There is a tale, whispered among the shadows, of a woman who never truly left the world of the living. A tale of betrayal, sorrow, and a curse that lingers still.
Evangeline was once a noblewoman of rare beauty and even rarer kindness. In the Hollow Vale, her laughter was like the ringing of bells, and her touch brought comfort to all. She was beloved by many, especially by her betrothed, Lord Valen, who adored her beyond measure.
But beauty and kindness have never been shields against darkness.
One fateful night, under a moon drenched in crimson, Evangeline vanished.
Some say she was taken by forces beyond mortal control. Others whisper of a betrayal so deep that it led her into the clutches of death itself. The only clue left behind was the veil.
A black veil, intricately woven with silver thread, found on the riverbank.
The townspeople mourned, but their mourning did not last long. For as the seasons turned, Evangeline began to appear at the cliff’s edge, her form as still as death, her veil untouched by the wind. Each year, on the anniversary of her disappearance, she would stand there, silent, waiting.
But she was not the Evangeline they remembered.
Each time she appeared, she drew the brave—and the foolish—to her, whispering an invisible call. Those who ventured too close were never seen again.
The legend spread: Evangeline had become something else. A creature of the night, cursed to walk between the world of the living and the dead. It was said that every time she vanished, it marked her descent further into the darkness. She had become a vampire, and the appearance of her ghostly form was not a plea for help—it was a lure. Her spirit haunted the living, drawing them to her, feeding off their fear and their souls.
But only one man dared to approach her and return.
He came back, broken. His eyes no longer shone with arrogance, but were hollow with something darker. His hands trembled as he scribbled the same word over and over:
Run.
They found him laughing, his voice cold and hollow. In his bloodstained hands, he clutched a torn piece of Evangeline’s veil.
For the first time, her spirit had spoken. Not a curse. Not a plea.
A warning.
But none heeded it.
And so, the legend grew.
Evangeline, now a vampire, waited at the cliff every year to lure more souls to their doom. The townspeople still gathered, believing it was simply a story, a myth to keep their children indoors at night. But each year, more souls disappeared. And those who returned were never the same.
The warning was clear: Evangeline was no longer a spirit to be feared, but a vampire who could drag anyone into the darkness with her.
And so, her curse continued.
Her veil—now torn, but still hanging at the edge of the cliff—remains the only proof of her existence, a reminder of the danger that lurks in the shadows.
And still, no one listens.
🖤🩸
