The Village of Sierra Monet

A detective receives haunting letters that eventually leads him to a scenario of terror so horrible it is unimaginable by the rational mind of humans.

The village of Sierra Monet

A short story By:

Ian Titian

 

It was in the darkest night in the bleak Decemeber, that I began receiving the haunting letters that eventually led me into a terror most unimaginable by the rational mind. Its cursive style, written in an eerily bloody red ink, only added to the horror of their contents. Nightmares, one could get only by holding those cold, ancient parchments in one’s hand and reading them. Below is the first letter I received. It arrived on my front porch after I heard a knock on my door, on December 13th. Most curious as it maybe, when I opened the door, there was not one living soul there, none within sight even. Only the letter and nothing more.

Help us, man from the outer world, for someone is murdering my beloved people in the small, quaint, formerly peaceful village in which I live in and love. I ... there’s no time to explain over this letter outsider, just come immediately, or more poor, innocent souls will be torn  from their fleshy bodies.

There was no address on the parchment, and it was not contained in any manner of envelope whatsoever. Curious as I was, I kept the letter and held on to it, though whilst ignoring its bizarre request.

Days passed peacefully, with no more annoyances nor mysterious letters, and I lived my daily life as a local detective rather peacefully, albeit interesting and busy, solving mysteries and finding people being my most humble occupation and all. I thought the letter was a mere prank pulled off by one of the neighborhood kids, knowing my reputation as a detective. “Tis’ a prank a nothing more.” I assured myself.

However, it turned out that wasn’t the case at all. In fact, it’s rather far from it. Four days after the first letter arrived, I heard the same manner of knocking on my door I heard days prior, and opening it, I found naught but yet another mysterious letter still.

Sierra Monet, come quickly. Like I said, more and more people are getting killed even as you read this letter, and their mysterious deaths are most disturbing, nightmarish and horrific I might even add. One common theme I have found near each and every one of their corpses is that disturbing letters were found near each of the bodies, taunting me. They ... nevermind, I’ll just enclose one of them here. Please help us, Detective Morgan.

“What is this?” I thought to myself for as I looked down, I noticed yet another piece of parchment was on the ground, one I had not noticed earlier. Horrific, and even more bizarre than the previous ones, below were its contents.

Yet another one of your precious citizens I have killed in cold blood, to sustain my own. What are you gonna do, priest? Just wait around until there’s no one left but yourself.

“Tis’ some elaborate prank some local kid had pulled.” I assured myself as those strange letters of bizarre origins still laid on my cold palms, skeptic that I was, though as skeptical as a skeptic detective may be, I still found thoughts of unnerving nature related to those letters run around in my mind, and only as the ghostly winds blow swiftly through my open window on that cold night, enchanting and entrancing my uneasy mind with their airy, whistling sound, did I manage to finally fall asleep.

The next day, I decided to put my mind into finally doing some research into those letters, for thoughts of it continued to plague my poor mind, rendering it unable to concentrate on work. Time not wasted, I decided to try and cure my curiosity by going to the local library, and as the unnerving thoughts of which I spoke continue to haunt me, I searched and searched, and finally found it. A book, called ‘Sierra Monet: A History.’

 

I walked home with the book in hand, planning to read it through the night, in hopes that it will help me fight the weird thoughts that became more and more frequent in my head since I received that second and third letters the day prior. Little did I know, I would be receiving the fourth letter, that very evening. It was just laid on my front porch as usual, and a nerve struck me as soon as I walked up into it. Written on it were only two sentences.

Please, I beg of you. Hurry up and get here.

Once again I pocketed the letter and went into my chamber immediately, and in there, as soon as I sat down and opened the book with a racing heart, I saw that the first page held not many words. Only a map, a map leading to Sierra Monet. It was not far from where I lived, and so I decided to drive up to the location according to the map early in the morrow.

