Member-only story
Charnel House Dirge
A vampire’s tale set in Revolutionary-Era France
Paris, 1800
Étienne Moreau walked through the graveyard gate, which stood partly ajar and partly rusted, groaning softly as it moved with an occasional blast of winter air, (the sighs of the deceased). The wrought iron fence that enclosed the graveyard was entwined with the bare, thorny branches of a rosebush, its beauty stripped away by the harsh winter months. The cold November bit at the exposed face. With his right hand, he grasped at his coat, pulling it tighter across his chest. In his left, he carried a bottle of wine and two glasses, their delicate shapes tinkling softly with each step.
His footsteps crunched on the frost-covered leaves that carpeted the ground, each step echoing in the stillness of the graveyard. The unclad limbs of the winter trees creaked softly; their skeletal forms were silhouetted against the darkening sky. The weathered tombstones stood like silent sentinels, their inscriptions worn by time and the elements. Some leaned precariously, adding to the forlorn nature of the burial ground. Among the graves were statues of angels, their stone faces solemn, and their wings spread as if to protect the souls resting below. These figures, covered in a delicate crust of frost, seemed almost lifelike in the dim light, their eyes watching over the graveyard.
