4 - The girl in the dungeon

The first thing Eira discovered when she regained consciousness was the suffocating pitch blackness enveloping her. Her eyelids fluttered open, but the overwhelming scent of rancid blood and rusted iron assaulted her senses, and she instinctively squeezed them shut again. 

Fear spiked through her like a knife to the gut. Darkness had always been her greatest terror. It clung to her skin like a thousand crawling insects, sending shivers down her spine. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the darkness around her, the shadowy figures her mind conjured lurking just out of sight, waiting to close in on her. 

A cold sweat broke out across her skin, though she could feel the chilly air pressing in from all sides. Her pulse quickened, and her fingers searched frantically for the familiar bedside lamp she always kept on. Naomi, her roommate, usually tolerated Eira’s need for the soft glow of the lamp throughout the night, though she herself preferred total darkness. But now, no switch met her desperate fingers. There was no light to chase away the shadows that crept closer with every breath.

When she finally blinked her eyes open again, her heart pounded louder in her chest. After several tense seconds, her vision adjusted to the scant light filtering in from a source somewhere beyond the walls confining her. Her pupils dilated, taking in the minimal illumination, and as they did, fear wrapped itself tighter around her.

She wasn’t in her room.

The space around her was alien, a cold, stone dungeon-like cell. Three of the walls were made from roughly hewn black bricks, their surface damp with age and moss. The sight alone told her this place was old, older than anything she had ever been in. The fourth wall, however, was different—thick, rusted iron bars stretched from floor to ceiling, cutting her off from whatever lay beyond.

Eira jerked upright, too fast. The pain slammed into her skull like a hammer, forcing her back down with a choked gasp. Her hands flew to her head as she struggled to calm the throbbing that pulsed behind her eyes. Beneath her, she realized, was not her familiar bed. Instead, she was lying on a hard slab of metal, freezing to the touch, and bolted into the wall like a prison bunk. There were no sheets, no comfort. Only cold, and more fear. 

Her eyes flickered toward the massive nails driven into the walls, heavy iron shackles hanging ominously from each one. She didn’t need to touch them to know they were meant to restrain someone—someone like her.

She swallowed hard, the dryness in her throat making it difficult. Dust covered the floor, kicked up with every shallow movement she made. The faint, acrid scent of dried mud mixed with blood clung to the stale air, stinging her nose. 

How had she ended up here? She racked her brain, trying to piece together the fragmented memories of the last night. Malcolm's Shack—she had finished her shift there. That much she could recall. Then the bar. She’d sat there, nursing a whiskey, letting the alcohol burn away the day’s stress. Then her mother’s grave… But after that?

Her hands flew to her neck, fingers pressing against the skin there. Two puncture marks. Small, but deep. Her breath hitched. 

A vampire. She had been attacked by a vampire.

She hadn’t been imagining it. The holes were real, the truth sinking in with a terrifying clarity. Her body went rigid, the pain in her skull fading into the background as her mind raced through the implications. 

Her thoughts spiraled back to Orilon, the town she had called home. A sleepy, picturesque place, filled with tales of mythical creatures and strange happenings. But they were just that—tales. Legends spun to attract tourists and curious visitors. Or so she had thought. Yet here she was, bruised, bleeding, locked in a dungeon, and every horror story she had ever heard was beginning to feel a lot more real.

Her pulse thundered in her ears as she stood up slowly, every muscle aching, the weight of exhaustion clinging to her like a cloak. She stumbled toward the iron bars, gripping them tight, the cold metal biting into her palms. She rattled them desperately, but they held firm.

A sudden sound reached her—a muffled echo. Footsteps. Several of them, approaching from the hallway outside her cell. The noise sent another wave of panic crashing through her.

Her mind screamed for her to shout, to demand an explanation, but something told her to stay quiet. If this was a vampire’s lair, silence might be her only chance of survival. 

Eira dropped back onto the cold bed, swallowing her fear and biting down on the scream building in her throat. The steps grew louder, closer. Three figures appeared just outside her cell door, their faces obscured by shadow.

She barely dared to breathe, gripping the edge of the bed as though her life depended on it. Maybe it did. 

Was this real? Was she trapped in some twisted nightmare? 

The bruises on her neck told her it was real. And she was in more danger than she could possibly comprehend.

Her eyes locked onto the figures outside, dread coiling tighter inside her gut. She took one deep breath, murmuring a silent prayer to any god that might still be listening, and braced herself for whatever came next.