The rising sun was hidden behind the clouds as I started up my car the next day. The weather was cold and gloomy as usual, for once again I remind you, it was in the bleak December. The car, irritating as it usually was, had trouble starting up, and the trip to the mysterious village was not smooth, for I had to navigate the car through rough unpaved terrain to finally be able to arrive to the secluded village. By the time I did, it was nighttime.

The village itself, was not a pretty or refreshing sight to behold either, especially not for one with troubled mind, though I suppose one could argue that makes sense, somewhat because the root of said unease was the village in the first place. It was depressing and bleak. The montonous white snow covered the rooftops and the paved streets, which stretched on straight before being divided into a fork at the far end of my view. All the houses within sight had thatched roof and stone walls, and rather curiously all the doors were closed.

I immediately wrapped my arms around my body as the cold winter wind I was so familiar with greeted me as soon as I got out of my car. It was somewhat different though, something about the atmosphere, for one it was much colder, colder than any other place I’ve ever been to in the bleak, bleak December.

From the distance I suddenly spotted, a white male with a long white beard and a pale face, dressed in all black clothing approach me. The man looked like a rabbi, though rather curiously, intriguingly, the man was also wearing a golden cross necklace, glimmering in contrast against his all black attire, though he himself, also stood out in contrast against the piles of snow around him.

“Good evening.” I greeted as soon as I felt the man was within reach of my voice. He didn’t reply immediately. He just continued to walk towards me. His expression was ... depressing, to say the least.

Yes, the man looked like he was depressed, but emanating from his presence was also a depressing aura. His mouth was curved into a frown and his eyes were empty, almost devoid of feelings, almost tearful, but not quite. The dark rings under his eyes were sharp in contrast to his pale, wrinkled face.

“You took so long ... he’s taken so much more ...” Muttered the old man in barely more than a whisper as he reached me. There he stood, only a couple feet from myself.

“So ... you’re the one who sent me these letters?” I asked as I pulled the bloody letters out of the pocket of my snow covered brown coat and showed it to him.

“The letters ... shove them back into your car! He must not know! He must not know that I’ve told you! He ... hurry!” Said the man as his voice cracked. He pushed me towards my car by my shoulders. Truly strange, but I did as I was told nonetheless.

The old man then proceeded to lead me to the snowy street. The eyes of the other villagers eerily peeked with despair from the edge of the curtains behind their closed windows as I walked past the houses. Only that and nothing more. They made nary a sound, and showed no more than their eyes and fingers holding the curtain, their dark face hidden on the other side, obscured by the obviously uneasy and uncomfortable darkness, and once my own curious eyes met theirs, they immediately retreated and closed the white curtains. Left and right it was the same, fearful eyes peeking from the houses, staring right at me.

Despair, longing and fear, oh all the emotions I could immediately capture in their sad eyes. The village got more and more depressing, yet curious as I got further and further.  However, I didn’t think that was only the start of the horror that’s to come.

 

“They’re only afraid ... leave them be.” Whispered the old man weakly. He led me to take the left path on the fork of the road at the end of the straight street, leading me to another part of the village, and all, once again all the villagers behaved the same, peeking from the edge of their windows, half their face obscured by the curtains they were holding with only two fingers, staring right at me, observing, injecting more and more feelings of unease into my veins. “They’re only afraid, just leave them be ... it’s not their fault...” Repeated the old man.

As the both of us continued to tread the path, we eventually passed a large graveyard covered in snow. Some of the stones were jagged and had cracks, but some looked like they were fresh new. Above the gate was a large sign with the words ‘Cold and quiet, the peaceful dead slumbers under the silver snow. May they lay undisturbed for the rest of the long winter’  Written on it.

Under the silver snow, as if the village had always been bound under its freezing grasp.

