"𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗗𝗢 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗧𝗨𝗥𝗡 𝗧𝗢 𝗜𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗚𝗢𝗗𝗦 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗠𝗦𝗘𝗟𝗩𝗘𝗦 𝗛𝗔𝗩𝗘 𝗔𝗕𝗔𝗡𝗗𝗢𝗡𝗘𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗣𝗘𝗢𝗣𝗟𝗘?"
In the 1950s during the Great War, a line of babies appeared in bizarre ways, scattering across the land of Valso. The...
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THE GRAVEYARD came to life at night.
Above, the argent-silver disc shone proudly. The full moon hung in the canvas, swept with dotted stars, glistening the bristle cold sky. A bewitching illusion to the forlorn and woeful land, that is the nation of Valso.
Cries resonated across the field of marbled headstones, figures of deceased members stood in peril darkness, basking in the nightly shrieks of solemn. For Richie, it was no more than a regular everyday occurrence.
The man in charge of sweeping leaves, tending to gravestones, and keeping the place in an orderly manner became used to the shrieks coming from mausoleums. After working twenty whole years, Richie was officially immune to the fright spirits had to offer.
Until, the night of April 24th, 2100.
The sounds of a baby wailing into the breathless night had disconcerted him. It reached a deafening crescendo, dominating other whispers lurking beneath the ground.
His feet had dragged him towards the source, eyes cautiously roaming the area. Strangely, Richie felt a qualm of apprehension, yet, despite the growing ball of fear, he felt called to move.
He brought out a set of keys, fumbling with the exact one. The hinges groaned as they opened. Fetid smells of the stifled air pervaded his airways, leaving a tangy taste on his tongue.
What am I doing? He thought. Richie's movements contradicting his hazy thoughts.
The cries blared, screeching uncontrollably in his ears. His mind filled with one thought, one sound, one mission. Like a puppet falling into its master's control, threads guiding him to his next set of action; overshadowed by a deep boding.
Richie knelt in front of the headstone, his hands touched the soil, feeling the reverberating sound under.
The baby.
Hastily, he searched the place for a shovel. The words echoing in his mind, over and over again, haunting him.
The baby. The baby. The baby.
Grabbing the required items, Richie stuck the shovel into the soil and dug.
He was digging someone's grave. He was disrespecting the dead.
His consciousness had blurred, nothing in the world mattered but this. A dissimulated impulse of eagerness turned him into an impotent doll, following through aimlessly. Richie knew it wasn't like him to meddle in with a dead person's sanctuary. But an overwhelming wave of exigency pushed him forward.
Richie dug tirelessly till he came in contact with the coffin's lid. Prying it open, he was met with the remains of a woman.
Good heavens, He gasped.
It wasn't the remaining bones he first caught on, it was the baby. A newborn child nestled between the dusted bones, squalling non-stop.
No normal human would have survived the ordeal, unless...
Richie fell back, feeling the horror crawl up his skin, like a serpent coiling around his body, emitting sole fear into his very being. Richie refused to budge as he stared into the newly dug hole. His chest tightened, and the child's querulous cries began to sync with the incessant beating of his heart.
That was no normal baby.
What Richie had encountered was a cursed child, destined to bring a great deal of destruction in their walk of life.
