Once, nestled between towering mountains, there lay a small village bathed in sunlight and serenity. Life there was simple, and the villagers shared their joys and sorrows, living harmoniously in the embrace of nature. But all of that changed after one dark, storm-laden night.
On that ill-fated evening, rain pounded the village like the beating of war drums; thunder rolled through the valley; and lightning ripped the sky apart in jagged, angry streaks. However, in the far northern corner of the village, a flickering glow from a lonely cottage was the only source of light. Inside, a girl named Anny lay unconscious on a frail cot, her body consumed by fever. The once vibrant and full-of-life face was now flushed and all sweaty, and the hair, once shining with life, was now messy and clung to her damp skin. Hovering over her face was her mother, who presented yet another picture of exhaustion and worry.
Anny had been suffering from a high fever for several days, and despite her mother’s attentive care, her condition continued to deteriorate. Little did they know that the storm outside was unforgiving, but the fire that would soon consume the cottage would be even more merciless.
The lanterns, which had previously emitted a warm and comforting glow, now flickered as if they sensed the impending horror. Suddenly, a spark ignited, setting the fragile wooden walls ablaze. The flames quickly spread with violent speed, consuming everything in their path.
“Fire! Fire! Someone, please help us!” screamed the panic-laced voice of Anny’s mother.
But unfortunately, the village that was once filled with warmth and unity, turned cold. One by one, doors and windows slammed shut; faces once full of compassion hid behind curtains; and the fire roared louder… scarier as if it were competing against the ferocity of the storm outside. Anny’s mother was paralyzed with horror as she watched helplessly: her daughter slipped away—first into death, and then into the fire.
The village still remained silent as the flames turned the vibrant cottage into a smouldering ruin, and Anny’s lifeless body, along with her mother’s spirit, was consumed. Only days later, her mother too succumbed—not to fire but to the unbearable weight of her sorrow.
And that was when the true nightmare began.
In death, Anny’s mother transformed into something far more terrifying than she had ever been in life. Her grief morphed into rage, and her soul, a vengeful spirit determined to make the village pay for abandoning her and her daughter in their moment of need.
The air in the village changed. At first, it was whispers of unease: children falling mysteriously ill, livestock dying without explanation, and strange noises carried by the wind. Doors that had been bolted tight now swung open in the dead of night, and windows rattled violently without cause, with shadows moving where none should be.
And then began the deaths—sudden, inexplicable, and horrifying. The village reeked of decay, and the land seemed to rot beneath their feet. The air grew thick with a dark presence as if the earth had become cursed. The villagers, proud and close-knit in the not-so-distant past, now lived in constant fear. They whispered of the “Death Angel”—Anny’s mother—haunting them all and exacting her revenge for their cruelty. Many fled, abandoning the village in hopes of escaping the curse. But even those who left claimed to hear her voice on the wind, calling them back.
No one dared approach Anny’s ruined cottage.
Years passed, and the village— a beacon of life in the past—became a ghost town.
One evening, a young man named Alex wandered into the forsaken village. At 22, he was fearless, with deep brown eyes that glinted with curiosity and wavy hair that brushed his broad shoulders. He knew nothing of the village’s dark past. As night fell, he crossed paths with an old man struggling to carry a heavy bundle of firewood. The man’s frail frame trembled with effort.
“Young man,” the old man called out, “would you be so kind as to help me carry this to my home?”
Without hesitation, Alex agreed and followed the man through the crumbling village streets to his modest cottage. The fire crackled warmly as they sat by the hearth.
“Thank you, lad,” the old man said with a weak smile. “Name’s Thomas. It’s been a while since I’ve had company.”
“I’m Alex,” he replied, accepting a bowl of steaming soup. As the warmth spread through him, he couldn’t help but notice how deserted the village felt. “What happened here?”
Thomas’s expression darkened. “You should leave, boy. This village is not a place for the living anymore.”
Intrigued, Alex pressed on. “Why? What’s wrong with it?”
Thomas hesitated, glancing toward the northern side of the village. “There’s a cottage up there,” he pointed outside the window. “It’s cursed. No one who enters it comes back the same. Stay away from it, lad. Some things are better left undisturbed.”
But Alex’s curiosity had been ignited. The more Thomas spoke the more determined Alex became to see that cursed place for himself.
That night, after Thomas had fallen asleep, Alex slipped out into the cold darkness. The village was eerily silent, save for the soft moaning of the wind. He made his way toward the northern side, his breath visible in the cold air. All was going well, but as he neared the burnt remnants of the cottage, a strange feeling crept over him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end; every shadow seemed to shift and writhe; and all of a sudden, a chill ran through him as though icy fingers had brushed his skin.
He turned abruptly—no one was there. But he couldn’t shake the sensation that he was being watched.
Then, he felt it—a cold hand resting on his shoulder. He froze, terror shooting through him like lightning. A whisper, soft and hoarse, caressed his ear.
“You shouldn’t be here…”
His heart pounded. He remembered Thomas’s warning: “Be careful, Alex. The village has its secrets.”
Alex spun around, but he was alone—or so it seemed. He had only been in the village a few hours, but already, he had felt the touch of death.
This time, there would be no escaping it.
