EP 1
Year: 1781 | Location: Village of Durnwick | England
They say Durnwick was cursed. But curses are just old wives' tales…
Until the screams returned.
The night bled red as fog slithered across cobblestone paths, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. Lanterns flickered and died without wind. The bells of St. Bartholomew Church hadn't rung in years, yet on this night—they howled like a dying animal.
Something had awakened.
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The first to die was the cooper's wife.
Agnes.
She had just tucked her son into bed, kissed his forehead, and returned to the cottage's hearth. She was humming. The same lullaby her mother once sang. Her fingers trembled slightly—hands were never the same after years of firewood and dishwater. But it was a peaceful night.
Until the hammer fell.
A single iron claw slammed through the window. Glass exploded. Her mouth opened to scream, but a second claw caught her jaw. Ripped it. Just tore it down like peeling orange skin. Her tongue slapped her chest. She gurgled—a sound not human anymore.
The butcher stepped in through the splinters. Not a man. Not anymore.
His mask was stitched from different faces. Eyes sewn shut. Lips stretched across cheeks like a stitched grin. His apron was soaked in years of rot—leather black and rust-red. In one hand, he held a curved bone saw. In the other, a meat hook, crusted with gore.
He didn't speak. Not a word.
Just the slow breathing.
Hehhh... Hrrrghh...
Hehhh... Hrrrghh...
He lifted Agnes by her scalp. Her eyes stared. Flickered with life for a second too long.
Then the saw.
It chewed through her midsection as if cleaving firewood. She squirmed like a fish. Gut ropes spilled on the floor, hot and steaming. A final twitch. And silence.
Her son upstairs never knew. Not that night.
He would wake to blood dripping on his forehead. His mother's head, mounted above his cradle, mouth open wide in silent lullaby.
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Next: The Miller's Son
Twelve-year-old Alric ran toward the well to fetch water.
The fog didn't part for him. It wrapped around his feet, tripped him, pulled him.
He fell.
A hand grabbed his hair from the dark. Not rough, but tender. Gentle.
A woman's voice whispered, "Shhh, my lamb. Sleep now."
He blinked. Smiled.
Then a rusted nail was pushed into his neck.
Not slammed—just slowly, inch by inch, with love. Like tucking someone in. His blood gurgled out over the stones, painting them with sticky warmth. He twitched, fingers clawing the ground, until another hand—giant, strong—grabbed his ankle.
Dragged him.
The trail he left behind was soaked like a butcher's floor.
His corpse was discovered the next morning tied upside down to the old windmill, slit from groin to chin, stuffed with dead birds.
His mouth was sewn shut with horse hair.
---
No one believed it… until it was too late.
Five dead. In two days.
Father Mikhail gathered the remaining villagers in the chapel. His trembling hands clutched the rusted crucifix. Sweat pooled in his armpits, and his breath stank of fear and cheap wine.
"The Devil walks among us!" he roared.
A scream echoed from the bell tower above.
Everyone turned.
Hanging from the rafters—his tongue ripped out and nailed to his forehead—was the gravedigger.
His organs hung like a chandelier.
Beneath him was a message scratched in blood:
"I am no Devil. Devils fear me."
---
Enter the Hunter.
She arrived on horseback.
Tall. Cloaked in raven feathers. No name. No past. Just a flintlock rifle, bone-handled knives, and a sack that clinked with human teeth.
The villagers called her The Hollow Sister.
She asked no questions. Only walked to the old slaughterhouse on the hill.
The same place the killer had first been seen.
She found his lair.
---
Inside the Slaughterhouse
The walls were covered in skins—human skins. Labeled by names.
Children's drawings—stitched into flesh—hung like prayer flags.
Fingers in jars.
Eyes pickled in oil.
A heart beating on a spike.
One chair in the middle of the room. Wooden. With straps. Dried blood darkened the grain.
A man sat tied there.
Still alive. His eyes wide. His tongue removed.
A note pinned to his chest:
"He lied to her. I freed her. Now I free them all."
The Hollow Sister stepped closer. The tied man writhed, mouthing the word "run."
But it was too late.
Behind her, the butcher descended from the rafters—like a spider from the web.
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The Fight
He charged.
She fired.
The shot hit his shoulder—but he didn't stop. He didn't bleed.
He slammed into her, sending her into the wall. Dust and skin scraps exploded around her.
He swung the meat hook.
She ducked. The hook tore a beam in half like it was bread.
She pulled her second pistol. Fired at his knee.
Crack.
This time he groaned—a deep, inhuman howl.
He turned and ran—not like a man. But like a beast.
Into the fog.
---
She chased. Into the forest. Into the dark.
Until the fog swallowed them both.
Only the tied-up man was left. Crying. Smiling.
Relieved.
Until the saw returned. And the smiling thing that once was a man was nothing but ribbons by dawn.
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The Village Sleeps Uneasy
That night, every door was bolted. Every candle burned till the wick gave out.
Children slept under beds. Parents wept in corners.
No sleep.
Only the sound of scraping.
Bone against wood.
Flesh against metal.
Some say the butcher danced through the fields that night. Singing. With no voice.
And somewhere, under the bed of a sleeping girl, a bloodstained hand reached up—slowly—curling its fingers around her ankle.
She never screamed.
Because he stitched her mouth first.
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End of Episode 1: The Butcher's Waltz
(Next Episode: "Skin Choir")
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