PROLOGUE

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            ANALOGOUS TO THE CALM before a storm, an unsettling silence lingered over every street, beneath every bridge and within every alley and minuet crevice of a small mountain village, east of the Netherlands. The town was damp this night, thick with a heavy fog which crept like a stalking predator through the surrounding forest brush and rigid mountain face. The air was hauntingly still, lacking so much as a gentle breeze, the hoot of an owl or the chirp of a single cricket, as silence often screams louder than anything. Moonlight glistened off the cobblestone streets and tiled rooftops, every surface still slick from a recent rain, reflecting the pale white form of every building, stark against the night sky. A deep crimson moon watched over the town with an ominous glow, like a  villain plotting revenge.

Light footsteps broke the silence, as a young man wandered through the street by his lonesome, looking down upon a calm river which flowed from the mountains to the east, splitting the town through the middle. Its gentle stream could have been running with blood upon first glance, the red reflection of the moon glimmering off its rippling surface. The child used to play by the river almost every afternoon, countless days of fond memories passed, but would never be again.

   The tainting of the river had marked the end of a prolonged suffering amongst the once humble villagers, a mortifying nightmare from which nobody believed they could wake. Though the boy was barely twelve years old, he had seen his share of death, on such a desolating scale no child should ever have to endure. Merely a year prior, he found himself stuck at home, his mother refusing to let him leave the house, not even to attend school.

   Children were growing ill within the populous, an untreatable illness pushing the escalating rate of fatalities spiraling out of control, with no end in sight. Before the mysterious plague had come, the town was bustling like never before. The Protestant population was flourishing, despite the relentless calls to war from across the Mediterranean Sea. A new power was rising in the South—a seemingly merciless sect which would claim the preposterous and downright blasphemous: that God Himself led their ruthless charge across all of Europe. The Elders of this quaint mountain town refused to bend the knee to this insurrection of power-hungry governance, insisting on their stance of neutrality in the holy wars of the age.

And so it was, that many of its more superstitious citizens worried that the plague had come as a harsh discipline for the unfaithful—a divine justice set upon the defiant, rebellious town, some would say.

   The sickness took only the young and frail, assuring no child could surpass their adolescence, and a town with no children was a town with no future. Every victim of plague brought more than sorrowful mourning but fanaticism to the people of the village, and a frantic surge of accusations would have would-be witches both innocent and otherwise burning at the stake.

Had God truly cursed them? Many of the elders wondered in those days. These were the common thoughts voiced with an uneasy tone in every conversation throughout the village—every corner of the local pubs, every merchant stand along the river and dinner table.

The boy was one of a diminished population, a little more than thirty-threescore children left remaining of a once overpopulated and promising youth. So many of his friends had met their demise; youthful faces who would never grow old—never smile, nor greet him again in his lifetime. They would never see another sunrise—never live to have children of their own. The youthful dead were now a memory amongst countless faces taken by the plague, mere ghosts of a once promising future now turned to ash in their mouths. He would never forget the odour of burning flesh that carried with the breeze from the mountainside above, upwind from his home where they piled and set ablaze the infected dead.

Of course, that nightmare had seemingly ended a year prior to this very night, in the late fall season.

   Never again would he be forced to say goodbye to his friends and loved ones, worried that it would be the last he would see of them. There would be better days ahead, as the town moved forward from the desolating pandemic, looking forward to a brighter future. There was only one obstacle standing in their way—a promised threat that had yet to come to fruition.

The return of the Dark Man.

   This stranger known to few had somehow stopped the plague in its tracks but a year prior, though nobody could have imagined he was capable. The elders were full of doubt, positive the strange man from deep in the mountains couldn’t possibly save them. The council hadn’t expected he was a man of means—a sorcerer of unworldly power, summoning his demons from the darkness to do his bidding.

The Dark Man had the power to somehow stop the Grim Reaper in his tracks. Some would say he was Death himself, and was perhaps in a merciful mood that day, sparing the souls of the children. It didn’t really matter what the elders believed in the end. The devilish man had vowed to return a year later to collect his fee, so he had promised before vanishing back into the mountains, never to be seen again.

