The road home felt endless.
Rain poured relentlessly, streaming across the windshield like a curtain of tears.
The car growled its way through the muddy path, flanked by silent woods. And then, through the gray veil of the storm, the old house emerged—dark, brooding, and lifeless against the fading sky. Amelia stared at it with a rising unease. It no longer felt like shelter.
It felt like a trap.
"Hurry inside," Philip said as he killed the engine. Margaret stepped out first, her coat pulled tightly around her. She gazed up at the looming structure, its shutters rattling in the wind. The silence was unnatural. Even the birds had vanished. Amelia followed hesitantly.
The shadow she had seen across the river lingered in her mind. Had it truly been a person? Or was it… something else?
The front door groaned as they entered. The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and forgotten memories.
Nothing had changed inside. And yet, something felt... different.
Colder.
As if something unseen was watching.
"I'll check the fireplace," Philip said, disappearing into the living room. "We need the heat."
Amelia drifted toward the stairs. Her fingers brushed the wooden railing, slick with time.
She paused. Stared upward.
The shadows above seemed denser. Heavier.
Bleak and cold.
"Go on, take a hot bath," her mother whispered gently behind her. "Warm yourself."
Amelia nodded and began to climb the stairs, each step slow and quiet.
Her thoughts spiraled.
How long would they be trapped in this town?
She stopped at the window. The storm roared outside, demanding entry like a furious beast.
She pressed her fingers to the glass, watching the forest sway in the wind. Then—movement.
Something... or someone... darted between the trees.
Her breath caught.
Figures. Running.
Shadows that moved with unnatural precision.
They weren't townspeople. Strangers, perhaps. Outsiders. Like them.
She shook her head. Maybe she was just tired. Cold. All she wanted now was a bath, dry clothes, and the comfort of a warm drink by the fire.
Just for a moment, she would forget the strange things and pretend this place was still home.
.
.
.
Elsewhere, deep in the darkness, a figure stood still.
Griffon stood behind a high window, watching. Always watching.
The message from Bastian had been grim—another villager, found dead.
Drained and lifeless.
There were whispers of strange vampires roaming the town—unknown, uninvited.
They were not of his clan.
They were a threat.
"My Lord, you must act," Bastian said, emerging from the shadows. "This terror must end."
The sky offered little light, veiled in an eternal gray. Yet they remained hidden, careful, unseen.
"Tonight, you will come with me," Griffon said. "We will find them. We will end this."
"As you wish, my Lord."
"Leave me."
Bastian bowed and disappeared into the dark. Griffon remained still, eyes locked on the forest below.
Amelia had not returned to the castle.
And yet, a faint stir of curiosity nagged at him.
Had she left the town? Or was she still here?
His gaze darkened.
Silence. Just like his endless life—centuries lived in shadow, in duty.
Nothing ever changed. There was no wonder left. Only the burden of protecting his clan from extinction.
Griffon turned away.
The curtains fell shut.
He retreated to the darkness—for now.
Tonight, he would hunt.
Tonight, he would uncover the truth behind the threat.
And yet…
"Amelia."
Her name escaped him, like a whisper carried on centuries of wind.
Amelia gasped.
Someone had whispered. She had heard it—soft, but unmistakable.
She rushed to the window, heart racing.
No one was there. Just rain. Mist. The whispering hush of leaves.
But something stirred in her chest. A yearning.
For what—or for who—she couldn't tell.
"Amelia?" Her mother's voice came from the hall. "Come down. Your father wants to talk."
She took a shaky breath, combed her fingers through her hair.
Since returning, she hadn't felt like herself. Her thoughts tangled in questions, in shadows.
"Hurry, dear!"
She descended quietly.
Philip stood near the radio, fiddling with the dial, frustration etched into every motion.
"The signal's gone," he muttered. "The main bridge is destroyed. No one's getting out of this town anytime soon."
Margaret stared out the window. "There must be another way."
"There isn't," Philip replied. His voice was grim. "This isn't just a storm. Something's happening here. And we're in the middle of it."
"What's going on?" Amelia asked quietly.
Her father turned to her, his eyes sharp. "While we're stuck here, you are not to leave this house. Not at night. If you go anywhere, your mother goes with you. Understood?"
She nodded. But something inside her already knew—this was more than fear.
There was truth buried in this town.
She could feel it.
The shadows she'd seen. The figures. The whispers.
The town held a secret.
A secret no one wanted to speak aloud.
And she wanted to know.
What was the truth behind that castle?
Who was Griffon?
Why did his name echo inside her like a memory she had never made?
"Are you even listening to me, Amelia?"
Her father's voice pulled her back.
She nodded. "I won't go anywhere."
There was no reason to.
Except the deep pull toward the castle. Toward him.
"This place is dangerous," her father continued. "You must be careful. Please, promise us."
"I know. I'm going to rest now."
Amelia turned and walked upstairs, leaving her parents behind.
Philip and Margaret exchanged a worried glance.
"We'll get out of here," Philip said quietly. "Somehow."
Margaret nodded, eyes still on the storm.
If only the skies would clear—if only the way out would appear.