"NO! NO! NO!" — the scream tore from the aristocrat's chest, shattering the silence of the estate, which no longer felt like peace but like a deathly whisper. He darted about, stumbled, fell, and scrambled back to his feet, feeling neither the pain nor the cold of the stone beneath his knees — only a clammy terror that seeped into his bones.
Before his eyes danced grotesque garlands of his subordinates' bodies: they hung from the walls like monstrous decorations, mutilated, eviscerated, suspended by their own entrails. In the glazed eyes of each lay a primal, inhuman horror — the very same horror that now devoured his soul.
He ran without seeing where he was going, floundering in the slippery entrails strewn across the floor — they tangled around his legs, clung to him, yet he didn't notice. He only whispered as if in a delirium: "This can't be real… I'm dreaming… I'm still dreaming…"
And yet, just a few minutes ago, everything had been as it always was. He sat in his study, savouring the familiar comfort, having breakfast, feeling like the master of the world. A maid stood nearby — her eyes dead and vacant, her attire deliberately provocative. A familiar lewd smile spread across his face; his hand reached for her skirt. She didn't resist, didn't flinch — she simply stood there, lifeless and broken, turned into an obedient puppet. Nothing remained of the girl who had once begged for mercy.
"Who's there?! I'm busy right now!" — he barked when a knock came at the door, irritated that his usual ritual had been dared to be disturbed.
In response, only a single word came, cold and ominous:
— Dinner.
The aristocrat merely waved a hand, not looking back:
— Leave it on my table and get out of here.
A scraping sound followed — the door slowly, almost reluctantly, swung open. In the doorway stood a silhouette shrouded in darkness so dense it seemed as though the night itself was dripping from him, spreading across the floor in black shadows. The aristocrat didn't notice — his attention remained fixed on the maid. But suddenly, a green glow flickered in her dead eyes — a tiny, sinister light, growing larger as the tray approached, drenched in thick, dark blood.
Then something changed. A spark flared in those lifeless eyes — first hope, instantly replaced by searing hatred and gloating. It was as if she finally understood what lay on the tray. Her limp, unwilling hands suddenly came alive, sliding over his body, deliberately teasing, arousing, forcing him to forget everything, even the quiet whisper of terror somewhere deep in his mind.
And behind him, from the darkness, moved the one who had entered the door — slowly, with a frightening, unnatural grace. He approached the table, a smile frozen on his face — not human, alien, the kind that made the blood run cold.
When he finally stopped in front of the aristocrat and set the tray down on the table with a dull thud, the air in the room seemed to thicken, becoming heavy, almost tangible.
— Sir, we have a special dish for you today, — his voice sounded calm, almost polite, which made it all the more terrifying.
The aristocrat was about to grab the maid, throw her onto the table, drown his fear in his usual lust — but he froze. Everything inside him snapped, turning into an icy lump of terror.
— I TOLD YOU TO GET OUT OF HERE! — he roared, whirling around, and raised his hand to strike… yet he remained frozen, unable to bring it down.
Before him stood a pale man with a single eye, from which oozed not blood, but something caustic, acidic — something that corroded the very reality around it. A smile played on his lips — the kind that made one want to howl, to burrow into the earth, to vanish.
— Enjoy, — the vampire drawled, and in that word there was neither mockery nor rage — only an icy, indifferent anticipation.
Mechanically, the aristocrat turned his head toward the tray — and the world collapsed. His eyes twitched, his fingers clenched spasmodically, and from his chest came not a scream, but a broken, bestial moan:
— M-my dear… m-mother…
Before him, on the bloodstained tray, lay the heads of his wife and mother. Their faces were calm, almost serene — and that made it all the more unbearable. He reached out to them with trembling hands, as if hoping this was some cruel illusion, that everything would vanish and return to how it was… but reality refused to obey his pleas.
The vampire's voice sounded again — no longer playful, but cold, like a sentence:
— Enjoy, aristocrat.