Some thought he was bluffing—that the Dark Man really required no payment for his services—that perhaps he was not a devil at all, but a divine presence disguised as something far more sinister. That single year of grace was riddled with uncertainty, his promised return a forbidden subject; taboo to speak of within the congregation of the church every Sabbath, and reserved for the shadiest of corners, always preceded by a suspicious glace over a shoulder. Others suggested travelling deep into the mountains to force a confrontation—to the Devil’s castle, where few had ventured and even fewer returned; a path far too treacherous for any mere mortal to endure.

   Too little was known about the sinister man, his origins shrouded in lore and seemingly exaggerated tales of horror and bloodlust, and few could separate truth from fiction. Prior to his appearance to rid the village of the plague, he was thought of as a creature of sorts—a demon that stalked the night and prowled amongst the shadows. It is a rarity that lore lives up to its reality. Nobody really knew who he was or where he came from, just that a single child, barely more than a toddler was found wandering from the mountain brush many years ago, thought to be an escapee, fleeing from the monster with no name.

   The deafening silence was broken by the chimes of a distant bell. The young boy who had been wandering the streets in the late hour peered across the blood-red river from the highest hill. He could see the bell rocking to and fro in the church steeple, as he listened to the twelve chimes that would mark the midnight hour. Each toll warned of something dark and wicked, as though the thick brass itself called from the deepest caverns of Hell.

   Charlie exhaled a worried breath as he continued his strange journey in his sleepwear and matching night cap. His father’s oversized leather boots flopped with every step, laces tied as tight as possible to fit his adolescent feet. The boy honestly didn’t know what he was doing, roaming about so late on a night when all others were locked up and barricaded indoors. Something unworldly had disturbed his slumber, and even though his mother had forbade him to leave the house that very night, he was somehow drawn out into the streets like a moth to a flame.

    As he wandered, his eyes caught view of the wooden planks that barricaded the windows of the surrounding two storey townhomes which lined both sides of the cobblestone laneway. The villagers had taken every precaution, unsure of what to expect when the Dark Man cometh.

Then, from no particular direction, a strange sound could be heard quite faint, like a whisper carried by the slightest breeze. Charlie’s brow crinkled, trying to make out the faint melody of a haunting tune . . . a familiar song which instantly struck a most primal chord of dread, that of a long since forgotten memory—an event far too traumatic to not be buried deep within the boy’s scarred psyche.

 

~

 

      A thin space between wooden boards allowed the slightest of crimson moonlight to dimly beam through the covered second floor window. Within the tiny bedroom were two twin beds sitting in opposite corners, where under their covers lay two adolescent sisters, one noticeably older than the other. For a moment one could be convinced they were both deceased, as they did not stir, their breath deep and slow. The tranquility of their slumber would not linger, however, as a slight whimper could be heard from the younger sister’s throat.

   Whimpers turned to moans as sweat beaded on her tiny forehead, a horrifying nightmare gripping her imagination, disturbing and defiling her once innocent dreams. When she could stomach her fear no longer, the child sat up abruptly, screaming for a brief moment, until she realized where she was, still safe in her bed. The sound would neither vex her sister in the slightest, nor would it wake her parents to console the child as they normally would.

   Emelia pressed her bare feet upon the wooden floorboards and stepped toward the window, yawning as she noticed the red light peeking into their bedroom. Her plain, white night gown could barely be seen as she peered through the thin space between the boards, the moonlight squinting her emerald green but puffy eyes. She peered down the hall, where her father sat upon a chair outside their bedroom door, a musket in hand and snoring away. As she exhaled a long, deep sigh of relief, the girl turned her attention from the window and made her way back to bed.

   Her underdeveloped limbs stretched out and shifted as she let out another yawn, trying to get comfortable. Emelia tried to forget the promise of the Dark Man, and the sight of her father armed and positioned outside their door brought her peace. Perhaps it was all just a bluff as her parents often suggested. The home was well barricaded, and the blast of a musket could surely stop any intruder in their tracks, her father had assured that very evening. And so she rest her tiny head confident, ignoring the slight churn in her stomach that argued contrary.

