MidnightScreams

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You pace the cold stone floor of your cell. The prison has stood here for centuries, its iron bars rusted with age and misery. The air reeks of damp decay and something older, something festering beneath the surface. The place was built to hold the worst monsters imaginable—creatures like you.

The warden, long dead and forgotten, once prided himself on this facility being escape-proof. You scoff at the memory. He never anticipated the passing centuries, nor how stone and steel would warp under the weight of time. And yet, here you are, still imprisoned. Still enduring.

The hunger gnaws at your insides. You haven't fed in decades. Your skin clings to your bones, your fangs dulled by starvation. But tonight is different. There’s a shift in the atmosphere—a whisper of movement beyond the thick prison walls.

The shadows deepen.

A low, guttural hum echoes from Cell Block Nine, the abandoned wing sealed off after… the incident. You've never known what happened there, but every creature locked in this forsaken place has felt its lingering curse.

The hum intensifies, vibrating through the stone beneath your feet. You step closer to the bars and peer down the corridor. A figure stands at the far end, shrouded in black robes, head tilted unnaturally to one side.

She’s back.

The Witch of Cell Block Nine.

You’ve heard the legends, whispered by inmates who believed in things far older and darker than vampires or werewolves. They say she was a prisoner here once, before she twisted the prison’s very foundation with her rituals. When the warden tried to execute her, the prison itself rebelled, walls warping and swallowing guards whole.

That was centuries ago. She should be long gone—banished, destroyed. But the figure in the corridor tells a different story. Her shadow stretches impossibly long, crawling along the walls like a living thing.

Your instinct is to retreat, but hunger keeps you rooted in place. You’ve learned that fear means nothing when you’re starving.

“I smell death on you,” the witch's voice echoes, soft and lilting. It seems to come from every direction. “But not the kind I can control.”

Her steps are slow, deliberate, as she approaches your cell. The flickering light of the torches reveals her face—or what remains of it. Hollow eyes burn with unnatural fire, her lips cracked and stained with ancient runes. Her fingers, twisted and gnarled, drag along the iron bars, leaving a trail of rust that blooms like blood.

“You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you?” she muses.

You don’t respond. Words feel futile in her presence.


“You’re a prisoner of flesh and stone, but I see something more.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You’re a key.”

The word chills you.

“What do you want?” you demand, your voice rough from disuse.

“To finish what I started.”

She moves faster than you can react, her skeletal hand slipping through the bars to grip your wrist. Pain sears through you, as if her touch burns straight into your blood. Visions flood your mind—ritual circles, ancient symbols carved into flesh, prisoners screaming as darkness swallowed them whole.

And at the center of it all, the witch standing triumphant.

You wrench your hand away, panting.

“You can’t bring it back,” you snarl. “Whatever it is—whatever you were trying to summon—this place won’t let you.”

She laughs, a sound devoid of humor. “This place is mine. It always has been.”

The walls tremble, and cracks snake through the stone. Shadows writhe, forming grotesque shapes that flicker at the edges of your vision.


“You can either help me,” the witch hisses, “or be consumed with the rest of this place.”

Desperation claws at you. You know the stories—what happens when she completes the ritual. The prison collapses into a void, taking every soul with it. Even creatures like you aren't immune to oblivion.

But then it hits you.

The key.

She called you a key.


Maybe she doesn’t understand what that means. Maybe you don’t either—but you know one thing: your blood is ancient, cursed, and powerful. If she wants it, she’ll get it on your terms.

You lunge at the bars, grabbing her wrist with your remaining strength. Her eyes widen in shock as you bite down hard, sinking your fangs into her flesh.

Her blood is foul, thick with centuries of rot and dark magic. But you don’t stop. You drain her, pulling every ounce of power she’s hoarded. She screams, a sound that shatters the air and cracks the stone walls.

The prison trembles violently. Chunks of ceiling crash to the ground, and the floor splits open. Shadows writhe and disintegrate as the witch's power wanes.

“You... fool...” she rasps, her body crumbling to ash in your grip.

The air clears, the oppressive weight lifting from the prison. Silence falls, broken only by the distant drip of water.

You collapse against the bars, weak but alive. The witch is gone.

Or so you think.

A faint whisper curls through the air, chilling your spine.

“You are the key,” the voice echoes.

You look down at your hands—black veins spread across your skin, pulsing with dark energy. Her blood is inside you now, twisted and ancient.

And you realize with growing horror that the ritual was never about her.

It was about you.