In the yard outside Martha’s house, several men stood gathered in a small circle. Rifles hung loosely over their shoulders, and lit cigarettes glowed between their fingers. Thin wisps of smoke drifted into the damp night air. They chatted casually, their laughter ringing out. Light from inside the house spilled through the windows, casting long shadows across the grass.

  But suddenly, the stillness shattered.

  “Aaaaarghhh!”

  “Aaaiiieee!”

  Screams from inside the house ripped through the silence of the night. It wasn’t just a cry—it was filled with agony and sheer terror. The men froze for a moment, locking eyes with one another. Without a word, they raised their weapons and rushed into the house.

  “Boom!”

  “Aaaaarghhh!”

  “Boom!”

  “Aaaaarghhh!”

  The thunder of gunfire echoed, answered by increasingly frantic screams. The lights inside flickered—bright for a second, then plunging into darkness. The walls trembled with the sounds of a struggle and the heavy thud of panicked footsteps.

  Then—

  “Crash!”

  Someone was thrown through an upstairs window, landing hard on the ground below. They lay still as a dark stain began to spread across the stones of the yard, black in the moonlight.

  Several minutes passed.

  The gunshots stopped. The screams faded. Only a heavy, suffocating silence remained—until a single, long howl pierced the air.

  “Aoooo….”

  _____

  Time marched on, and a heavy silence settled over the estate. The only sound left to accompany the night was the rhythmic drone of crickets. Inside Martha’s house, the lights flickered fitfully, as if drawing their final breaths.

  In the living room, blood dripped from the ceiling, tracing a slow, grisly path down the stairs. Every droplet stood out in stark relief against the floorboards. On several steps, severed remains lay scattered—incomplete, broken, and grotesque. The air inside the house was thick with the metallic, cloying scent of raw flesh.

  On the second floor, the walls of one room were cracked and splintered, as if struck by a violent force from within. Outside the door, a mountain of human corpses lay piled in a horrific tangle. Thick, viscous blood pooled across the floor. There was no movement. There was no sound—save for the ragged, desperate gasps of someone struggling for air.

  “Hah… hah…”

  Hanna lay naked on the wooden floor. Her body had returned to its original form, yet it was drenched in blood that did not belong to her. Her breath came in short, heavy bursts, as if she were fighting back a white-hot pain stabbing through every joint. She tried to push herself up, but her limbs betrayed her, trembling violently.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “Erkk…” Her face contorted. The agony radiated through her entire frame. With a great effort, she pried her eyes open and surveyed the room.

  The bed was splintered. The walls were fractured and gouged. The room was a scene of absolute carnage, as though a localized storm had torn through it. Hanna looked up, squinting at the ceiling light that hummed on the verge of death. It was then that she felt something sticky coating her palms.

  Slowly, she lifted her hands into the light.

  “Blood?” she whispered, her mind a fog of confusion. Her gaze flickered to the floor before snapping back to her own skin.

  Her eyes widened in horror. With trembling fingers, she frantically felt her shoulders, her chest, her stomach—searching for a wound. Every touch was agony; the pain still pierced her entire body.

  “Where did all this blood come from?” her voice came out as a jagged rasp.

  Hanna attempted to stand. Her legs nearly buckled, her frame shuddering under the lingering pain. Yet, a rising tide of panic overrode her exhaustion. She checked herself once more—her skin was whole, unscarred. Only the gore of others clung to her.

  Her eyes locked onto a trail of blood on the floor, stretching like a crimson ribbon out of the room. She stepped forward cautiously, picking her way through the debris of the shattered door and walls. She tried her best to avoid the crimson pools flooding the floor, but there was too much to evade. Her face twisted in a mask of nausea, yet she forced herself to the threshold.

  “Hah!” Hanna’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. “W-what… what happened?” Her voice shook, her face turning deathly pale as she beheld the heap of bodies piled near the stairs.

  She stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight. At that moment, something dislodged from the top of the pile and rolled across the floor, coming to a rest at her feet.

  It was Martha’s head.

  “Arghhh!!” A blood-curdling scream tore from her throat. Her strength failed, and she collapsed onto the floor, shielding her face with trembling hands.

  “What… what happened?” she sobbed. She tried to stand, only to slip on the slick, gore-stained floor. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she tried again—this time finding her footing. She lunged for the wardrobe, grabbing her clothes and bag.

  “No… no… what happened… why are they all dead…” she stammered, throwing on her clothes with frantic, clumsy movements, heedless of the blood still drying on her skin.

  Once dressed, Hanna snatched her jacket and bag and bolted for the door. But her foot caught on a splintered floorboard, and she slammed hard onto the floor just outside the room.

  Hanna’s face landed inches away from Martha’s severed head. The old woman’s eyes were wide, frozen in a sightless stare. Her mouth hung open as if a final, silent scream was still lodged in her throat.

  “Arghhh…!” Hanna shrieked. With shaking hands, she shoved herself up, unable to look for a second longer. Ignoring the pile of bodies by the landing, she turned to the stairs.

  But her footing was treacherous. The floor was a river of slick blood. Her feet slid out from under her. She lunged for the wall to steady herself, but her fingers found no purchase.

  "Aaaarg..,"

  In an instant, she was pitched forward, tumbling down the first step and into a violent descent.

  Thud!

  Thud!

  The sounds of her body impacting the wood echoed through the house until she finally sprawled onto the ground floor.

  “Ngh…” Hanna groaned, clutching the back of her throbbing head. Her bag and jacket had vanished into the shadows during the fall.

  She tried to rise. Her palm suddenly pressed into something soft, cold, and yielding against the wooden floor. She froze. Only her eyes moved, darting down to her right hand.

  In the dim, flickering light… a severed human hand lay beneath her touch. Detached. Cold.

  “Aaaargh!”

  Hanna scrambled to her feet, her breath coming in panicked, erratic hitches. Her eyes scanned the dark wildly until she spotted her bag and jacket. She snatched them up and bolted from the house, never once looking back.

  “Hah… hah…” Her lungs burned as she ran aimlessly, her eyes fixed on the path ahead, which was bathed in the pale, sickly light of the moon.

  “Ah—!” She let out a sharp cry as her bare feet stepped on something jagged. She stumbled, but forced herself onward.

  “Hah… hah…” Her breath was ragged as she instinctively dove into the woods, disappearing beneath the shadows of ancient oaks and red maples that swallowed the moonlight.

  Only then did she dare to look back.

  The village was gone, vanished behind a shroud of impenetrable darkness.