With those words, the last shreds of his composure fled. He shoved the maid away — she fell to the floor with a soft, almost satisfied chuckle — and fled, heedless of where he ran, tripping over bodies, slipping in blood, swallowing his own fear.
Behind him, a laugh rang out — deep, rich, saturated with darkness. Then another joined it — a thin, tinkling laugh belonging to the very maid who, just moments ago, had been a helpless doll.
— The little piggy decided to play tag… Do you really think those stubby little hooves can outrun us? — the words followed him, piercing his back with thousands of icy needles as he raced through the corridors, understanding with chilling clarity: tonight, he would die. And no one would come to help. No one would hear his screams.
The aristocrat burst out of his estate as if fleeing the gaping jaws of hell itself. He was covered in blood, and scraps of entrails clung to his clothes — it was as if death itself had latched onto him, refusing to let go. His eyes darted frantically from side to side, seizing on every dark corner, every shadow, in a desperate hope of finding even the tiniest loophole, any crevice where he could hide. But fate mercilessly held up before him one final, most terrible mirror of his own cruelty.
Directly opposite the estate rose a huge wooden stake, piled high with dry branches and logs on either side — a witch's pyre. The aristocrat recognised it instantly. He knew this altar of horror all too well: for sport, he himself had ordered disobedient maids burned there, delighting in their screams, reveling in his power over their pain. Now, the pyre was waiting for him.
A low palisade encircled the pyre, and on every stake, like grim trophies, sat the heads of his family. Every single one of them. His mother, his wife, his children — their faces frozen in silent reproach, in a mute plea he had refused to hear for so many years. At the sight of this, the aristocrat's mind faltered, and he collapsed to his knees as if the very ground had thrust itself up to rob him of his strength.
"Little piggy, it's time for the spit," a voice sounded right behind him, cold and mockingly gentle.
The aristocrat crashed to the ground and spun around, no longer thinking of dignity or pride — only of life. He wanted to bargain for just one more moment, an hour, a day… He was already opening his mouth to scream, to beg, to promise any riches, any lands, any blood — anyone's but his own. But before a single word could leave his lips, a dagger sank into his jaw. The steel drove deep, tearing through flesh, silencing his words, turning his pleas into incoherent gasps. The aristocrat shrieked, thrashing about on the ground, clawing at the dirt with his fingers as if he could dig himself into the soil, vanish beneath it.
"Oh, no, no — I'm not interested in whatever you're mumbling," the vampire said calmly, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck like a kitten and yanking him to his feet. Blood streamed down the aristocrat's face, mingling with tears, while the world swayed before his eyes like a nightmare in a fevered delirium. "But I suppose you're curious why I'm here?"
He pulled the aristocrat close to his face, so near that the man could feel the icy cold of his skin and a strange, unnatural scent that made him want to howl.
"You've been interfering with my hunt. Your men attacked me three times when I was this close to tracking down my prey. It… upset me. So I decided to pay you a visit. But, damn…" — the vampire paused for a moment, scanning the small crowd that stood around, not hiding, not trembling, not looking away. Their gazes held no fear of the monster — only a burning, hard‑won hatred directed at the aristocrat. Even the vampire froze for a second, as if suddenly awkward. "Even I'm starting to feel a bit uncomfortable under their stares. I'm supposed to be playing the monster here, but instead I look like some ordinary avenger who came to save them. Isn't that funny?"
With that, he flung the aristocrat straight toward the main stake. The man didn't even have time to cry out — the impact against the palisade knocked the air from his lungs, and in the next instant, a sword pierced his chest, pinning him to the wood like a beetle on a pin.
"Ah, do you understand? All of this happened simply because you got in the way of my hunt. If you'd left me alone, I wouldn't even have known you existed. Ha‑ha‑ha! How does it feel? To lose everything? All your men who reveled with you in your power — dead. Your family — dead. Your estate will be destroyed. What are you feeling right now?" The vampire spoke with almost genuine curiosity, tilting his head as if studying a rare curiosity.
