Nicolas cast one last glance over his shoulder, to where Annabelle had tugged at his jacket. His heart was still pounding, troubled by the expression he thought he had glimpsed on Amandinne's face. Yet when he met her gaze again, everything seemed normal. Too normal. She smiled softly, as if nothing had ever wavered.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice tense.
Annabelle lowered her eyes, her small hand clutching tightly at the fabric of his coat. She didn't dare respond. A deep, strangling fear gripped her. Speaking would mean admitting what she had seen… and what if it awoke that monster again?
The carriage awaited them near the center of the village, massive and luxurious. Its dark varnish reflected the gray daylight. With every step they took, the villagers' whispers seemed to follow them, crawling and clinging, half anxious, half judgmental.
"She's leaving with them?"
"Those men… we don't know who they are."
"The nun took care of her. Why let her go?"
Her father's name echoed too. A respected notary, but one whose shadow weighed heavily. A family marked by early deaths and rumors that no silence had been able to stifle.
Georges opened the carriage door with a broad and trembling gesture. Then, nervously, he asked:
"Do you want to fetch something from home? We have time, Annabelle. If you wish, I'll buy you everything you need. We'll start fresh."
The sting of nostalgia gripped the little girl. The carved wooden toys her father had made, the smell of the old books he loved to leaf through… Fragments of happiness, tarnished by the weight of recent days. But her hand instinctively reached for the necklace she wore, a small dark stone he had given her in a moment of tenderness.
"No. I want to leave."
Her words snapped with unexpected determination. Georges raised his eyebrows slightly, surprised, but said nothing. Nicolas, however, lingered on her face, searching for a trace of what she was hiding.
"Very well," Georges said, stepping into the carriage — though he bumped his head in the process. "Let's go," he grumbled.
The horses' hooves stamped the ground anxiously. The tavern owner, with his thick, calloused hands, had just finished harnessing the animals. Nicolas handed him a few coins as payment, then swiftly climbed into the carriage. He extended his hand to Annabelle.
She hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. The breeze lifted strands of her hair, carrying the earthy scent of the village she was about to leave. But when she saw Nicolas's hand, his sincere expression, she grasped it firmly and climbed aboard. The door shut with a heavy thud.
Georges was waiting inside, the wooden seat groaning beneath his weight. The carriage swayed slightly as the old coachman, his weathered face and drooping eyes weary from years of labor, cracked his whip. With a jolt, the horses sprang forward, kicking up dust.
"Don't stop until nightfall," Nicolas ordered, his gaze fixed straight ahead.
The coachman gave a silent nod. Behind them, the last murmurs of the village faded into the breeze.
Inside the cramped space, the atmosphere grew heavy. Georges and Nicolas exchanged worried glances.
"What happened, Annabelle?" Georges asked, his deep voice tinged with concern.
She remained silent. The memory of Amandinne's smile, twisted by an indescribable strangeness, clung to her mind. She clutched her necklace tightly, as if the stone could ward off the shadow that haunted her.
"Annabelle," Nicolas said softly this time, his tone gentler.
But no words came. And the carriage continued its relentless course, the pounding of hooves on the dirt road marking the passage of time.
✧✧✧
Night had fallen, thick and impenetrable. Only the flickering glow of a meager fire lit the clearing where the carriage had stopped. The horses, still restless from the day's frantic journey, shook their manes and snorted loudly. The coachman, after loosening the harnesses, had dozed off against a tree trunk, his hat pulled low over his eyes.
Annabelle sat near the flames, her knees drawn to her chest. The fire's warmth did little to chase away the cold that crept into her bones. Georges and Nicolas stood on either side of the camp, exchanging wary glances, their bodies tense with silent vigilance.
Noticing her shiver, Nicolas approached and draped his jacket over her shoulders. The warmth enveloped her instantly; she was still clad in her small white dress, having had no time to retrieve any belongings.
"Try to sleep, Annabelle," Nicolas murmured. "We'll keep watch."
She gave no reply. The shadows danced around them, casting twisted silhouettes against the darkened trunks. Every snapping branch, every rustle in the dry grass, sent her heart racing.
Then, everything shifted.
A chill of fear coursed through Annabelle. Her gaze fixed beyond the flames, into the shifting darkness. There, among the trees, a pale figure emerged. An unmoving silhouette.
Amandinne.
Her smile was there, frozen and radiant. Too wide. Too perfect. Her eyes gleamed with a sinister light, staring at Annabelle as if piercing through her.
"Amandinne…" Annabelle breathed, her voice breaking.
