The old house stood isolated against the darkening Swiss valley, its timbers groaning under the weight of years and the relentless press of the mountain wind.
Inside, Vivienne, a woman barely past the threshold of youth at twenty-three, traced the rim of her wine glass, the ruby liquid swirling like captured blood. She'd inherited the place from a distant aunt she barely recalled, a woman whispered to be eccentric, maybe touched by the solitude.
Vivienne had come seeking refuge, a break from the sterile geometry of city life and the echoing emptiness of a recently fractured relationship. She'd imagined quiet mornings, hikes in the crisp mountain surroundings, evenings lost in books by a crackling hearth. The reality was… different.
A profound stillness permeated the house, deeper than mere quiet. It felt as if the very structure held its breath, listening. Outside, the wind, which had been a constant murmur, began to escalate.
It wasn't a typical mountain gust, but something heavier, angrier. The old windows rattled in their frames, and a low moan resonated through the walls, not of the house settling, but something else entirely.
Vivienne shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter around herself, though the temperature inside remained steady. It was a coldness that originated from somewhere deeper, something not of the weather.
She rose, intending to stoke the fire, but paused, her gaze drawn to the window. Darkness had fallen completely, swallowing the valley.
The wind howled now, a sound that seemed to have a voice, a raw, guttural tone that vibrated in her bones.
Then, she heard it. A distinct sound carried on the wind's roar, not a whistle or a whine, but something akin to drunken laughter, thick and slurred, laced with malice.
Vivienne froze, every nerve ending screaming. Laughter in the wind? It made no sense, yet the sound was undeniable, growing louder, closer.
The house seemed to shudder, not from the force of the wind, but something… responding to it. A fresh gust slammed against the walls, and this time, the moan from within wasn't just a structural sound, it was a cry, a trapped, desperate whine of timber and stone.
Terror, cold and sharp, pierced through Vivienne's initial unease. This was not the peaceful retreat she had envisioned.
She backed away from the window, heart hammering against her ribs. "Hello?" she called out, her voice thin and reedy against the wind's fury.
Silence answered, except for the rising crescendo of the wind's voice and the unsettling, drunken chuckle that seemed to ride upon it. It was playful, almost, in a sadistic way, like a predator toying with its prey.
Vivienne scrambled for her phone, fingers clumsy with fear. No signal. Of course, no signal.
She was miles from the nearest village, swallowed by the valley's embrace, utterly alone with whatever was outside. Panic began to bloom, a suffocating blossom in her chest.
She had to get out, had to get to the village, to people. But the thought of opening the door, of stepping out into that storm, into that laughter…
A particularly violent gust slammed the house, and a windowpane shattered, showering the room with slivers of glass.
The wind shrieked through the opening, a raw, physical force, and with it came the laughter, now much closer, right outside, it seemed. The drunken, malevolent sound filled the room, mocking her, relishing her fear.
"Who's there?" she yelled, her voice trembling despite her attempt at bravado. The laughter intensified, morphing into something uglier, a snarl of amusement. Then, a voice, carried on the wind, slurred and deep, chillingly close.
"Unworthy," the voice rumbled, the word thick with disdain and drink, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. "All of you, unworthy."
Vivienne recoiled, stumbling backward. Unworthy? What did that even mean? She pressed herself against the wall, her breath catching in her throat.
This wasn't just a storm. This wasn't just wind. This was something else, something sentient, something angry and… judgmental.
The front door, ancient and heavy, began to rattle violently. The latch groaned, metal screaming against wood as if immense pressure was being applied.
Vivienne watched, paralyzed, as the door buckled inward, wood splintering, the frame warping. She understood then, with sickening clarity, that locks and bolts were meaningless against whatever force was assaulting the house.
With a final, earsplitting crack, the door burst open, ripped from its hinges and flung inward with terrifying force. The wind roared into the house, a tangible entity, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, rotting leaves, and something else, something acrid, like stale spirits.
And standing – if it could be called standing – in the doorway, was a swirling vortex of wind and shadow.
It wasn't human, not in any conventional sense. It was formless, a shifting mass of darkness and turbulent currents, vaguely man-shaped, but constantly dissolving and reforming.
Within the swirling vortex, Vivienne could discern fleeting shapes – faces contorted in rage, eyes burning with drunken fury, hands that seemed to claw at the very fabric of reality. And the laughter, the horrible, slurred laughter, emanated from its core.
"Unworthy," the voice repeated, louder now, booming through the house, shaking the very foundations.
The entity stepped – or rather, flowed – into the living room, the wind swirling around it intensifying, objects in the room rattling and vibrating.
Vivienne could feel the pressure building, the very density of the air thickening, making it hard to breathe.
She tried to scream, but no sound escaped her throat. Fear had clamped down on her vocal cords, leaving her mute, helpless. She wanted to run, to flee, but her legs felt like lead, rooted to the spot by sheer terror.
The entity advanced, the swirling vortex contracting and expanding, the drunken laughter echoing in her ears, each chuckle a hammer blow against her sanity.
"What do you want?" she managed to croak out, the words barely audible above the wind's din. The entity paused, the swirling motion slowing slightly, as if considering her question. The burning eyes within the vortex seemed to focus on her, cold, assessing.
"Worth," the voice slurred, the word drawn out, heavy with contempt. "You… you are judged wanting."
"Wanting?" Vivienne whispered, confusion battling with terror. "Wanting of what? I haven't done anything."
The entity chuckled again, a sound devoid of humor, laced with cruelty. "Innocence is irrelevant. Worth is… inherent. And you, girl, you reek of… purposelessness."
