In a secluded Romanian village, a bitter wind whistled through the barren trees on a late November night.

All was dark, save for a few candle flames, flickering behind shuttered windows.

Maria muttered a blessing under her breath as she rubbed garlic cloves across the wooden frame

of the cottage door.

The pungent scent mingled with the cold air, forming an invisible shield against whatever may lurk outside.

It was St. Andrew's Eve, a night of whispers and restless shadows, when the Stragoy

and Moroy were said to rise from the grave and roam among the living. In the barn, Maria's husband,

Andre, carefully hung a braided rope of garlic and drew a charcoal cross on the threshold

to protect the animals from harm. After finishing his protective rituals,

Andre returned to the cottage,

where he, Maria, and their daughter, Elvira,

heard the howl of a wolf, impossibly long and haunting

from somewhere deep in the moonless hills.

He and Maria exchanged uneasy glances,

recalling the old warning that on this night even the wolves might speak in human tongues.

No one in the village dared venture beyond their yards. The night of

November 29th into the 30th was known to these villagers as the night of the Stragoy, a time

suspended between autumn and winter when the usual rules of the world crumbled and things

long dead held sway once more.

Inside their small cottage, a single oil lamp cast trembling shadows on whitewashed walls and Elvira's face. The shadows mesmerized

Elvira until she grew sleepy. It was time for bed. But before she tucked herself in,

she placed a sprig of dried basil beneath her pillow, hoping to dream of her future husband,

...