The sky bled gray as the sun sank behind the horizon, casting long, suffocating shadows across the village. A small child darted home, her footsteps quick and uneven over cracked stones slick with rain. The air hung heavy, thick with the scent of wet earth and something far fouler—like the stench of old rot and burned flesh.
Around her, the village lay broken and bleeding. Buildings, shattered and scarred from the night's horrors, stood like dead sentinels. Dark stains clung stubbornly to splintered wood and cracked walls, silent witnesses to forgotten screams. Somewhere in the distance, a woman's voice called out, hollow and thin, "Marsha! Marsha! Come home now."
Marsha's breath caught. Her heart hammered as if trying to escape her chest. The rain was relentless, a cold curtain drowning the world in shadows and whispers. Thunder cracked like the sky itself was tearing apart, but it was the silence that clawed deepest—an unnatural stillness in the spaces between the storm's fury.
She ran faster, hands clutched over her head, but every step felt heavier, as if invisible fingers tugged at her ankles. She glanced back, half-expecting the shadows to stretch and come alive. A cloaked figure slipped from the darkness, moving with a silence that wasn't human—no splash of rain underfoot, no rustle of fabric, only the steady, deliberate glide of death.
A man stepped out of his home, too late to avoid the shadow. His eyes widened in panic as a sharp pain bloomed in his back. He tried to turn, but his limbs wouldn't obey. The cruel blade buried deep in his flesh stole his breath. His vision blackened as a cold hand gripped his face, pulling him back into darkness. His muffled scream was swallowed by the storm.
Around them, the village convulsed with terror. Homes ignited, flames licking hungrily even through the downpour, orange tongues twisting and snarling against the soaked night. The fire burned with unnatural ferocity, as if fed by something darker than wood and wind.
The figure drifted onward, silent and unyielding, toward the ruined barracks. The scent of blood hung thick in the air, seeping from the charred stones. The hooded form paused, the pale hand rising—thin fingers tipped with jagged nails like cracked ivory. When it touched the stone slab where fires once danced, a faint whisper crawled through the air like cold smoke.
From the hand, a pale, sickly light oozed, spilling and spreading like a slow poison. It snaked through the rubble, seeping into every crevice. Beneath the shattered wood and stone, something stirred—groans, wet and ragged, rising from the depths. The dead and broken began to move, their hollow eyes flickering open in the growing gloom.
The village fell silent again, save for the storm's endless patter and the faintest sound of something ancient awakening beneath the earth.