A handful of villagers huddled in a moonlit graveyard.

Their lanterns cast trembling halos of light on crooked headstones.

They began to dig into the wet earth.

The scent of damp soil and decay rose as they unearthed a coffin.

An old woman among the group whispered a prayer under her breath, clutching a rosary so tight,

her knuckles blanched. They came to the site that night to banish a whore that

had stalked their nights, a whore that once was a man they knew. Inside was the corpse of a recently

buried farmer, a man who died weeks prior.

Yet, as they looked down on him in that moment, his body appeared strangely intact.

Someone among the group gasped,

in the wavering light, they could see fresh blood smeared at the corners of his mouth,

trickling from his nose. His cheeks bloomed with a ruddy flush, as if he'd fed well in death.

A young man among them recoiled, voice quivering, dear God, he looks alive.

Their eyes darted between the corpse and the dark beyond the graves.

For nights, villagers had awakened to a heavy weight on their chest, after nightmares of this

dead neighbor crouched at their bedside. Cows had been found drained of blood. Family members

had fallen ill. The desperate whisper spread. Vampire, revenant. And so, there they were, shovel and stake

in hand to deliver their village from evil. Two men hauled the bloated corpse out of the coffin.

Its skin was unnaturally fresh, not a hint of rot.

A hunter held a sharpened wooden stake, his hands shaking. Do it, urged the blacksmith, wiping sweat

from his brow despite the chill.

The hunter positioned the stake over the corpse's chest, right above his unbeating heart.

...