Night of Terror

Acrid smoke clawed at Eileen's throat, jolting her awake as if her lungs had been seared by fire. She gasped and opened her eyes—only to find herself surrounded by flames.

The world was ablaze.

The wooden beams above cracked and splintered under the heat, sending embers drifting like dying stars. Outside the window, the flickering glow of torches illuminated a gallows. Rusted chains swayed, creaking as they bore the weight of a charred, lifeless figure, its blackened form twisting with the wind.

"Elaina! Elaina!"

The shriek tore through the roar of the fire.

A bloodied hand clamped onto Eileen's arm, nails digging into her bare skin. She stumbled, crashing against an icy stone wall. Before her stood a middle-aged woman, her gown soaked in crimson, the hem scorched into ragged, blackened holes. Her eyes burned with a fire fiercer than the flames around them. Without hesitation, she shoved Eileen toward a cellar door, her breath ragged like a wounded animal.

"They're here! Hide in the meat barrel!"

The wooden hatch slammed shut behind her, sealing her in suffocating darkness.

Eileen found herself crammed inside a barrel filled with salted hides. The putrid, briny stench nearly made her retch. Through the narrow slats, she glimpsed the woman's wrists—shackled in rusted chains so tightly they bit into her flesh, crimson dripping onto the scorched floor.

Then, she heard them.

Boots grinding against wood.

A harsh, guttural voice growled, "The witch is near—I can smell Hell's stench."

A blade sank into flesh with a sickening squelch. A scream—raw, agonized—ripped through the night.

Eileen clamped her hands over her mouth, nails digging into her palms. She bit her lip until the taste of iron flooded her tongue.

And then—

The lid of the barrel was wrenched open.

Heat blasted her face as torchlight seared into the darkness.

A man loomed over her, his blistered skin twisted with pain, breath reeking of rot and ale. His cracked lips curled into a grin, revealing teeth yellowed and blackened with decay.

"Found you, little devil—"

The club in his hand came crashing down.

But before it could strike, Eileen moved.

Her body reacted faster than thought—instinct taking over.

A wooden staff sliced through the shadows in an arc. At its tip, a surge of crimson light flared to life.

A violent force erupted.

The man's pupils dilated in shock. He barely had time to choke out a gasp before the blast hurled him backward. He slammed into a burning bookshelf, his body twisting into a charred, smoldering husk.

For a moment, silence hung in the air.

Then—

"Witch!"

The cry shattered the night.

Panic ignited the mob.

The chandelier trembled as frenzied shouts filled the hall.

Eileen's grip tightened around the staff, the scorched wood searing against her fingers. Her heart pounded like war drums in her chest.

She bolted from the cellar.

Salt crackled beneath her feet as she ran across the burning floorboards. Shadows stretched and twisted in the firelight—faces contorted with fury, hands clutching torches, rusted sickles, jagged stones.

Predators closing in on their prey.

She raised her staff.

A wild arc of energy lashed through the air, sending weapons flying and snuffing out torches in an instant.

But the mob did not stop.

They surged forward, rage fueling their madness.

Steel flashed.

Swords, arrows, stones—each aimed at her every opening. Some slashed across her skin, leaving thin, searing trails of blood. Others struck deep, pain lancing through her bones.

And then, she realized—

This wasn't a dream.

This was real.

Survival instinct took hold. She ran.

Blood dripped down her arm, soaking into the tattered fabric of her dress. The mob pursued her relentlessly, their howls echoing through the burning village.

She turned, sprinting into the woods.

Branches lashed at her sweat-drenched skin, her vision blurring as exhaustion gripped her body.

Her strength was failing.

The world tilted—

Darkness swallowed her.

Just as she collapsed, arms caught her, steady and strong.