Nicolas sprang up instantly, his eyes searching for the source of her horror.
"What? Where?"
"There! Right there!" She pointed in front of her.
Georges turned as well. And this time, they saw her. The smile did not waver. The figure seemed to float between the shadows, unreal, like a poisoned mirage. When a cloud obscured the moon, Amandinne vanished, swallowed by the night.
"By all the devils," Georges growled, his breath ragged.
He lunged toward where she had stood, but found nothing. Not even a footprint in the damp earth. Nicolas remained frozen, his fists clenched, as though the air had been stolen from his lungs.
"It was her," Annabelle choked out, her throat tight. "You saw her."
"Yes," Nicolas answered darkly. "We saw her."
Silence fell, heavy with ominous foreboding, as if the forest itself held its breath.
"We're not staying here," Georges declared. "We're moving on."
And as the fire slowly died, Annabelle's fear lingered. For somewhere, in that darkness, there was that thing — the thing that had taken possession of Amandinne.
The carriage lurched forward once more, but this time, the pace was slow and laborious. The horses, exhausted from the day's frantic journey, moved with an uneven rhythm. The creaking of the wheels on the dirt road and the labored breathing of the beasts filled the air.
Inside, a heavy silence settled. Annabelle kept her eyes down, her small hand clutched tightly around the necklace. Georges, ever imposing, let his gaze wander through the window, his attention sharpened. It was Nicolas who finally shattered the uncertainty.
"Talk."
His voice cracked, dry and harsh. Annabelle flinched, startled by the unexpected sternness. She tried to ignore the burning intensity of his gaze, but it was futile.
"What did you see today?"
She turned away, her lips pressed together. The day's images returned in fragments — Amandinne, that smile tearing through the fabric of normality, her eyes twisting the very reality around her. But to speak of it would breathe life into the nightmare once more.
"Nothing," she whispered.
"Don't lie."
Nicolas's tone dropped, rumbling like distant thunder. Georges tilted his head slightly, letting his brother take the lead, knowing there was no time to waste.
"We saw her, Annabelle. That wasn't an illusion."
Annabelle felt her throat tighten. Every word Nicolas spoke weighed down on her like a stone.
"Before today… she wasn't like that," she stammered at last. "Amandinne… she was kind, smiling, normal."
Nicolas leaned in slightly, his gaze urging her to say more.
"Go on."
"I tried not to think about it. But… when I looked at her again, her face changed. Just for an instant, in the study, her eyes twisted — like something was writhing inside. Her smile, before she left, turned into that of a monster, splitting half her face, with sharp teeth…"
Annabelle's fingers tightened around the pendant. The silence that followed was even colder than her words. Georges exhaled slowly, while Nicolas remained expressionless.
"This isn't over," he finally said, his voice low.
Georges averted his gaze to the night outside, the darkness creeping past the window. The steady rumble of the carriage continued, while Annabelle felt the crushing weight of her fear.
And in that oppressive silence, one truth settled among them — Amandinne was not done haunting their steps.
✧✧✧
The rain began to fall in thick sheets, turning the night into a trembling gray veil. The carriage struggled onward, its wheels sinking into the mud. The horses, trembling, pulled the burden with jerking movements. The pounding of raindrops drowned out nearly every other sound.
Inside, Annabelle shivered. Her necklace clung to her damp skin, and the fleeting warmth of the campfire was nothing but a memory. She gripped the jacket around her shoulders, the only barrier against the cold. Georges and Nicolas, tense, peered into the darkness through the narrow slits of the carriage. The coachman, silent, was now just a shadow hunched over his seat.
Then, everything unraveled.
A horse's agonized scream tore through the night, followed by a heavy thud. The carriage jolted to an abrupt stop, throwing Annabelle forward. Georges caught her instinctively, holding her firmly. Nicolas, his face contorted with fury, flung the door open.
"What the…"
But the words died in his throat.
One of the horses was gone. The pounding rain had yet to erase the traces. The leather harness hung, twisted and torn. Deep gashes marred the carriage, as though enormous claws had shredded the wood. Streaks of blood smeared the mud, vanishing into the trees.
"By the…"
A guttural growl rose, indistinct but terrifying. Nicolas stepped back, his fists clenched. Georges pulled Annabelle behind him, his broad frame forming a shield.
Then, she appeared.
Amandinne.
Her silhouette emerged from the darkness, motionless. The rain poured over her nun's robe, yet her face remained eerily still. Her smile widened slowly, with unsettling deliberation. And when she opened her mouth, horror took shape.