At the end of his speech, he regarded the aristocrat with cold interest. Tears streamed down the man's face, mixing with blood and mucus; he twitched and flailed like a fish on dry land, trying to say something — perhaps a mad hope for mercy still flickered inside him. But the dagger in his chin prevented any words from forming; only incoherent gurgles escaped his chest, rising into cries of pain.
Seeing this, the vampire merely smirked. The crowd around them continued to burn the aristocrat with their eyes, full of hatred — and in that hatred there was nothing personal, only a centuries‑old, seared contempt for his lineage, his power, his impunity.
Then, in the doorway of the estate, the same maid appeared. Her once lifeless face was now twisted into a sinister, almost blissful smile. She held a lamp in her hands, and the moment she saw her master's pitiful, impaled state, she burst into laughter — loud, genuine, a sound of relief, as if she had finally shed an unbearable weight.
She walked slowly toward the witch's pyre, each movement now imbued with a strange, chilling grace. The aristocrat saw her, saw what she intended to do — and his body convulsed in a new, desperate attempt to break free. He thrashed so violently that the sword in his chest scraped against the wood, tearing his wounds even further. But it was all in vain.
The maid stopped right by the pyre, pausing for a moment as if savoring the instant. Then, with a sharp motion, she opened the lamp, removing whatever had been shielding the flame. And she hurled it directly at the aristocrat's feet.
The kindling flared up instantly, as if it had been waiting only for this spark. The flames shot upward, greedily engulfing the dry branches, and within moments they surrounded the aristocrat in a ring of fire. The fire licked at his boots, raced up his trouser legs, burrowed into his flesh, searing his skin, making his nerves scream in unbearable agony.
A cry tore from the aristocrat's chest — not human, but bestial, full of primal horror and despair. He jerked against the steel thread of the sword as if hoping to snap it with the sheer force of his agony. But the fire grew higher, hotter, consuming him, erasing from the earth any memory of his power, of his name, of his "right" to command other people's lives.
The vampire stood a little apart, watching with detached interest, as if observing a dying campfire on a cold evening. And the maid kept laughing, her laughter blending with the crackle of the flames, becoming part of this terrible, long‑awaited justice.
The crowd didn't move. They simply watched their tormentor burn, and in their eyes there was neither triumph nor joy — only the emptiness left behind once the pain had finally gone.
The knight appeared beside the vampire all at once — as sudden and fierce as a raging storm. The flames reflected off the polished steel of his armour, painting it with dancing crimson patterns.
"Master… Was all of this truly necessary?" he asked, his voice heavy with reluctance. There was no insolence in his tone, only a weary, hard‑earned sorrow for the path his master had chosen. He didn't glance at the dying aristocrat; his gaze was fixed on the vampire, on the chilling ease with which he observed the man's agony.
The vampire merely shrugged, as if they were discussing something trivial — a spilled wine, a broken toy.
"You were the one who insisted on an investigation before we killed him. I agreed. I even wasted my time wading through that filth, listening to stories I had no desire to hear. If not for that, I'd have simply dragged him out here and slit his throat before the crowd — quick, no ceremony."
He paused, and a familiar snarl crept across his face — not a smile, but a bestial twist of the lips that made the knight's grip tighten on his spear. Though the helmet hid his expression, the tension in his posture spoke volumes.
"Who could have known his entire family was woven into such depravity? Look at these people! They're not just watching — they're bearing witness. The fall of him, the fall of his whole line… There's not a shred of mercy in them. On the contrary, they want him to suffer more. They want to see the fire consume him, to erase every trace of his name, his legacy."
The knight lowered his eyes. Even through the narrow slit of his visor, it was clear how heavily this choice weighed on him. He already regretted urging his master to investigate. He had wanted justice to be cold, measured, almost impersonal — not this, not the blood‑soaked courtyard where the crowd's hatred burned brighter than the pyre itself.
