, and it was hunting them.

The stories only fueled the curiosity of two local boys: Nathaniel and Bartholomew.

Their destination was the castle.

“Have we entered The Red Hollow yet?” Bartholomew asked.

“Not The Red Hollow, remember? It’s Eden’s Brook — God’s Garden on Earth,” Nathaniel replied. “Where weary knights laid down their swords and their wounds would be healed. Where rivers shimmered silver and orchards bore endless fruit. Even the cruelest hearts found peace there.”

Bartholomew scoffed. “You’re flapping on about that cold, haunted pile of bricks out there?”

Still, they pressed on. The walk to the castle was longer than it appeared. Then came a sound — faint, strange... laughing.

When Bartholomew turned, the darkness behind them was empty. But his skin crawled. By the time they reached the castle, the sun had nearly vanished. Nathaniel’s lantern revealed crumbling stone and shadowed corridors that were relics of a forgotten people.

As they climbed the winding staircase, the flutter of bats echoed through the tower and stirred up dust which swirled down like a cyclone. Bartholomew may have hesitated but this only heightened Nathaniel's adventurousness. Soon, they found themselves at the top level and there, they found a grand door fit for royalty.

“This must’ve been the chambers of a king,” Nathaniel said, lifting the lantern.

Then, a voice filled the room. Feminine. Sultry.

“I’m glad you let yourselves in,” she purred. “I’ve been just dying to talk to somebody.”

A woman stood in the shadows, her back to them. Long black hair draped over her curves. The air around her pulsed with allure. Nathaniel passed the lantern to Bartholomew and stepped forward, mesmerized. She was so seductive and mysterious but, when she turned, her eyes glowed faintly red. Then, she smiled and revealed her fangs.

Before Nathaniel could cry out, she buried them in his throat. Bartholomew fled, stumbling through corridors as bats erupted around him. Once outside, laughter chased him through the forest. Laughter that didn’t sound human.

He ran until his lungs burned, but the laughter followed, circling closer. A flurry of bats surrounded him, spiraling into a storm of wings and then she was there again, the vampire, her body slick with blood.

She screamed, fangs reaching for him.

Bartholomew dropped the lantern and it burst on impact, fire sweeping across the ground and catching her in flames. Those flames consumed her until she turned back into a bat, burning just up until she disappeared into the night.

For a moment, all was silent. Then, he realized the laughter he’d been hearing wasn’t hers.

Something else was out there. And two red eyes flickered in the darkness. It sprinted on all fours even though it was taller than a man yet ran like a beast. Half-hyena, half-human. Bartholomew fell to the ground, paralyzed by terror. The creature lunged until a gunshot tore through the night. Smoke filled the air, and a voice shouted:

“Get up, boy! If you’ve any sense in you!”

Another shot rang out. The monster shrieked and withdrew into the trees. Through the haze of smoke stood a lone man, holding a matchlock gun. The burning fuse-cords glowed faintly in the dark. It was Brother Othren.

The local villager and mentor to many of the boys, and keeper of old tales. He had followed them after hearing Hugh boast about spying the creature, Deathfeather that Marta spoke of.

“Who else went with you?” Othren demanded.

“Nathaniel... just Nathaniel,” Bartholomew gasped. “But it’s too late for him.”

“Too late? Why?”

“Because I saw it... the monster that killed him. But—”

“But what?” Othren pressed.

“It wasn’t the same monster.”

Then came the laughter again — that hideous, booming laugh. Bats erupted from the castle, blotting out the moon. Trees shook as something massive moved among them. They weren’t alone and figures emerged from the tree line:

A horned man with the legs of a goat.

A spidery creature with eight limbs and a mutated face covered in eyes.

A hairy, rat-tailed brute dragging chains.

And above them, the winged shadow of Deathfeather, followed by a swarm of bats and vultures. Othren grabbed Bartholomew’s arm. “Run.” He called out.

The forest erupted.

Three women appeared in their path. The first, a scaled serpent-woman, next, a tall pale figure crawling with leeches, and then, the vampire. She was burned but not destroyed. Othren lit his match cord and fired. The shot ripped through the leech woman, blood spraying like rain.

Smoke swallowed them both. And through it, a figure emerged — a man, not a monster, but something worse. His eyes glowed faintly red as he watched them flee, the corners of his mouth curling into something almost... amused.

Othren felt that presence long after they escaped the forest. Long after the laughter died but he knew it wasn’t the last time. The legend of Eden’s Brook was coming alive, he just didn’t know why, but he was about to find out.

They all were.

Every dark tale has an origin.
Trace this evil back to its roots in Blood & Seeds, the novel that started it all.

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