Once upon a time…

In the days of long ago, when the night shadows stretched longer, I found myself in a village that was nestled between tall, whispering trees and the misty breath of the mountains. It was an evening so still that you could hear the earth sigh in its sleep. The villagers spoke of a curse that had befallen them, a tale passed down by those who dared to remember.

I was a traveler then, seeking stories more than fortune. When I arrived, I noticed the village was quiet, too quiet. The air was thick with an unease that clung to your skin like the damp of a fog. An old woman, her face lined with the wisdom of many seasons, warned me of the nights when the dead would roam. She spoke in hushed tones of how they would rise, not to return to their rest, but to wander with empty eyes and hunger that could never be sated.

Curiosity, as much as fear, kept me there. That night, the moon hung low and full, casting ghostly light upon the cobblestones. I sat by the hearth in a small inn, listening to the wood crackle and pop, when a sudden chill swept through the room. The wind outside howled like a lost soul, and the innkeeper, with a look of dread, barred the door.

The mournful wail grew louder, echoing through the village. I peered out a small window, my eyes straining in the dim light. What I saw froze the breath in my chest. Shadows moved slowly between the houses, their forms twisted and wrong, like puppets with broken strings. Their skin was ashen, their eyes void of life, yet filled with a hunger that gnawed at the soul.

The villagers had locked themselves away, waiting for dawn to chase the horrors back into the earth. But fate is a trickster, and a child's cry shattered the night. A boy, no more than ten, had slipped from his home and now stood amidst the dead, his eyes wide with terror.

Without thinking, I grabbed the innkeeper's axe—heavy and cold in my hands—and pushed open the door. The boy's eyes met mine, and in that moment, the world around us faded to a distant hum. I called to him, my voice breaking the night like a beacon. He ran, his small feet stumbling over the uneven ground, while the shadows turned with a groan that came from everywhere and nowhere.

I met them on the path, swinging the axe with desperation, feeling the weight of every blow in my bones. They fell, but not like men, with no breath nor cries, just silence as they crumbled back into the earth. The boy reached me, his hands clutching my cloak, and together we ran back to the inn, the safety of its walls closing around us just before the dead could reach us.

The night stretched on, every tick of the clock a prayer for the sun. But as the first light crept over the mountains, the shadows retreated, dragging their empty eyes back to the graves that had failed to hold them.

The villagers emerged with the dawn, their faces pale but alive. The boy was reunited with his family, and the innkeeper clasped my arm with gratitude. But I knew, and they knew, that the shadows would come again. Perhaps not tonight, nor the next, but someday.

I left that village soon after, carrying with me the weight of their curse. As I wandered on, I shared their story, whispering it to the winds, hoping that someday, someone would find a way to lay the restless to peace.

And so, I continue my travels, always listening, always watching. For in the places where shadows linger longest, there are stories waiting to be told, and sometimes, it is the telling that holds the power to change the ending.