A Whisper in the Dark
The battlefield reeked of iron and rot. General Elias Monroe sat on a fallen tree, his hands trembling as he tried to light a cigar with flint and steel. The flames barely caught in the damp air. Around him, his men were barely breathing, their bodies slumped against one another, the last remnants of the 12th Infantry. No horses. No reinforcements. The Confederates would strike again at dawn, and when they did, there would be no one left to stand.
His mind was drowning in despair when he heard the first whisper of silk against dead leaves.
A woman stood at the edge of the firelight. Tall and slender, her raven-black hair fell past her waist, merging with the shadows of her long cloak. Her skin was pale, luminescent in the moonlight, and her eyes—black as the void—pierced through him.
“General Monroe,” she spoke, her voice a melody of hunger and promise.
His breath hitched. “Who are you?”
“A friend,” she said, stepping forward, her boots making no sound. “Tell me, why do you sit in such sorrow?”
A Deal with the Darkness
His fingers tightened around his knee. “I’m losing this war. No men. No horses. Tomorrow, we die.”
She tilted her head, considering him. “Would you like to change that?”
He swallowed. “What do you mean?”
The woman knelt beside him, her delicate fingers trailing over his shoulder like cold silk. “I can give you victory. I can wipe your enemies from the earth. But all power comes with a price.”
Monroe’s desperation clawed at him. He had fought too hard, sacrificed too much. He could not let it end here. “What do you want?”
“An oath,” she whispered. “Swear yourself to me, and I will grant you what you seek.”
A shiver ran down his spine. “What… what are you?”
She smiled then, her lips stretching just a little too wide. “Does it matter?”
The fire crackled. His men lay broken, defeated. His enemies would show no mercy. To win—to survive—he had to say yes.
“I accept.”
Blood and Ritual
The moment the words left his lips, the air around them turned suffocatingly thick. The flames dimmed, and the shadows stretched unnaturally. The woman—no, the demon—rose, her eyes gleaming like a starless sky.
“Good.”
A low, guttural chant poured from her lips, a language older than time. The wind howled. The trees groaned. Something unseen coiled around Monroe’s chest, tightening with every whispered word.
“Blood must be spilled,” she murmured. “Bring me one who lingers at death’s door.”
Monroe hesitated. Then he turned. Private Samuel Hargrove—his youngest soldier, barely nineteen—lay nearby, coughing blood, his leg mangled beyond saving. He had hours left, maybe less.
Monroe clenched his jaw, then knelt beside the boy. “Sam…”
Hargrove’s glassy eyes met his. “General?”
“You’ve been a good soldier.” His voice was hoarse. “You’ve fought well.”
The boy tried to smile but failed. “Guess I’m not goin’ home, huh?”
Monroe swallowed his guilt. “No, son. You’re going home.”
Then he lifted his revolver and pulled the trigger.
The sound rang through the trees. The demon sighed in pleasure.
She knelt beside the fresh corpse, brushing her fingers over the bloodied forehead. Then she fed.
Monroe wanted to turn away, but his body was frozen. The way she drank—no, devoured—was inhuman. A darkness slithered from the boy’s body into her own, and as she rose, her lips were stained crimson.
“It is done,” she murmured.
A weight pressed down on Monroe’s chest. “What happens now?”
She smiled. “Now, you rest.”
The world blurred. His body collapsed against the tree. He felt his eyes shut, but he wasn’t tired. No—she was making him sleep.
Darkness swallowed him.
The Screams at Dawn
Monroe awoke to screams.
Not the screams of battle—these were wretched, unnatural. Howling, sobbing, gurgling. Terror.
He shot to his feet. The sun was barely rising, casting a gray light over the battlefield. He turned toward the enemy’s camp—
And froze.
Bodies. Torn, dismembered, scattered across the ground like discarded ragdolls. Limbs were twisted, spines snapped backward, faces frozen in expressions of agony. The earth was black with blood. Hundreds of men lay dead, their eyes hollowed out, their mouths stretched in silent screams.
And in the center of it all, she stood.
The Lady in Black.
She turned slowly to face him. Her face was streaked with blood, her lips dark and wet. She had feasted.
Monroe staggered backward. His stomach churned. “What—what did you do?”
She licked the corner of her mouth. “I won your war.”
His pulse pounded in his ears. “This… this isn’t war. This is slaughter.”
She stepped toward him, her gaze locking onto his. “Did you not ask for victory?”
His breath hitched. “Not like this.”
The demon smiled. “Then you should have been more specific.”
The Demon’s Claim
Her eyes gleamed in the dim light, filled with something ancient, something boundless. She reached out, her fingers grazing his cheek.
“You belong to me now, General.”
And he realized, in that moment, that he had not hired her.
He had unleashed her.
To be continued…stay tuned evey week for a new episode.
Meanwhile while you are waiting for the next episode of The Lady In Black, do not miss the : When Greed Meets Eternity: The Corruption of Father Dominic
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