Purposelessness. The word struck Vivienne like a physical blow. Hadn't that been the very thought plaguing her lately? The breakup had left her adrift, questioning her direction, her value. Had this… thing… somehow sensed her inner turmoil, twisted it into a judgment?
"That's not true," she protested weakly, her voice trembling. "I… I have plans. I'm going to… to…" Her words faltered, unconvincing even to herself. The entity seemed to sense her lack of conviction, the vortex swirling faster, the laughter growing harsher.
"Lies," the voice boomed, shaking the room. "Self-deception. You are hollow, girl. Empty. Taking up space, consuming resources… for what? For nothing."
The entity moved again, flowing closer, the wind intensifying, ripping through the room. Bookshelves crashed to the floor, furniture overturned, the remnants of the shattered windowpane danced in a deadly ballet.
Vivienne felt the raw power of the wind buffet her, pushing her backward, the force almost knocking her off her feet.
"No! Stop!" she cried, finally finding her voice, fueled by desperation. "Please, stop! I don't understand! What do you want me to do?"
The entity paused again, the swirling vortex slowing, the burning eyes narrowing. "Prove it," the voice slurred, the word dripping with challenge. "Prove your worth. Show me… something… that justifies your continued existence."
Prove her worth? To a drunken wind entity that judged people based on… what? Some cosmic hangover-fueled whim? It was insane. Utterly, terrifyingly insane.
But looking into those swirling eyes, feeling the crushing pressure of the wind, Vivienne knew arguing was futile. She had to play along, had to find some way to appease this… Raging Wind Man, as a terrified corner of her mind had started to call it.
"Okay," she stammered, her mind racing, grasping for anything, any argument, any plea. "Okay, I… I'm an artist. I paint. I create beauty. Doesn't that count for something?"
The entity remained still for a long, agonizing moment, the wind swirling around it a low, menacing growl. Then, the drunken laughter erupted again, louder, more scornful than before.
"Beauty?" the voice mocked. "Frivolity! A fleeting distraction for the pampered and idle. Meaningless baubles in the face of true… consequence."
Consequence? What did it mean by consequence? What did it value? Not beauty, not art… what then? Survival? Strength? Purpose? But it had called her purposeless. Everything she was, everything she believed in, seemed to be worthless in the face of this entity's twisted judgment.
Despair began to creep in, a cold, suffocating blanket. She was trapped, judged, and found wanting by a drunken force of nature. There was no escape, no appeal. She was utterly at its mercy.
"Please," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "Isn't there anything? Anything I can do to… to show you I'm not worthless?"
The entity seemed to consider her plea, the swirling vortex shifting, the burning eyes flickering. Then, the voice spoke again, quieter this time, almost thoughtful, but still laced with that chilling, drunken edge.
"Sacrifice," it slurred, the word hanging in the air like a death sentence. "Worth… can be measured in sacrifice. What are you willing to… relinquish… to prove you are not… entirely… worthless?"
Sacrifice. What could she sacrifice? Her possessions? This house? Her dreams? Would any of that be enough for this capricious entity? She looked around the ravaged living room, her gaze falling on a small, framed photograph on the overturned mantelpiece.
It was a picture of her and her former partner, taken on a happy day, their faces radiant with shared joy, a moment frozen in time, now just a painful reminder of what she had lost.
A sudden, chilling realization dawned on her. The entity wasn't interested in material possessions. It wanted something deeper, something more personal, something… painful. It wanted a sacrifice of the heart.
With trembling hands, Vivienne reached for the photograph, her fingers brushing against the glass. Tears streamed down her face now, blurring her vision. This picture, this memory, was all she had left of that love, of that part of her life. To relinquish it… it would be like tearing a piece of herself away.
"This?" she whispered, holding up the photograph, her voice choked with emotion. "Is this… enough? Is this a sacrifice… worthy enough for you?"
The entity was silent for a long moment, the swirling vortex still, the burning eyes fixed on the photograph in her hand. The wind in the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting, judging. Then, the voice spoke, a low, guttural whisper, devoid of laughter now, just a cold, chilling pronouncement.
"Sentimentality," it hissed, the word laced with utter disgust. "Meaningless attachment to… fleeting illusions. Not sacrifice. Clinging to the past. More… purposelessness."
Vivienne's heart shattered. She had offered the most precious thing she had, the deepest wound in her soul, and it was rejected, deemed insignificant, worthless.
Despair washed over her, cold and final. There was nothing left to offer, nothing left to prove. She was, in this entity's drunken, cruel judgment, utterly and irrevocably unworthy.
The vortex of wind and shadow began to swirl again, faster now, more violently. The burning eyes intensified, blazing with drunken fury. The laughter started again, low at first, then rising to a deafening, mocking crescendo. Vivienne closed her eyes, bracing herself for the inevitable, for the drunken wrath of the Raging Wind Man.
"No," she whispered, the word barely audible, not a plea for mercy, but a final, quiet acknowledgment of her fate. "I understand."
But understanding did not bring solace. It brought only a deeper, more profound sadness, a crushing weight of despair. She had sought refuge in this isolated valley, seeking peace, seeking healing.
Instead, she had found a drunken god of judgment, a capricious entity that deemed her life, her very existence, worthless. And there was no escape, no appeal, only the raging wind and the mocking laughter echoing in the approaching darkness.
Her scream was swallowed by the storm. The old house stood silent once more, the broken windowpane whispering secrets to the wind.