The distant church bell chimed across the river as her chestnut-brown mess of hair settled into the pillow. She slowly blinked, eyelids growing heavier by the second, until she was half-asleep, mere seconds from falling back into her own personal dreamscape.

Suddenly, she could sense a watchful eye upon her, like a thick blanket of dread and despair settled over every surface of the room.

Emelia’s eyes jolted open as she caught sight of her older sister sitting up in her bed, across the small bedroom. Forcing her eyes open, she looked upon her sibling, but there was something terribly wrong with her. A once rosy complexion had turned a ghostly pale, her eyes a stark onyx black, the whites and pupils seemingly erased. She would say nothing, sitting unnaturally still upon her bed, arms limp at her sides.

Though the younger of the two sister wasn’t sure what was happening, she scurried out of bed, rushing to her aid. Her breath was quick, heart pounding with fear as she screamed for help, a noticeable lack of control in her youthful voice, but her father would not stir. Though she screamed as loud as her voice would allow, for some strange reason her parents would not come.

   Tiny hands shook her sibling violently, hoping to jolt the child free of whatever ghostly phenomena had hold of her, but the teen would not respond—not even to turn and face her increasingly frantic little sister.

    Suddenly, covers flew off the bed by an unseen force, rippling through the air as the teenager turned and planted her feet firmly on the floor. She stood with an eerily smooth motion and moved toward the bedroom door in a trance-like state.

   Emelia grasped her wrist tight, pulling her by the arm with all her strength as she screamed for help over and over again, but she simply wasn’t strong enough, and nobody was coming.

Stepping through the arched doorway of their bedroom, right passed her unconscious father, and into the darkness of a narrow hallway, the eldest slightly lifted her hand. Young Emelia was flung across the room and slammed hard into a nearby wall by a supernatural force, not so much as a turning of chin to rid herself of her sister’s futile attempt.

   Emelia groaned half-conscious and drowsy as she lay upon the floor, eyes open just enough to watch the elder sister halt her bare feet before a barricaded balcony door. Wooden planks cracked and bent, boards squeaking and crackling as if something unseen and powerful was pulling at them. Then, with a mighty blast, the wood blew apart as the glow of the blood-red moon instantly lit up the narrow space.

   As her entranced sister stepped onto the second storey terrace, Emilia staggered to her aid bruised and beaten. Once again pulling her arm with all the force she could possibly apply, she screamed in the moonlight, begging for her to awaken from her trance, but it was no use. Without the slightest effort, the child was hurled screaming back into the home, without as much as a look from the vacant black eyes of her older sister.

 

~

 

      Charlie stepped closer to the corner home in his oversized boots, following the sound of screaming from inside the second floor bedroom. He stepped back, hysterical and wide-eyed as an echoing blast hurled chunks of wood into the street from above. The clay railing of the upper floor terrace blew apart, as dust and debris fell upon the boy, and the teenage girl hypnotically stepped forward, onto nothing at all.

   Landing awkwardly on the cobblestone below, there was a loud crack as her shin bone snapped in half, and her head smacked hard against the stone street. There was no cry of physical agony—or even the slightest acknowledgment of her gory wounds, as though she could feel no pain whatsoever.

   The boy stood frozen and petrified, his bottom lip quivering as tears glistened in his eyes.

‘Are—are you alright?’ he asked, but would receive no verbal reply. He let out a gasp, petrified as she raised her brow, and Charlie peered into the black eyes of a demon child.

   As the eerie girl rose to her feet, neck bones cracked as her face shifted at an unnatural angle, and the boy quickly dashed from her path, fearful of any direct confrontation.

   Stepping past him, the black-eyed teen began limping down the street, nose clearly broken and gushing blood over her lips, and into a slacked mouth. Her shin bone was protruding through the flesh of her leg, leaving a smeared crimson trail behind as she hobbled past the horrified boy.

   The sound of dogs barking and horses panicking could be heard from every direction, as countless children from every street within the mountain village smashed out of their homes in a similar fashion. Shattered shards of glass, cracked and splintered wood, and clay debris blasted into the street at every turn, as the possessed children joined the girl with the broken leg in her trance-like stride.

