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When Darkness Descends

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The shrieks of children had enthralled her—it had brought tears streaming down her face. “These were the tears of their blood,” She had quoted, gulping down the gooey substance that was hidden beneath the depths of her fingertips. It had dried quickly before she could suck on the dry scab again. It felt like sandpaper—the roughness it sent, her heart had pondered it for years, yet could not figure out what it was that had thrilled her to shriek in the moment she would be decapitated for revealing her own kinds existence.

“And this,” her arm raised, ghastly fumes were reaping from behind, as if she had sent a spell out. “This is their drink they shall share in the grave—together… As one,” her voice sparked madness, the room was shifting then; her claws dug into the hard ground as lights began to flicker with intense anger. The room had gone wild then. The bloody substance that was once in her own palms had dissipated, leaving nothing but the small particles of skin that had tickled the inside of her burning throat.

Ravens cried out into the night, sending the villagers running to an underground well, where the mental criminal had hidden herself for years—nonetheless, maybe even centuries before the eldest child of the fourth king of Sweden was born.

Her voice was as crisp as a dusk night’s wind. Her hair resembled blood-deep within the layers hid an undertone of brass and silver that shimmered in the sun when she was human.

“I will cut you before you heave in,” She breathed, her teeth protruding and exposing a nice layer of decaying gums.

A man, of about four foot five, strolled over, his body set heavy from nearly a months worth of food. His skin had shown scars of a year’s long war, and never did he scream that he grew tiresome of it. His hair stood up, its red shunning the natural brown. “She won’t budge, Sir. We may have to summon her another way.” His voice was gravelly familiar to the woman. She had to pinch her nostrils with intense anger to depict what memories the voice could bring. Yet, nothing came but more yelling and stomping from the villager’s outside.

Death was like a ringtone to her-she would awaken the dark spirit every full moon rising. But there wouldn’t be death to reign in on anyone else, it would be her. Her skin would tingle from desire after munching on what was left of the deceased carcasses that had laid before her.

Her eyes would scan the mess she had caused. Every victim had a name, even two young twins that just celebrated their tenth birthday together. Their once crystal blue eyes that could wake up a young sleeping beauty, had now disintegrated into balls of white. Their color was pink-evidently from being freshly mauled by a presence that stalked the night.

“Cataline, please, let go now, and all charges will be dropped if you just confess,” another voice yelled, now it was familiar to her. It was the man who had asked her parents for a blessing to wed the young maiden of only eighteen. He was also the man that was charge of the accusations taking place-Blaise Tahoe, a man that was somewhere in his late thirties. He was a man that had grown fond of her, and saw a mystifying flair that he could not swat himself away from.

“Blaise, if you love me, then you will die for me-if you walk, then I will roam this putrid planet. Watching your descendents walk and die of a cold curse that will rock you until there be no more of your name,” She sauntered half way out, letting her eyes glint from the bright light of fire that had sat upon the torches that were inside the hands of about a dozen people.

“We can work this out-trust me, dear.” He shouted, and his feet were planted firmly ten feet away from where her hideout was.

“If you must call me dear, then run to me and show I am not what people call lycan.”

It was a lie. Everything that she has said was a lie. She had marks that were etched on the inside out of her skin. Blood was decorated like paint on her forearms and cheekbones.

It was Blaise who would not dare to walk forward and condone her menacing ways. “You will stop,” His arm raised with great power.

“You will stop in the name of the holy ghost. In the name of the lord, I command you!” He had made her jump and squeal with sane astonishment. She flinched only once after he had raised his hand in command.

She refused to listen. All worries were echoing; the villagers grew impatient, nearly slamming themselves into Blaise to knock him an inch forward to control the monster that had resided, and lingered for a time being.

Her legs gave out, and onto the floor she went, her eyes were punctured in, tears that were hot had sent lines down her face, tracing an outline of where the tears were leading to. “Alas, I have fallen. My eyes can’t speak for what I have done, but only for the heavens above-I have risen my soul up to create bad, but not determine good.”

Her words turned the once angry mob into a mob that showed a sort of sympathy for her. With only one thing on mind for them would help satisfy her, and the crazed hysteria that had broken out moments before Blaise had commenced her.

The villagers voted on death to be exchanged for the lost lives of those that were attacked and killed.

Jurors had already determined what they were going to do; hence, death was already in the works for just the few that had confessed. As for Cataline, she would be gone. She was away from this world, and away from ever having to harm another living soul again.

Death: Burned at Stake. Blaise had written in a document, quoting on what he had left of the last few documentations of Cataline’s death. Date of Rest/Birth: 15, June 1493-12, January 1512. He had etched a marking of her signature before placing the date. The texture would feel like a floor-smooth and neat, without a scratch.




“Welcome all,” a voice proclaimed, talking over a rowdy bunch that had sat in a courtroom, surrounded by various faces that were considered unknown to many other’s. “Cataline was a young girl, like many other’s, that had brought a smile to many, yet, did not intend on harming anyone. She will forever be in our hearts.” Cataline’s father walked towards a closed casket where her daughter had laid, and will be in the ground in less than an hour.

One by one, each person, young and old, married and single, had walked in a line, placed a hand on the casket; spoke a silent prayer, and walked out into the courtyard. The breath of fresh air had filled the country of Estonia. A new day and age had begun, no more trials were held after that.

Trouble was no longer caused, and if a supposed scare were to come up, the court would rule it as a trick caused by a young child. Nothing more was said or done after. Lives had gone back to normal, yet no one understood, nor heard, what these strange occurrences of lycanthropy really were. A fable, some call it, but to some, it is real, and it shows proof that these creatures were either real or nothing but folkloric horror to scare young children.



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