The house stood in the middle of nowhere—black wood rotting, shingles sagging, and nails rusted through their age. It was once a home, maybe long ago, but now it was a wound carved into the earth, sitting under a sky so heavy with clouds it choked out even the moonlight. No road led to it. No birds dared to fly above. The forest around it didn't whisper. It watched.
Vines twisted like veins across the building's surface. The walls were cracked, smeared with layers of dried dirt and something darker—thicker. The windows were broken, jagged glass still clinging to the frames like teeth. The front door hung open slightly, swaying to a wind that made no sound.
And around the house, they prowled.
Monsters. Not the kind spoken of in bedtime stories or drawn in children's books. These were creatures born from the dark spaces between nightmares. Each one stood tall and hunched, their skin stretched tight over bone and sinew, black as pitch. Their eyes glowed dimly—some white, some yellow, others a pale, sickly green. They walked on limbs too long, hands with claws too sharp, and jaws that seemed forever half-open as if hungering for something that never came.
They didn't howl. They didn't scream. They growled—low, guttural rumbles that rolled from their chests like a threat held just beneath the surface. Some crept along the broken porch. Others circled the building like restless wolves, sniffing the air and twitching their heads. Every now and then, one would glance toward the broken doorway, as if checking. Watching. Waiting.
Inside the house, the air was thicker, and the rot sharper. The floor was layered with years of dust and grime, though here and there, stains had soaked so deeply into the wood they had turned it black. The walls peeled. The ceiling sagged. Water dripped somewhere unseen. The whole structure creaked not from wind, but from memory—like it remembered pain.
In the center of what once might have been a dining room, a woman knelt.
She was motionless.
Chains held her—huge black iron links fastened to the walls, thick enough to restrain a monster. Her arms were stretched apart, wrists cuffed with brutal iron rings, pulled outward so she couldn't move, couldn't shield herself. Her knees were on the filthy floor, and her ankles were bound to steel plates bolted into the ground. She knelt in forced submission, though everything about her presence whispered a different story.
Her head hung low, and her long, wild black hair fell over her front, shielding her face from view. The curls tangled together like vines, thick and messy, some streaked with dirt, others with blood. Her bare shoulders trembled faintly—not from cold, but from something deeper, older. A silence that had lasted too long.
One of the creatures growled outside the window. Another hissed low, then barked like a rabid dog. Their movements became quicker, pacing more frequent.
And then—
The earth rumbled.
It began deep, as if the ground itself were gritting its teeth. Dust rained from the ceiling. The walls groaned. One of the beasts outside reared back, screeching toward the sky. The others tensed, clawed-digging into the dirt, to find stability.
They looked at the house.
Inside, the woman did not move. Her chains rattled only from the tremor. Her head still hung, hair masking everything—face, eyes, thoughts.
The rumbling stopped.
The silence returned, sharper than before. Tighter.
The creatures didn't move. They crouched low, shoulders tense, heads tilting. Listening.
Then it happened.
In the dark stillness, her fingers twitched. Just slightly.
A creak of iron.
Her hair shifted as she lifted her head by the smallest degree. The room seemed to dim. The edges of the walls, the corners, all turned heavier.
Her breathing slowed.
Then she raised her head.
And as the tangled black curls parted, two glowing orbs opened.
Not eyes—lights.
At first, they burned white. Pure, sharp, cutting through the dark like blades of moonlight. The chains rattled again, softly. The creatures outside snarled, some backing away instinctively.
Then the white faded, shifting—melting into blood.
Her eyes glowed red.
Not the red of anger, or fire, but of war. Of something that had been broken and had finally woken up.
The house shook once more.
The beasts screamed. The sound of them scurrying away to save themselves was the confession of the dead leaves and branches.
But in a moment—
It was silent again.
This time, it was not of peace.
It was the silence before a storm.