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 Saint-Martin nestled in the valley, a picture of idyllic tranquility. The sun dipped behind the hills, casting long shadows that danced on the cobblestone streets. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and jasmine, the villagers gathered in their homes, oblivious to the darkness crawling towards them.
They hadn’t expected the vampires. Not in Saint-Martin, a place known for its kindness and simple folk. The whispers had been hushed, carried on the wind from the distant, crumbling castle that loomed on the hill. But the whispers had always ended with a sigh, a reassuring, “They wouldn’t come here, not to our peaceful valley.”
But the whispers had been wrong.
They were coming. Not to the castle, as the villagers believed, but to the village itself. They craved something more than the blood of the castle’s inhabitants, a hunger born of a more ancient, insidious need. They craved the innocence, the life force that pulsed with such vibrant energy in Saint-Martin.
A chill swept through the village, a sudden change in the atmosphere that went unnoticed by the villagers engrossed in their evening routines. A lone crow cawed, its cry sharp and unsettling, then fell silent.
The first signs were subtle. A flickering light in the blacksmith’s forge, a child’s laughter that turned into a chilling wail, a shadow that danced in the corner of a window, a flicker of movement in the periphery of vision.
Then came the screams.
They were not screams of terror, but of a different, horrifying kind. A desperate, hollow cry that echoed through the cobblestones, that vibrated in the villagers’ bones, chilling them to their core. The screams spoke of a soul being consumed, a life force extinguished.
The villagers, huddled in their homes, locked their doors and boarded their windows. They whispered prayers and clutched their rosary beads, their eyes fixed on the shadows that seemed to writhe and pulse against the walls.
The night wore on. The screams continued, growing more frequent, more chilling, until the village was awash in a symphony of agony. The air thickened with the scent of blood, the aroma of fear, the taste of death.
By dawn, the screams had ceased. The village was silent, except for the rustle of wind through the leaves and the mournful cry of a lonely wolf. The sun rose, casting its golden rays on the village, bathing it in a serene beauty.
But the beauty was deceptive. The villagers, their faces drawn and pale, emerged from their homes, their eyes haunted with the horror they had witnessed. The village, once vibrant with life, now lay shrouded in an eerie stillness.
The vampires had not come for the castle. They had come for something far more precious: the life force of Saint-Martin, leaving behind a village that was no more than a hollow shell, a chilling testament to the darkness that lurked beneath the veneer of innocence.
