Blackthorn, 1873
The Wraithmoor Manor loomed in the fog. Its sires stabbed at the starless sky, and the stained-glass windows -- angels warring with shadowed demons -- flicked under the glow of torches. Inside, the air was dense, thick with the reek of iron and melting wax.
The cult gathered in the ritual chambers, their robes swaying as they chanted, voices climbing in a fevered rhythm that sets the walls trembling.
Elias, sixteen and slight, stood at the circle's edge, his hands shaking around a leather-bound journal. The cult's leader, a gaunt figure with eyes like polished obsidian, had promised deliverance -- a god born of fear, who would reshape their broken world.
Elias had clung to those words, desperate for escape from Blackthorn's grinding poverty. Now, as the chants turned sharp, doubt gnawed at him.
The chamber's floor bore etched sigils, their lines slick with blood from a slaughtered ram. Torches threw writhing shadows, and the air pulsed, as if the manor itself drew breath. Elias's friend, Lara, stood opposite, her face pale but steady. She'd joined to protect him, her loyalty outweighing her fear. Her gaze met his, a spark of unease passing between them.
"Fear is the gate," the leader intoned, raising a dagger crusted with old stains. "Our lord demands it. Offer your terror, and he will rise."
The cultists knelt, their chants fracturing into a wail. Elias clutched his journal tighter, its pages filled with sketches of the sigils, notes on the leader's promises. He'd meant to record their triumph. Now, the ink felt like a confession.
The leader sliced his palm, letting blood drip onto the central sigil. The floor shuddered, a low hum swelled, and the torches flared, then dimmed. Elias's breath caught as the air turned cold, heavy, pressing against his chest. The shadows on the walls moved -- not with the flicker of flames, but with purpose, slithering toward the circle.
"It comes!" a woman cried, her voice breaking into a sob. "Our lord!" Lara grabbed Elias's sleeve, her nails digging in. "This isn't right," she whispered. "We need to go." Elias froze. The sigil glowed, a sickly amber light pulsing in time with the hum. The leader's eyes widened, not with triumph but with dread. "More!" he shouted. "Give it more!"
The cultists screamed, their fear pouring into the circle like wine into a chalice. Elias's heart pounded, his own dread rising, feeding something he couldn't see. The shadows coalesced, forming a shape -- tall, smoke-like, with amber eyes that burned through the haze. Claws of darkness reached out, grazing the nearest cultist. The man's scream cut off as he crumpled, his faze frozen in terror.
Lara yanked Elias back. "Now!" she hissed. The chamber erupted. The glowing sigil cracked, spitting sparks. The shadow-thing roared -- a sound like tearing metal -- and lashed out. Cultists fell, their bodies twisting, eyes hollowed by fear.
Blood sprayed across the stained-glass, painting angels red. The leader raised his dagger, chanting frantically, but a tendril of smoke pierced his chest. He gasped as he collapsed, his blood pooling into the broken sigil.
Elias stumbled, his journal slipping to the floor. Lara dragged him towards the chamber's door, her breath ragged. The air hissed, whispering, "Give me your fear, and I am whole." The voice clawed at Elias's mind, cold and seductive, promising power if he'd only kneel.
"No!" Lara shouted, shoving him through the door. They ran, the manor's halls twisting around them, portraits watching with painted eyes. Behind, screams faded into silence, swallowed by the hum.
They burst into the fog outside, the manor's silhouette looming. Lara's hand slipped from Elias's as she tripped, her ankle catching on a root. Elias turned, reaching for her, but the fog thickened, and a shadow loomed -- a flicker of amber eyes in the mist.
"Run!" Lara screamed, pushing him away. "Don't let it have you!" Elias hesitated, tears stinging his eyes. The whispers grew louder, tugging at his fear. He bolted, boots sinking into mud, Blackthorn's forest closing around him. The manor's hum dimmed but lingered, a pulse in the earth.
Dawn broke, Elias collapsed by a stream, hands shaking as he pulled a pencil from his coat. His journal was lost in the chamber, but a scrap of paper in his lining sufficed. He scrawled what he remembered: the sigils, the leader's words, the thing that devoured fear.
His wrist, grazed by a claw in the chaos, throbbed, a faint scar forming -- a mark he'd carry forever. The manor stood silent in the distance. Elias didn't know if the thing still waited. Blackthorn is now cursed; its soil soaked in blood and dread. He'd warn others, if they'd listened.
The fog curled around him, whispering faintly, as if it knew he'd never truly escape.