The next morning, news of Eleanor's body being found in the woods spread throughout the village of Eolwyn. The villagers gathered around the church, where her body lay on a stone table. Eleanor's pale face looked peaceful, despite the bloodstains of her clothes. The ancient book she had brought with her was placed beside her body, while the last scribbles she had written in blood became a topic of conversation that raised more questions than answers.
Dr. Edgar Hawthorne, a physician who had recently settled in Eolwyn, was called to examine Eleanor's body. In his white coat that stood out against the simple clothes of the villagers, he examined the woman's body carefully. At his side stood Father Jonathan, still shaken by the events of the previous night.
"The stab is very deep," said Dr. Hawthorne, pointing to the wound in Eleanor's stomach. "But what is interesting is her expression. Look at her face. There is no fear, no sign that she struggled against her perpetrator. She seems to have accepted her death calmly."
Father Jonathan shook his head. "That's not what happened. She fought back. She fought back against something we can't understand."
"So you really believe in the legend, Father?" Dr. Hawthorne asked skeptically. "The cursed clown, the death knell—those are just folk tales. The murders were probably committed by someone who used that fear to cover their tracks."
Jonathan pointed to the book on the table. "Read it. See what she wrote there before she took her last breath."
Dr. Hawthorne opened the last page of the book. Eleanor's blood was still fresh, forming words that sounded full of emotion and despair:
"She will return, but light is the key. Only those who have the courage to fight the darkness can stop her last laugh."
The words made Dr. Hawthorne pause. He was not a believer in the supernatural, but there was something about the sentence that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"She wrote this as she died?" he asked, his voice low.
Father Jonathan nodded. "And look at this," he said, turning another page in the book. "These are the spells she cast last night. I saw them with my own eyes. The light she created nearly destroyed the creature. Eleanor managed to stop it for a while, but we don't know for how long."
Dr. Hawthorne took a deep breath. "If what you say is true, then we must prepare. But how do we fight something we don't even fully understand?"
Before Jonathan could answer, an old woman known as Grandmother Agatha entered the church. She was the village archivist, someone known for her knowledge of Eolwyn's history and legends. With her sharp eyes, she looked at Eleanor's body, then at the book that lay beside her.
"That book," she said in a trembling voice, "is a Dark Grimoire. I recognize it from the old stories. It is a book created to combat entities like Joculor Tenebris. However, each time it is used, it draws its user closer to darkness."
Father Jonathan and Dr. Hawthorne looked at each other.
"So Eleanor paid a price for using it?" Jonathan asked.
Agatha nodded slowly. "She knew the risks, but she did it anyway. She saved us all, even at the cost of her own life. However, the Grimoire cannot stay here. If it falls into the wrong hands, the entity can be summoned again easily."
"Then what should we do with this book?" Dr. Hawthorne asked.
Agatha looked at them with a serious look. "This book must be destroyed. But it will not be easy. There is only one place sacred enough to destroy it, the Temple of Light in the Snow-Covered Mountains, far to the north. But the journey there is dangerous, especially if Joculor Tenebris still has the power to influence this world."
Father Jonathan clenched his fists. "Then I will take her there. Eleanor has sacrificed so much. Now, it is our turn to make sure her sacrifice is not in vain."
However, outside the church, the sound of a small bell suddenly rang out, faint but clear. Everyone in the room fell silent. Agatha took a sharp breath, her face pale.
"She is not completely gone," she whispered. "We must act quickly. Our time is running out."
The silence in the church was broken as the sound of the little bell rang again, this time closer, more ominous. Everyone present—Father Jonathan, Dr. Hawthorne, Grandmother Agatha, and several villagers—stopped moving, staring at each other in unspoken fear.
Suddenly, one of the villagers, a man named William, who was standing closest to the door, clutched his chest. His face turned pale, and his eyes widened as if he had seen something that no one else could see.
"No… it can't be…" William muttered, his voice shaking.
He stepped back, his hands outstretched in the air as if trying to fight something. However, before anyone could reach him, William's body was thrown hard against the church wall, as if pulled by an invisible force. His body stuck there for a few seconds, then fell with a thud.
Dr. Hawthorne ran to him, checking William's pulse. His face was pale as he turned to the others. "He's dead."
Everyone was shocked. William showed no obvious physical injuries, but the expression on his face was a horrifying sight: his eyes were wide, his mouth was open as if in a scream, and the corners of his lips were pulled up into an unnatural smile.
"This is the sign of the Joculor Tenebris," Agatha whispered. "His bells are a warning, and he takes the souls of those who hear them. William has become his next victim."
Father Jonathan stood, gripping the cross in his hand tightly. "If we don't act now, this will only be the beginning. The Joculor Tenebris still has power here. He is challenging us, warning us that he is not finished."
Meanwhile, Dr. Hawthorne, remaining rational despite his obvious fear, examined William's body more closely. "His heart stopped, but there was no obvious physical cause. This… this doesn't make sense."
Agatha moved closer, her hands shaking as she pointed to William's chest. "Look at that mark."
On William's chest, just above his heart, a small bell-shaped symbol appeared, etched in blood-red. The symbol glowed dimly for a few seconds before fading away, leaving a faint scar.
"That's his brand," Agatha said in a trembling voice. "He marks his victims to show his power. We must take the book to the Temple of Light immediately before more lives are lost."
Suddenly, the sound of the bells rang out again, louder and more ominous this time. Everyone turned toward the church door, where a dark shadow was creeping in, like a mist that carried a bone-chilling chill.
"He's here," Father Jonathan whispered. "He's coming for us."
Agatha stepped back, clutching the book tightly. "We must leave now. We don't have time to argue."
But before they could move, the shadow began to take on a familiar shape: the gaunt body of Joculor Tenebris with small bells that jingled softly with every movement. His hideous face stared at them with a wide, mocking smile.
"Don't be so hasty to leave," Joculor Tenebris said in a soft but menacing tone. "The party has only just begun."
Dr. Hawthorne swallowed, trying to gather his courage. "What do you want?"
The clown cocked his head, as if considering the question. "I want what I've always wanted: laughter. Laughter that screams amidst the screams. You took my pleasure last night, and I've come to take it back."
Father Jonathan stepped forward, raising his cross aloft. "You have no power over the house of God!"
But the Joculor Tenebris only laughed. "The house of God? Do you think this place protects you? My bells ring even here. And with each ring, I draw closer to your souls."
Jonathan opened his Bible, beginning to recite a prayer aloud. But the Joculor Tenebris reached out, and the book flew from Jonathan's hands, its pages scattering across the floor.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, his voice now filled with anger. "I'm going to make sure everyone here is part of my dance."
In her gripping fear, Agatha whispered to Dr. Hawthorne. "We have to get this book. If he gets it back, we're all doomed."
Hawthorne nodded, his eyes determined. "We must seize the opportunity."
But time was running out, and the Joculor Tenebris was drawing ever closer. Its bells continued to toll, bringing death with every step.