The trail beyond the marsh twisted into a patch of ancient forest known by the villagers as *The Dead Grove*. No birds sang here. The trees were grey, skeletal, their branches like grasping arms frozen in agony.
Tomas led the way, torchlight trembling in his grip. Behind him, Elias walked in tense silence, eyes scanning the shadows, jaw clenched tight. The others—Matei, Jon, and their cousin Adela—followed, drawn by fear and duty alike.
"Why does this place feel... wrong?" Adela whispered, hugging her cloak tighter.
"Because it is," Elias muttered. "No one comes here. Not even the wolves."
They stopped at a hollow tree split in two by lightning decades ago. Tomas dropped to one knee. At its base, strange runes had been carved. Not by knife—but claw.
"The same markings from the cellar," Tomas said. "The curse started here."
A sudden wind swept through the grove—ice cold and foul, carrying a stench of rot. The torches flickered. Died.
"Light it again!" Jon barked, but the flames wouldn't hold.
Then came the whisper. Low. Deep. Inhuman.
*"One has lied."*
They froze.
"Who said that?" Elias stepped in front of Tomas.
*"One has lied… and shall pay the price."*
A tree groaned. Then cracked.
From the darkness, a shape crawled out. Tall, thin, pale as bone—its face wrapped in torn flesh. It wore the tattered robes of a priest.
"Father Luka?" Tomas gasped.
But it wasn't him anymore.
It opened its stitched mouth, revealing teeth too many and eyes that bled.
Elias shoved Tomas aside. "Run!"
But the thing didn't lunge. It pointed.
Straight at *Jon.*
And whispered again: *"The liar bleeds."*
Jon's scream ripped through the grove.
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