Othren returned with Bartholomew as he limped beside him, pale and hollow-eyed. Nathaniel, his good friend was gone.

The boy’s parents stood on the edge of the dirt path as the two men came into view. Behind them, the faint glow of lanterns flickered through the unusually thick fog like dying stars. When the truth reached them, Nathaniel’s mother screamed—a sound that silenced the whole valley.

“How could you go out so far and not even check on my boy?” she shouted. Her grief broke through her voice like a storm tearing through timber. Othren said nothing as there was no noble answer to give.

Bartholomew stepped forward, still shaking from it all. “Don’t blame him. The monsters were out there. I saw them and if it weren’t for Othren, I’d be dead too.”

“Monsters?" That's non-sense." She spat back to Bartholomew. "If it weren’t for you both going out there,” she hissed, “my son would still be alive.”

The villagers began to devise a plan. Jonas, Eliab, and Toben among them—formed a small band to ride out before dawn, determined to bring Nathaniel back, dead or alive. Othren tried to stop them. “You’ll not come back,” he warned. “The land has something bad out there. Something you don't want.”

They ignored him. Tabitha, Nathaniel’s mother, spat the word coward at his feet.

By morning, the men were gone and by nightfall, they had not returned. Fear spread through the village like frost over the crops. The fields lay still; the plows were abandoned. Hunters at sunrise spoke of strange sightings: not men, not even beasts, but wolves. Dozens of them. Their howls came from the hills, sharp as knives in the dark. In those days, such creatures were thought to be familiars of the Devil himself. It was a sign that something wicked had come.

This was the sixteenth century—a time ruled by the cross, when even the whisper of witchcraft could damn a soul. The villagers had heard old tales about a section of the village once known as Eden’s Brook. A place of first beauty that later became cursed soil and the land’s refusal to be tamed. Few had ever believed them. But now, with every passing hour, those stories felt less like superstition and more like the truth. For all anyone knew, it could very well be prophecy.

Father Matthias, one of the fellow priests of the local chapel, had called for a gathering that day before sundown. His chapel, crooked and half-rotted, sat on the edge of the village, its warped bell tolling through the mist. The sound carried far, echoing over the valleys and into the thick woods beyond.

When the people assembled, he stood before them with the candlelight glowing over his weary face. “This,” he said, his voice deep and solemn, “So far as it stands, there are 4 men missing: Jonas, Eliab, Tobenis, and the young man Nathaniel. They have not been found, but only partial remains of thus, we cannot identify. I ask all of you to be vigilant and watch out for yourselves and your fellow neighbor. There is something evil out there, I can feel it.”

He spoke of Othren and Bartholomew’s account upon the castle on the hill, the shadows moving within its halls, and Othren who went searching for them. Bartholomew came back alive but Nathaniel was to only to vanish without a trace. He added that no body was found inside the castle. Only blood.

“At nightfall,” he warned, “no one leaves their homes. Lock your doors, bar your windows, and keep the Lord’s candle burning.”

From the back of the church came a sharp voice. “And what are we to do about the toilet? Shit ourselves?” It was Delilah, the miller’s wife, drawing nervous laughter.

Matthias didn’t smile. “Mock if you must,” he said, “but I am merely warning you. The nights ahead will test every one of us.”

The voices in the crowd fired off, torn between fear and defiance. Some would believe only when death came knocking. And soon enough—it would.

That night, a blood moon rose over the hollow. Its crimson glow spilled across the valley like spilled wine. Thomlin, an old farmer, sat on his porch with his matchlock musket laid across his lap. His son, Hugh, sat beside him, eyes wide and unblinking. Unlike some of the others that day, he knew something was out there, and to be prepared.

“Look, father,” Hugh whispered, pointing toward the tree line.

“It’s nothing, lad. Just the wind.”

The treeline rippled, and something moved behind it—something that watched. Two burning red eyes glared from the dark, and the faint sound of hooves echoed through the stillness.

Thomlin froze. Then, with calm precision, he bit open his powder horn and poured the charge into the barrel. He rammed down the shot with a wad and patched it tight. A flickering matchcord dangled near the lock, smoldering red at the tip.

