Salem, Massachusetts, 1692.

Whispers of the Devil’s work had grown louder in the township. Cattle were found gutted in the fields, children fell ill with no cause, and now—murders. Bodies drained of blood, their throats torn open as if by beasts, yet no tracks, no animal signs. The townsfolk began to speak in hushed tones of creatures not of God.

Vampires, they murmured.

You didn’t believe it. Such talk belonged to frightened minds and church-fueled hysteria. You were raised with reason—skeptical of old wives’ tales and fire-and-brimstone sermons.

But then came the night it all changed.

You stepped outside your small, candlelit home just past midnight, the cold biting at your skin through your linen shift. The wooden bucket of waste was heavy in your hand as you made your way to the refuse pit behind the house. The forest loomed just beyond, cloaked in fog and shadow.

That’s when you heard it—a scream.

Your head snapped toward the woods. A man’s voice, raw with terror, echoed through the trees. Then you saw them: a dark figure crouched over a struggling body, illuminated faintly by the moonlight. The victim writhed beneath him, his cries gurgling as red soaked the snow.

And then, the figure looked up.

His eyes burned—a vivid, unnatural red, like coals stoked in hell. His mouth was smeared with blood, and the front of his linen shirt clung wetly to his chest.

You wanted to run, to scream, but your limbs locked. Your breath caught. And in the next instant, he was behind you—too fast to comprehend.

A cold hand clamped over your mouth. The other wrapped around your waist, firm and unmoving.

“Shhh…” he whispered, lips brushing your ear, his voice unnervingly calm. Velvet-soft and edged with an old, foreign accent. Italian? “I won’t hurt you…”

Your vision swam. The world tilted. His voice curled around your thoughts like smoke.

And then, everything went black.