The council hut was heavy with silence, the air thick with the scent of burning wood and unspoken worries. The chief of the village sat cross-legged at the head of the room, flanked by the elders, their faces drawn in the flickering light. They spoke in low tones about the famine approaching in the long winter season—until the doors burst open with a violent crash.
A man stumbled in. His clothes were torn and smeared with dirt and blood, his face streaked with sweat. Scratches ran down his arms, some still fresh, as if he had clawed his way out of something unspeakable. He clutched a bundle wrapped in white cloth so tightly his knuckles showed pale beneath the grime.
"I've made a terrible mistake!" he shouted, his voice trembling yet loud enough to silence the room.
The chief rose sharply, his staff hitting the ground. "What is this? What's happened to you? Where are the others?"
The man's chest heaved. His eyes darted wildly around the room as though expecting something to come through the door after him. "The mistake I made is grave. We will all pay for it. We have no time, Chief—we must hurry before—"
A cry split the air outside. Not human. A deep, echoing screech that froze every soul in the hut. It was followed by the screams of villagers, the cries of children, the bleats of goats, and the frantic barking of dogs.
"They found me!" the man cried.
The chief, acting swiftly, tore the gem from the head of his staff, revealing its sharpened end. The elders grabbed whatever they could use as weapons. The man seized the chief's arm. "Don't go outside—only death waits!"
The chief shook him off and stepped out, the elders following close behind.
Pushing aside the curtain, the chief emerged into the open air. A strange stillness met him—then a sound like many voices crying at once. Chills crawled up his spine.
Smoke hung low over the village, and shadows moved through it—shapes that should not have been moving at all. Bodies, broken and twisted, lurched through the square. They were not alive, yet they moved with dreadful purpose, their limbs bending wrong, their faces hollow and empty.
The chief staggered back, clutching his staff. All around, chaos reigned. The cries of the living mixed with the terrible sounds of tearing flesh and breaking bones. Young men swung their machetes and spears, but for every fallen creature, two more rose. The ground itself seemed to shudder beneath the weight of the horror.
They stumbled back into the council hut, their breath shaking. The sounds outside grew louder—screams, crashing, chaos. "What are we going to do?" one of the elders demanded, his voice breaking. "What is happening? What are those things?"
The man's hands trembled as he unwrapped the white cloth. Inside lay a skull—small, shriveled, and dark as night.
The chief's eyes widened. "You imbecile," he whispered, horror creeping into his voice. "You've damned us all. They must not find it—or humanity will perish."
He snatched the bundle from the man and turned toward the door—but froze. Just beyond the threshold stood one of the creatures. Its sockets were empty, yet it seemed to see him. Its ribs were exposed, as though it had been dug from the soil. Maggots writhed in its eyes. Its hands were gone, its humerus sharpened and jagged like crude blades.
One of the groaning creatures reached through the window and sank its teeth into an elder's neck. Another tried to flee to protect his family but was torn apart outside. The remaining elders and the man who had carried the white cloth braced the door, shouting prayers as the creatures battered it down. They fought fiercely, slashing and stabbing, their courage burning against the oncoming dark. They shielded the chief, giving him a chance to escape, still striking with his staff as he ran.
"Aegarrr! Don't leave me, please!" cried a familiar voice.
He turned—and saw his daughter and grandchildren ripped apart limb by limb. His wife, still calling to him with her final breath, whispered, "Aegarrr..." before her eyes dimmed and the creatures closed in.
As the chief stumbled through the wreckage, his eyes caught movement on a distant hill. He froze.
Silhouetted against the dying sun stood a group of figures—too still, too silent. They looked human, yet something about them was wrong. Their skin was pale and dull, like clay that had never known warmth. Robes of dark cloth clung to their thin frames, fluttering faintly in the wind.
At their center stood a tall, bald man covered in tattoos. His face was expressionless, his eyes reflecting no light. A strange hum filled the air—low and steady—making the chief's wounds throb. He could not hear their voices, yet it felt as if they whispered inside his skull.
Then, as suddenly as they had appeared, the figures turned and vanished over the hill's edge—melting into the haze like phantoms.
The chief stood trembling, clutching the white cloth tighter, realizing with dread that the dead were not the only threat rising that day.
He looked down at the skull in his hands, then back at the chaos, torn between duty and fear. The man's voice rose behind him in one final cry as the hut burst apart.
***
Inside a collapsing hut at the edge of the village, a man knelt beside his wife. Her belly was round, her breathing sharp and quick. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of blood.
"Stay with me," he whispered, pressing his hand to her cheek. His other hand gripped a machete slick with sweat. Outside, the screams were growing nearer.
The walls shuddered as something slammed against them. The wife flinched, clutching her belly. "They're coming," she gasped.
"I know." His voice broke, but he forced a smile. "I'll keep you safe. I swear it."
The door gave way with a crash, and a figure stumbled through—the twisted remains of a man they once called neighbor. Its jaw hung loose, skin stretched thin over bone.
The husband roared and swung the blade, cutting deep. The creature fell, but more shadows filled the doorway. He swung again and again, desperate, savage, his body shaking with terror and love.
"Run!" he shouted. But she couldn't. She clutched her belly, tears streaming down her face.
When the creatures broke through the walls, he threw himself over her, shielding her with his body. The machete fell from his hand as claws tore into his back.
She screamed his name once—then again, softer, as blood pooled around them. His last breath was a broken whisper against her ear.
"I'm here…"
***
When the world steadied again, it was evening. Smoke drifted across the village, and the sky burned orange. The chief limped through the ruins, his clothes torn, his body bleeding and heavy with exhaustion.
Behind a fallen tree, a small girl wept quietly. When she looked up, the chief was there—barely standing. He pressed the white cloth into her trembling hands.
"Run," he said weakly. "As far as you can. Hide it where no one will ever find it."
The girl nodded through her tears and fled into the dying light, the bundle clutched to her chest.
The chief watched her go, exhaling one last time as his body gave way to the earth.
The girl ran and ran until the village was nothing but smoke on the horizon. At last, she fell to her knees and dug into the cold soil with her bare hands. She buried the skull deep—deeper than her strength should have allowed.
When the final handful of dirt fell, the wind rose, whispering through the trees. Then everything faded.