Whispers of the Forgotten

That night, long after her siblings had drifted into restless sleep, Elizabeth sat by the dying fire, clutching an old, tattered book in her lap. The cover, once adorned with intricate silver filigree, had faded with age, and its leather binding cracked under her touch.

It had belonged to her father—The Bloodbound Veil, an heirloom passed through generations of the Ravenscroft family. Elizabeth had found it hidden beneath the floorboards of their cottage after his death, wrapped in cloth and sealed with wax. Its pages, inked in a strange, curling script, contained tales of the creatures that lurked in the shadows of Blackmoor and beyond.

She traced the Ravenscroft family crest pressed into the cover—a raven perched atop a thorny crown, encircled by an ancient rune she had never been able to decipher. Every time she touched it, an eerie warmth spread through her fingertips.

Margaret had warned her to leave the book be, but Elizabeth couldn't. Something about it called to her, like a whisper from beyond the grave.

Tonight, under the flickering firelight, she dared to read further than she ever had before.

"Blood calls to blood."

The phrase repeated itself across multiple pages, accompanied by sketches of strange sigils and creatures of the night. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed as she came across a section marked with a dark stain, almost as if someone had bled onto the parchment. The words beneath it spoke of an ancient pact between the Ravenscrofts and the supernatural beings that plagued Blackmoor—werewolves who prowled beneath the full moon, witches who whispered to the wind, and vampires who ruled from the shadows.

"One shall be bound by the Veil, neither of the living nor the damned."

Elizabeth's heart pounded. Had her father known? Was their family tied to these creatures?

A sudden gust of wind rattled the windowpane, and she snapped the book shut, pressing it against her chest as though to keep its secrets inside. She turned to look at the front door, the wooden frame trembling as if something beyond it longed to come inside.

Then, a sound—low and guttural—echoed from the darkness outside.

Elizabeth's breath hitched. She moved slowly, peering through the curtain's edge. The mist swirling through the village streets was thick, but she could make out a figure standing at the far edge of the road, half-shrouded in fog.

A man? No, not quite. His form was unnaturally still, his eyes gleaming like twin coals in the night.

Vampire.

Elizabeth's fingers gripped the book tightly. Her pulse hammered in her ears, but she forced herself to stay silent, to watch. The figure tilted his head, as if he could sense her presence. A chilling smile curved his lips before he vanished into the mist.

She gasped, stumbling back from the window.

Margaret's voice, groggy and concerned, drifted from the bedroom. "Beth? What's wrong?"

Elizabeth swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. "Nothing, Mama. Just the wind."

She didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, Elizabeth resolved to learn the truth. The book was no mere relic of their family—it was a key, and she intended to find out what doors it could unlock. Whatever her father had been mixed up in, whatever secrets Blackmoor held, she would uncover them.

Even if it meant walking straight into the darkness herself.