Les vampires, strada l’ancienne lignée
Les vampires, strada l’ancienne lignée
The cobblestone streets of the ancient village of Saint-Germain-des-Prés were slick with the first rain of autumn. I, a historian researching the history of French vampires, felt the chill bite deep as I traced the path to the crumbling ruins of the old church, a place whispered to be the final resting place of the Les Vampires, an ancient lineage of blood drinkers rumored to have walked the earth for centuries.
They called themselves the “Strada L’Ancienne Ligne,” the Old Bloodline, and were said to be the first of their kind, born from a curse laid upon the village by a vengeful sorceress. The villagers, in their fear, had sealed the church, burying their history and their shame within the cold stone.
My fascination had brought me here, a whisper of danger ignored in my thirst for knowledge. As I pushed aside the rusted iron gates, a gust of wind howled through the broken windows, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else, something unplaceable, ancient, and strangely familiar.
Inside, the air was thick with the dust of centuries, the air heavy with the weight of forgotten stories. Moonlight streamed through the shattered stained glass windows, casting eerie, shifting patterns on the cracked stone floor. The silence was deafening, broken only by the drip-drip-drip of water from a leak in the roof.
My flashlight beam revealed faded murals on the walls, depicting scenes of a bygone era: hunts, feasts, the faces of people whose eyes seemed to follow me. The air grew colder, and I felt a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I pressed on, drawn by an unseen force.
A sudden rustle made me spin around, but there was nothing there. The silence returned, heavier now, more oppressive. I noticed a single, fresh bloodstain on the stone floor, the color vibrant against the dust. It was a deep, crimson red, the color of life, the color of death.
Then, the whispers began. Not words, but a sibilant hiss, a chorus of voices, a multitude of whispers that seemed to come from the very stones themselves. My blood ran cold. I backed away, my flashlight beam shaking, the cold, unseen eyes of the murals seeming to watch me.
I stumbled back, my heart pounding in my chest, the air thick with a sense of dread. The whispering intensified, swirling around me, filling my head, drowning out the sound of my own heartbeat.
Panic seized me. I wanted to run, to escape, but my feet were rooted to the spot. I was frozen, paralyzed by fear, as the whispers became louder, clearer, closer.
“You are not meant to be here,” a voice hissed, its words cold and sharp, like shards of ice. “This place is ours.”
The shadows in the church began to dance, twisting and turning into grotesque shapes, their eyes glowing with an unholy red light. They were coming closer.
My flashlight beam faltered, flickered, and died. I was plunged into darkness, the whispering voices now a terrifying chorus in the pitch black. My hand found the iron gate, my fingers fumbling with the lock. I had to get out, to escape, to run…
As I finally managed to unlock the gate and push it open, I could hear the ragged breaths, the clicking of claws, the whispering voices now closer than ever. I ran, blindly, the fear a tangible thing, a cold hand clutching my throat, the echoes of the whispers chasing me into the night.
I never looked back, never dared to return. My research remains incomplete, the history of the Les Vampires, the Strada L’Ancienne Ligne, forever shrouded in darkness, the ancient curse of the sorceress still alive, whispering its secrets in the wind. The village of Saint-Germain-des-Prés remains a place of whispers, a place to be avoided, a place where the old bloodline sleeps, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to stumble into their domain.
