Story 1043: Plaguechild

Before the world rotted, the town of Ashbramble was cursed by whispers. Not the kind from lips, but from cradles left empty. They said the woods birthed a child every blood moon—a child with no mother, no father, only disease for blood and eyes that saw between veils.

They called it the Plaguechild.

It didn’t cry. It buzzed.

When the apocalypse hit and the Dead rose, the town was long abandoned. But the legends clawed their way back, following the survivors like biting flies. Whispers of a pale, hairless child seen toddling through graveyards barefoot, trailed by black mist and coughing shadows.

Those who saw it never lived to describe it fully.

Their bodies were found bloated, bruised from within—lungs ruptured, eyes honeycombed with tiny boreholes. The corpses leaked not blood but flies.