But the choice had been made. And turning a blind eye to the aristocrat's crimes had never been an option — not when every stone of this estate echoed with the moans of the tormented, not when every corridor remembered the footsteps of those who never walked out again.
"I wanted it done humanely," the knight murmured, almost to himself, as if he were justifying the decision not to the vampire, but to his own conscience. "I wanted there to be no doubt. I wanted no one to be able to say we condemned an innocent man."
"And now you see where your need for order leads?" the vampire sneered, turning to face him. His tone was almost gentle, yet laced with mockery for the very idea of justice the knight tried to uphold. "Sometimes the truth smells worse than blood. Sometimes it shows you things that change the way you see the world forever."
The maid, still standing by the pyre, suddenly lifted her head and looked at the knight. There was neither fear nor gratitude in her eyes — only a bitter, weary understanding. She knew no amount of justice could give her back the years that had been stolen, could not erase the memories of what had been done to her. For her, the fire wasn't an act of vengeance; it was the only way to stop feeling.
Slowly, the crowd began to disperse. There was no cheering, no wild exultation — only a heavy, exhausted relief, as if a burden they had carried for years had finally fallen from their shoulders. Some wept quietly; others simply stood, staring at the dying embers, as though afraid that if they turned away, the nightmare would return.
The vampire watched them go, then turned back to the knight.
"Are you satisfied now? We did it 'properly'. We investigated, we confirmed, we passed judgment. And look what we got: people who endured his rule for so long that now they don't know what to do with their freedom. They aren't celebrating — they're trying to believe it's finally over."
The knight nodded slowly, his fingers tightening around the spear's shaft. The steel beneath his gauntlet felt strangely cold, as if it were soaking up the chill of the night.
"Yes," he whispered, finally raising his eyes. "We did what we had to do."
The vampire grunted, as if he didn't believe a word of it, but didn't press the matter. Instead, he waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away an annoying fly.
"Then let's go. There's nothing left for us here."
He was about to turn and vanish into the night, but froze as a crucial thought struck him. Whirling around, he called out loudly to the crowd:
"Right! Hey, people, gather for a moment!"
The folks, who had already started drifting away, halted and hesitantly shuffled back, huddling into a tight, wary group. Their eyes held a mix of fear and bewilderment: they didn't understand what this monster wanted now, after letting them witness the retribution.
When everyone had gathered, the vampire spoke again, enunciating each word with precision:
"When the authorities come — and they will, I have no doubt — make sure, hear me, make sure you describe me in every detail. I'm a vampire, in case anyone missed it. Don't leave out a single thing you saw. Well, except for the part where the maid helped get the fire going."
At these words, the crowd froze, as if turned to stone. People who just a moment ago would have taken the knowledge of the vampire to their graves to protect themselves and their kin now had no idea how to react. A few exchanged glances, their faces flickering with anxiety and confusion.
Suddenly, the maid stepped out of the crowd. She stopped in front of the vampire, and her tired voice came out quiet but clear:
"Why? Shouldn't you be hiding who you are?"
To this, the vampire only smiled — not with that bestial snarl, but almost calmly, as if explaining something obvious to a child.
"I never intended to hide. Everything that happened here was a simple warning to the rest. If they try to interfere with my hunt again, I'll come for them too."
With that, he spread his arms theatrically, as if encompassing the entire horror that had unfolded in the estate, underscoring the scale of his message.
"I'll do all of this again."
Seeing this gesture, the maid's dazed mind seemed to clear for a fleeting moment. She stood there, staring at the vampire, then, to everyone's astonishment, stepped forward and hugged him tightly. The act shocked not only her fellow townsfolk, but also the knight, and even the vampire himself — he froze for a second, clearly not expecting this.
"Thank you," she whispered, then released him and walked away without looking back, fading into the darkness as if the night itself had welcomed her into its embrace.