MidnightScreams

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The mansion stood at the edge of the forest, its silhouette jagged against the blood-red moon. It was a relic of a bygone era, its stone walls cracked and ivy-choked, its windows dark and lifeless. To most, it was a place of decay, a monument to forgotten wealth and faded glory. But to Elias Veyra, it was a temple.

Elias was a man of vision. Charismatic, cunning, and utterly ruthless, he had spent years building his following, gathering the lost and the desperate to his cause. They called themselves the Covenant of the Blood Moon, a name Elias had chosen with deliberate care. It was poetic, he thought, and it carried the weight of destiny.

Tonight, that destiny would be fulfilled.

The ritual chamber was deep within the mansion, a cavernous room with a vaulted ceiling and walls lined with faded tapestries. The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint, metallic tang of blood. At the center of the room stood an altar, its surface carved with intricate runes that seemed to writhe in the flickering candlelight.

Elias stood before the altar, his followers arrayed around him in a semicircle. They were a motley group—men and women of all ages, their faces pale and their eyes gleaming with a mixture of fear and fervor. They had come here willingly, drawn by Elias’s promises of power and transcendence. They believed in him. And that, he knew, was their greatest weakness.

“Brothers and sisters,” Elias began, his voice low and resonant, “tonight, we stand on the precipice of greatness. The blood moon rises, and with it, the veil between worlds grows thin. The ancient power we seek is within our grasp. But to claim it, we must be willing to shed our humanity. To become something more. Something… primal.”

He paused, letting his words sink in. The room was silent, save for the faint crackle of the candles and the distant howl of the wind outside. Elias could feel the tension in the air, thick and electric. He smiled.

“The ritual is simple,” he continued. “Each of you will drink from the chalice, and the curse will take root within you. But remember—this is not a gift to be taken lightly. The transformation will be painful. It will test your resolve, your strength, your very soul. But those who endure will emerge as gods among men.”

He lifted the chalice, its surface gleaming in the candlelight. The liquid inside was dark and viscous, swirling with an unnatural energy. Elias had spent months preparing it, gathering the necessary ingredients—wolfsbane, silver shavings, and the blood of a wolf. But the final ingredient, the one that would bind the curse to his followers, was his own blood.

He passed the chalice to the first follower, a young woman with wide, fearful eyes. She hesitated for a moment, then raised the chalice to her lips and drank deeply. The others followed suit, one by one, until the chalice returned to Elias. He drank last, the liquid burning like fire as it slid down his throat.

The change began almost immediately.

At first, it was subtle—a tingling in the limbs, a sharpening of the senses. But soon, the pain set in, a searing agony that seemed to tear through every fiber of their being. Bones cracked and shifted, muscles twisted and reformed, and skin split as fur sprouted from beneath. The room was filled with screams, some of pain, others of ecstasy, as the transformation took hold.

Elias watched with a mixture of awe and satisfaction as his followers writhed and convulsed, their bodies contorting into monstrous forms. He had expected this, of course. The curse was not meant to be gentle. But he had not anticipated the sheer brutality of it, the raw, primal force that seemed to consume them.

And then, it was his turn.

The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced. It felt as though his very soul was being ripped apart, his humanity stripped away layer by layer. He fell to his knees, his vision blurring as his body twisted and reformed. His hands became claws, his teeth elongated into fangs, and his senses exploded with newfound clarity. He could hear the heartbeat of every person in the room, smell the fear and excitement that hung heavy in the air.


When the transformation was complete, Elias rose to his feet, his body now a monstrous blend of man and beast. He looked around the room, his followers now a pack of snarling, slavering creatures. They were magnificent, he thought, a testament to his vision and his will.

But something was wrong.

The pack turned to him, their eyes gleaming with a feral hunger. Elias had expected loyalty, obedience. But the curse had stripped away their humanity, leaving only the primal instincts of the wolf. And to a wolf, the strongest ruled.

The first attack came without warning. One of the creatures lunged at him, its claws slashing through the air. Elias barely managed to dodge, his own instincts kicking in as he fought back. The room descended into chaos, the pack turning on each other in a frenzy of blood and violence.

Elias fought with everything he had, his mind racing as he tried to regain control. But the curse was too strong, its primal force overwhelming his carefully laid plans. He had wanted power, but he had underestimated the cost.

As the blood moon reached its zenith, Elias realized the truth. He had not become a god. He had become a monster. And in the end, even monsters could be prey.

The mansion burned that night, its flames lighting up the forest like a beacon. By morning, nothing remained but ash and silence. The Covenant of the Blood Moon was no more, its members scattered to the winds—or worse.

But in the depths of the forest, beneath the shadow of the trees, something stirred. A creature, both man and beast, its eyes gleaming with a cold, calculating intelligence. Elias Veyra had survived, but at a cost he could never have imagined.

The curse was his now, a part of him as much as his own blood. And as the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, he howled—a sound that was neither human nor animal, but something far, far worse.