A gaping maw, lined with jagged, uneven teeth. Her jaw distorted into a nightmarish grimace, revealing rows of gleaming fangs. Her eyes hollowed gradually, dark pits forming as writhing things devoured them from within.
Black, glistening worms squirmed in the vacant sockets, writhing as though searching for prey.
Long and viscous, they slithered within the gaping cavities like a revolting, seething mass. Their slick, black skin, coated in mucus, pulsated with a vile semblance of life. Each segment of their bodies bristled with rows of curved, hook-like barbs, resembling tiny, jagged harpoons that burrowed deep into the shredded flesh. These barbs latched on with monstrous tenacity, tearing the tissue with each convulsion, making any attempt to remove them futile.
As they crawled, a thick, greenish fluid oozed from their pores, leaving behind a sticky, putrid trail. Their ends writhed frantically, blindly seeking new ground, while their minuscule jaws, lined with translucent needle-like fangs, gnawed ravenously at the decaying flesh.
Annabelle stifled a scream. Georges and Nicolas had no time to react. A piercing wail split the air as the thing lunged with unsettling speed. The figure of the coachman vanished, torn from his seat. His cry was lost to the night, replaced by revolting sounds — a sickening mixture of flesh ripping, bones crunching, and the wet, gnashing slurp of eager consumption.
"René!" Nicolas shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the storm.
Human screams echoed, chilling and raw. Then, suddenly, silence. An absolute stillness, broken only by the rain and the thunderous pounding of Annabelle's heart.
"We leave. Now."
Georges slammed the carriage door shut. Nicolas scrambled into the coachman's seat, gripping the reins with frantic urgency. The surviving horse, its eyes wide and frantic, reared before bolting. Mud sprayed as the carriage lurched forward. Nicolas cracked the reins, but the terrified beast teetered on the brink of madness.
Inside, Annabelle trembled, her gaze fixed on the poorly latched door that shook with every jolt. Georges pulled her close, his arm forming a resolute barrier. His expression was tense, his features hardened in icy resolve.
"She's still there," he growled. His hesitant gaze flicked to a dark ring on his right index finger. Two skeletal dog heads were engraved upon it, their eyes glowing with a faint, eerie blue light.
Nicolas said nothing. Every muscle in his body was taut, his eyes scanning the forest lining the road. The faint glow of the lanterns flickered against the rain-slicked trunks. Yet there was nothing — no silhouette, no glimpse of that monstrous grin.
And yet, the forest seemed alive.
Faint shadows shifted between the trees. At times, a massive, writhing form appeared to follow the carriage, slipping in and out of sight at the edges of their vision.
In the back, Annabelle felt a cold shiver crawl down her spine. She wanted to speak, but the words lodged in her throat. Then came the sound.
A light scraping, like nails dragging across wood. Georges turned sharply, his dark eyes locked on the carriage wall. The noise grew louder — a perverse, insistent caress, as though something — or someone — was trying to break inside.
Suddenly, the door burst outward, wrenched from its hinges.
The storm surged into the carriage, sending Annabelle's dress billowing. But it wasn't the wind. A pale, twisted hand, its nails curled into jagged claws, clamped onto the edge of the roof. Black veins coursed beneath its translucent skin like ink, pulsing with unnatural life.
And then, above it, Amandinne's head emerged.
Her mouth, stretched to inhuman proportions, revealed dozens of jagged, glistening teeth. Rainwater dripped from her monstrous grin, her eyes teeming with those writhing worms, each one gnawing, devouring, and searching.
"Behind me!" Georges commanded, his voice unwavering.
He thrust himself between Annabelle and the creature. But before he could act, Amandinne vanished with a crack of thunder. The carriage tilted violently.
Nicolas, witnessing the horror but powerless to stop it, shouted orders at the horse. The panicked beast no longer responded to reason, driven solely by fear. The forest seemed to close in around them, the twisted trees forming an unrelenting wall.
Then, a shrill whinny pierced the night. A tortured, animalistic scream. The horse's cry rang from the edge of the woods, devolving into grotesque gurgles and the sounds of tearing flesh.
Annabelle clamped her hands over her ears, but nothing could shield her from the relentless agony. The thing was toying with them, driving them to the brink of hysteria through sound and illusion.
And as the animal's screams faded, a deeper, more odious sound rose — the noise of something gnawing, tearing, devouring.
"Nicolas!" Georges shouted.
"What?!"
"They're damned Necrothid Oculytes worms. I'm going to summon the hounds, or we won't stand a chance against these disgusting beasts."
"It's far from ideal, but we have no choice. Do it!"