A frail-looking young man with freckled skin and dark circles under his eyes sat on a worn wooden bench beneath the shade of a towering willow tree. Across from him lay the graveyard, silent and waiting. He cradled a polished iron skewer in his trembling hands—the very one his mother had given him.
The same one he was supposed to drive into her heart.
After all, she was dead. And the dead needed to be stopped from waking up.
Releasing a soft sigh, he rose to his feet and turned toward the graveyard's entrance, where the local priest awaited him.
"Let's go," the priest said, his voice low, solemn.
Albert hesitated, his gaze lingering on a distant mound of soil—a grave, shaped like a coffin, freshly dug and waiting.
"Come. It is getting late," the priest urged again.
Albert moved, his expression vacant, his eyes hollow—as if all his tears had dried long before this moment.
The priest walked ahead, but as they neared the grave, he hesitated. "She..." his voice faltered. "She does not deserve this."
Albert finally looked at him.
"But," the priest continued, voice laced with quiet sorrow, "if we are to save her from a far greater torture... this is the only way."
They came to a stop in front of the grave.
The sky above had begun to darken.
"We must hurry," the priest said, glancing toward the horizon.
Bringing his hands together, he began to chant—his voice weaving through the air in an unfamiliar tongue. A sistrum in his hand rattled softly, the sound barely audible over the rising wind.
Albert turned his gaze downward.
Beneath the mound of dirt lay his mother—a woman in her early forties, her face once warm and gentle. But now, her features were twisted by death, her skin etched with dark, pulsing veins, as if something vile had burrowed into her very essence.
The corruption had already begun.
Albert inhaled deeply, a last, shuddering breath before he closed his eyes. Then, he too began to chant.
At first, his voice clashed against the priest's—two opposing winds brushing violently against one another. But gradually, their voices merged, aligning as if part of an ancient hymn, one only meant to be sung in the hours of parting.
Then, the hymn began to change.
What had started as a sacred ritual turned profane, as if something unseen had crept into the melody, twisting it.
A low wail echoed in the distance, faint but unmistakable.
Suddenly, Albert's mother spasmed. Her lifeless body lurched, her arms and legs flailing violently, as if something inside her fought to break free.
Both Albert and the priest snapped their eyes open.
Albert froze, watching as his mother's hollowed eyes fluttered open. Darkness swirled in their depths—not just emptiness, but something far worse. A hunger. A void.
For a fleeting moment, he saw not a monster, but his mother, trapped beneath the corruption.
He hesitated.
"Albert," the priest urged, voice sharp, desperate.
Albert clenched his fists. He knew what had to be done.
Steeling himself, he stepped forward, the skewer clutched tightly in his grip. His hands trembled, but his resolve did not waver. Each step carried the weight of both conviction and grief, a burden too heavy for a child to bear—yet one he had no choice but to carry.
His mother let out one last, guttural wail—a sound both human and not.
Albert drove the skewer into her heart.
A single, swift motion.
Her body convulsed violently, then fell still. The black veins coiling through her flesh began to wither, receding until her body crumbled into ash.
Albert remained motionless, his fingers still wrapped around the skewer's hilt.
Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze to the horizon, where the last remnants of the sun bled into the sky.
His hands trembled.
And for the first time that night—he felt truly alone.