“Hugh,” he said, “get inside.”

The boy obeyed, retreating into the cabin.

The hooves grew louder. The creature emerged halfway into the moonlight. Its head crowned with horns, its body a blasphemy of man and goat. Thomlin lit the match, took aim, and fired. The blast tore through the silence, and the beast roared, staggering back but not falling.

Thomlin began reloading—each movement frantic but steady. Powder, wad, ball, ramrod, tamp, prime the pan. He blew the ash from the matchcord and set it again. But the sound of hooves thundered closer now, shaking the ground beneath him.

He fired again. The second shot struck true, yet the monster only quickened, its blood steaming in the cold night air. It broke from the shadows as a towering abomination, its flesh twisted and mottled, and its eyes void of pupils but brimming with rage.

Hugh screamed from inside the cabin as his father was overtaken. The musket fell silent, replaced by cries that didn’t sound human. Then came the sound of splintering wood.

The beast rammed the cabin with its horns, again and again. Each strike splintered beams and sent dust into Hugh’s lungs as he hid beneath the wreckage. The creature bellowed, furious it couldn’t find him. Its hooves stomped the earth, shaking the rubble. Then, after a final, booming roar, it left.

Hugh stayed buried beneath the remains until morning. Not rapped, but hiding.

That same night, nearer in town, and closer to the bulk of the villagers lay desolate streets. Almost all had heeded Matthias's warning and were too scared to go out, except for a couple men inside the tavern hall. The whiskey made them brave, or perhaps foolish. Sable was a brut but deadly with dueling swords. Ezekiel was bold and spoke as though he were invincible. Any weapon of choice he bared could easily outmatch most. Together, the men carried the confidence of a small army.

“It's a blood moon tonight. Ya scared?” Asked Sable.

“Terrified.” Ezekiel calmly boasted as he clanged cups with Sable as guzzled their ale.

“The season of fear, right?” Sable boasted as they both laughed.

The two laughed in a face of danger. It had become their nature even in such strange and uncertain times. The tavern hall was better this way for them, actually. They could just help themselves to what they wanted. All that was missing was the women. But as the drinks flowed and their conversations filled the room, what they desired would soon appear.

“Hello boys.” Said the first woman that entered.

“Mind if we join?” The woman following behind her asked seductively.

The men couldn’t believe it. They were gorgeous. The olive-skinned beauty with dark hair sat next to Sable while the brunette with overflowing lust in her eyes sat next to Ezekiel.

“This night just keeps getting better.” Boasted Ezekiel as he gazed upon her almost red eyes.

“Welcome ladies.” Announced Sable proudly. “I thought I knew everyone from these parts, but I’ve not seen either of you before.” He continued to say, pausing as he locked eyes on the woman next to him which had a greenish hue. Her skin, dark in complexion, and exotic.

“Pleased to meet you. My name is Desislava.” Said the green-eyed woman next to Sable.

“And I am Valanara.” Said the woman next to Ezekiel as she flung her hair back and smiled.

Sable poured a round of drinks for all of them. Soon, the men were having better time than they could've imagined, and it wasn’t just the alcohol or their embellished tales of battle, but the attention they were both soon getting. These were fast women, who’s flirtatious touch was nearly putting these men into a alter state of mind. They laughed at the men’s jokes, listened to the men’s boisterous stories, and hung on their every word.

When the women were asked where they came from is where things got interesting. Valanara spoke of a line of royalty from long ago and how her lineage suddenly stopped, and now she merely walks from village to village, trying to find a place to call home. she ran her nails along Ezekiel's neckline invitingly, enticing him even more.

Next, it was Desislava’s turn to tell her story. She spoke how she is a belly dancer from a long line of Gypsie's. She travels to find work and the only hard problem, is finding a place to stay.

“You really are a dream, aren’t you?” Sable asked.

