Mais les vampires n’avaient pas l’intention de s
Mais les vampires n’avaient pas l’intention de se diriger vers le château. Mais plutôt que de se diriger vers le village.
The village of St. Germain was a quaint little hamlet nestled in the shadow of the Vosges mountains, a haven of peace punctuated by the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith’s hammer and the laughter of children playing in the cobblestone square. No one in the village knew, or even suspected, that their peaceful lives were about to be shattered by a hunger that was older than time itself.
For centuries, the vampires had avoided the village, preferring the isolated grandeur of the Château de Valois perched high on the mountaintop. But something had changed. The chateau, once a haven of their kind, had become… tainted. A dark presence, something ancient and malevolent, had taken root within its crumbling walls, making it inhospitable to even the most ancient of vampires.
Driven by an insatiable thirst and a growing unease, the vampire coven, led by the stoic and formidable Countess Isabeau, decided to seek sustenance elsewhere. They wouldn’t head for the chateau, they wouldn’t dare. But the village, with its unsuspecting inhabitants and innocent blood, offered a tempting alternative.
The night descended, cloaking the village in an eerie silence. The moon, a pale sliver in the starless sky, cast long, distorted shadows that danced across the cobblestone streets. The air hung heavy with anticipation, a thick, suffocating blanket that pressed down on the villagers, their nightmares stirring in the darkness.
The first sign was the sound, a faint, almost imperceptible whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves on a windless night. It drifted through the village, slithering into homes, weaving through the cracks and crevices of the old stone houses, a chilling message whispered in the dark.
A shiver ran down Marie’s spine, her hand instinctively reaching for the crucifix around her neck. It was a feeling she couldn’t explain, a primal fear that had her clutching the crucifix with white knuckles, her heart pounding like a drum against her ribs. Outside, the wind picked up, whistling through the eaves like a thousand tormented souls.
The villagers began to notice. The dogs, usually so boisterous, were now silent, their heads held low, whimpering at the edges of their chains. The cats, once playful and mischievous, were nowhere to be seen, their usual nocturnal prowls abandoned. An unnatural stillness settled over the village, a chilling silence that felt more ominous than any storm.
Then, a flicker of movement at the edge of the village square. A shadow detached itself from the darkness, tall and gaunt, with eyes that glowed with a predatory hunger. Another followed, and then another, until the square was filled with the lurking figures of the vampires, their faces obscured by the darkness, their teeth glinting in the moonlight.
Fear turned into panic. Doors slammed shut. Windows were barred. The sound of frantic prayers filled the air, a desperate plea for salvation in the face of the approaching horror. But the vampires were undeterred. They moved with a chilling grace, their bodies gliding across the cobblestones, their movements fluid and silent as they stalked their prey.
The night was young, and the village of St. Germain, once a haven of peace, was about to become a hunting ground. The whispers of the night turned into screams, the silence broken by the cries of the villagers as the vampires descended upon them, a storm of darkness unleashed upon the unsuspecting town. And as the sun rose, casting its pale light on the blood-soaked cobblestones, the village of St. Germain would be a ghost of its former self, forever haunted by the memory of the night when the vampires came for the village, and the village held no sanctuary.