   Each child made no sound, their eyes seemingly replaced with glossy coal marbles, faces as white as freshly fallen snow.

   Amongst the chaos not a single parent could be seen—not one person above the age of thirteen, the boy noticed as he hyperventilated, trying desperately to catch his breath and manage his fear. The eerie children quietly walked right passed the terrified boy en mass, Charlie still standing in the streets in shock, eyes widened and dressed in his nightwear. Every demonic eye stared straight ahead, and he quickly moved out of their way, terrified of what might happen if he dared obstruct their path. Pressing his back against a door, he almost fell backward when it opened, into the corner unit home.

    The shaking young boy let out a horrified yelp before he realized he was looking into the only eyes—other than his own—that were not mysteriously turned charcoal black.

   Emelia quickly stepped passed him, and stared in awe of what she was witnessing. The young girl was bleeding from her head, still somewhat woozy and covered in rubble from the impact of her possessed sister’s blows. She looked rather mad in that moment, wearing her sister’s loose housecoat and slippers, holding her father’s musket which had been snatched from his limp fingers. Her blurry vision met the terrified young boy in his night cap, his eyes just as wide and aghast as her own, but otherwise normal.

   ‘Charlie?’ she asked, recognizing the boy from school.

   ‘Emelia!’ he quickly embraced her with a grateful gasp of relief, thankful there was some sort of normality amongst the chaos. Charlie was normally somewhat of a bully, and commonly picked on Emelia for being a bit different, compensating for his own unusual abnormality, but in that moment, none of that mattered. Both children were simply thankful they were not alone.

   ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, jaw dropped as they watched together, but she simply shrugged her tiny shoulders. ‘Come on . . . let’s find out where they’re going.’

   Though Emelia didn’t seem to be listening, her feet began to move when she noticed her school mate step ahead of her, moving at the same pace as the crowd of eerie Black-eyed Children.

   As they moved forward, both bravely strived to keep their fear in check, their knees buckling, hands shaking with uncertainty. Thoughts of the sinister man who dwelled deep in the mountains lingered in their thoughts, as both silently prayed he was not amongst them.

   ‘Did your parents . . . wake up?’ Charlie turned to his friend, and Emelia shook her head. ‘No, huh? Neither did mine.’ he grew all the more worried, passing his home along the unknown route. Not the slightest glow of lantern light could be seen between the boards which barricaded his parent’s bedroom window. ‘Why won’t they wake?’

   Approaching a nearby corner, the street dipped downward where a full view of the large village could be seen. The two kids stood at the corner of the cobblestone intersection, and Emelia began to sob as she looked for her older sister, but could not spot her in the crowd. Charlie held her close, trying to comfort the weeping girl the way a big brother would, though he was equally terrified.

   They stood there helpless, witnessing hundreds upon hundreds of seemingly possessed children slowly making their way out of town, and into the treacherous mountain path.

   The boy quickly snatched the musket from her hand without resistance, and without warning he blasted it into the air, hoping the loud noise would somehow break their trance—or at least wake a nearby grown up. He had acted without thinking, and his clammy hands trembled around the musket as every stride halted in place, and a deafening silence ensued. Charlie gulped, frozen stiff as hundreds upon hundreds of brows turned in unison, the wretched sound of countless necks cracking and shifting as one solidifying his blood like hardening cement. 

   ‘I—er,’ he gulped, sweat beading on his brow. ‘I’m . . . sorry.’ he let slip the only words he could manage to form, fear blocking any and all other thoughts. His heart seemed to pound right through his ribs, and just as he thought they would all charge forth at once and rip him to shreds, they turned their devilish eyes east once more, and their migration continued.

   The boy and his companion let out deep breaths of relief, grateful they had somehow survived.

   ‘Where do you think they’re going?’ asked Charlie, unwilling to follow them any further, as the massive crowd moved into the thick brush of the forest, and out of view. He looked down into the young girl’s eyes as she muttered her reply with a note of ultimate dread.

   ‘The Dark Man.’