She stood up and turned her back to them, and began to move her body in a teasing way. Valanara began to rhythmically clap her hands inviting Desislava to continue moving. Soon, the men clapped as well. Her body moved in waves, pausing to curess Sable's muscular stature, and soon dancing upon his lap. She wasn't just good, she was a pro.

Ezekiel watched in awe, never seeing a woman move like that and at the same time, pondering if his lady, Valanara could be capable of such seductive feats herself. Quickly, Desislava's lap dance ended in a fast-paced finish leaving him wanting more.

Sable couldn’t believe how such a seductive woman could literally fall right into his lap. But there was something off about her though. Something about the way her eyes reflected the firelight wrong and at times, her skin looked as though it had the outline of reptilian scales.

As she got even closer, sliding away her chair and sitting on Sable's lap, he could see her eyes appearing a different hue of green. They appeared almost inhuman in a way. Sable asked, “Should I be worried that you’re a gypsy?” She smiled and lifted up the thin frilly garment wrapped around her torso and covered her mouth with it. It was then, from behind her garment he could hear the sound of a rattle. It was coming from her mouth, and it left something protruding from other side of the garment.

When he pulled down the garment, Sable could see her tongue was now the tail of a rattlesnake. He began to stand, but a fast rattlesnake shot up before he could realize it and struck him right in his jugular.

Desislava’s skin transformed before his eyes, becoming reptilian, becoming scaly with patches of green and pale yellow. Sable tried to pull the snake off his neck but it's grip was enormous. Then, his arms swung toward her to attack, but she had latched onto him tight, her body now a cruel mixture of woman snake.

Ezekiel had turned back to see the vicious attack, only to be met with fangs digging into his neck as he turned back to Valanara. Her grip was tight as well. Both of the ladies strength was superhuman. Together they were the perfect match of seduction and evil. Soon, the two drunken warriors were on the floor, each a bloody mess as the ladies paused in a moment of laughter. The sight of death was amusing to them.

Sable’s neck had bled out through the jugular on each side. Ezekiel had succumbed to the vampire's bite. As the snake retracted back into Desislava, she pulled back up her skirt. Valanara tilted up Ezekiel’s head to see his eyes. “Death is delicious tonight.” She said as she let his head bounce off of the floor.

The women drifted off into the purging darkness as the glow of the blood moon highlighted their curves. The warriors who lay dead would serve as a reminder that the season of fear was truly upon them and death was lurking everywhere, even in the tavern hall.

The next day, the villagers awoke to horror. Corpses hung from branches at the edge of town—throats torn, faces carved into mocking masks. The air stank of iron and rot. Those who had lived nearest spoke of hearing laughter through the night...laughter that wasn’t human.

Marta, Thomlin’s neighbor, told of seeing the red moon flare brighter at the moment of the screams. She knew something had happened. When she found the remains of Thomlin, she knew. And as for his cabin, she discovered Hugh trembling beneath the wreckage.

That morning, Obadiah, the senior deacon of the church, ordered everyone into the chapel. The place was overflowing, reeking of fear and sweat. He began with a prayer: “Deliver us, O Lord, from the snares of Satan and from the terrors that walk by night.”

The crowd repeated the words, desperate for mercy.

Then came the testimonies.

A hunter swore he’d seen a bird with the face of a man. Others spoke of a spider as big as horse, and shadows that laughed. Hugh recounted the creature that slaughtered his father. And Bartholomew stood up and told them the truth of the vampire.

“This is madness,” Obadiah said.

“No,” Bartholomew replied. “It’s the truth.”

The room erupted with shouts, fear, and trembling.

Father Matthias raised his hands. “Enough! There will be no more of this childish fantasy. You will pray, you will remain indoors, until whatever is out there passes.”

Othren stepped forward, his face grim. “You can pray all you like, Father. But prayer won’t stop what’s out there.” He looked over the faces of the frightened villagers.

“Something’s coming for us,” he announced. “And it ain’t human.”

Outside, the chapel bell tolled again—though no one had touched it.

The blood moon was still visible, even in daylight.

And from somewhere beyond the hills, faint laughter echoed across the valley.

The season of fear had only begun.

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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