Weak and weary, my legs and mind began to fail me as the path continued on. Though the time I have walked that night could not yet even be counted by the measure of hours, something about the atmosphere of the cold and depressing village, along with the constant torment of those bloody god-forsaken letters really brought down the spirit of my poor soul. Worse though, was the fact that by that point I knew that it wasn’t all a mere joke pulled for laughs by the local youth of my neighborhood, but an actual case of mystics not yet answered as I followed the priest in everlasting curiosity. Something was really ... off. Horribly off. Something was wrong with that village, and my thoughts kept dashing to the constant recurring deaths of the villagers mentioned in the unmentionable letters I was given, yet forced to hide.

Unfortunately by that point my mind had already decided to follow along. There was no going back. Grave mistake though, that was, as I would later learn.

* * *

The mysterious priest of deathly presence I was following finally stopped in front of a rather large house, and that was one secluded from the rest of the village, though just as depressing and dark, if not more. The ghostly darkness of its shadow was cast upon the pure virgin snow surrounding the house, and the thatched roof above looked like it could collapse any moment under the ever growing pressure. Large that house was, yes, however never before in my life have I hestitated as bad to enter such a simple residence of a simple human being. That was all I had to do, follow the old priest into the house, but it took me a while to finally be able to do so. What greeted me inside did not ease my worries nor my racing heart either though, quite unfortunately.

There were no lamps inside the house, and only after the old man lit a lantern did a source of light illuminate its interior walls. He then proceeded to light the fireplace, and in front of it were two chairs facing each other and a glass table in the middle. That was where the old priest wanted us to sit, though I hestitated and looked around the room before I did. Walls of bookshelves filled with ancient books stretched high to the ceiling around us. There were four windows within the dimly lit room, and in the corner was a staircase leading to a door on the second floor. That was it, and nothing more.

“My name is Rolando, you may call me Father Rolando, for reasons I believe I need not explain.” Said the old priest, revealing his name.

“Of course, my name is ...” Before I could reply though, in his hoarse voice Father Rolando interrupted me.

“You’re Detective Morgan. I know.”

Rather surprised, but not really after all that I’ve experienced the past few days, with doubt and contemplation I finally asked, “Father Rolando ... about those letters ...”

“Do not speak of them loudly around here. He might here us. We never know where he is. He might be lurking in the shadows around us, even this very moment.” Whispered Father Rolando as he leaned his face closer to my own, the light of the lantern in front of us illuminating and clearly defining every wrinkle on his despairing, worn out face.

“Who is he, Father Rolando?” I asked.

“He who’s been murdering all the villagers one by one of course. The demon.” Answered Father Rolando. At that moment, a gust of unfriendly wind, seeming of a lost soul burst into the room through one of the unclean windows, making the fire in the fireplace, which warmth I could not feel, shake, as if to die out and envelop us in the familiar darkness.

It didn’t though, and continued to crackle, sending sparks of its pathetic flames into the floor around it.

“This is risky, he could hear us ...” Whispered Father Rolando.

“But pardon me, Father Rolando.” I began to speak, stuttery and trembly though my voice was, with the hint of fear showing in such clarity. “I do not know anything about this at all. The letters which you gave me, those were the only reason I even came. You need to tell me everything, for if you don’t, I fear I won’t be able to help.”

“There’s a demon in this town, an ancient one ... it’s part of the local history, his name is ... Vic Terradame. Legends speak of him waking up from his grave and terrorizing the citizens of this very village, once a peaceful one, sucking their blood.” Explained Father Rolando, as yet another uncomfortable gust of wind entered the room through the creaking open window.

“A Vampire?” I asked, the fear still very clear in the tone of my voice.

“One would argue, but more dangerous than the tales of lore ... he comes back to life once every thousand years to turn every single unfortunate soul who just happens to live here in this village into a demon like him. A Vampire.” Continued Father Rolando.

“But how can I help, Father Rolando?” I asked.

“The prophecy tells that only a stranger, one not yet put under his influence, can end his life, once and for all. A thousand years ago, the chosen stranger failed, and so the vampire lord continues to live on, and has already awakened this year, and lives he has already claimed. The prophecy tells that when the time comes, he could ressurect any of the victims he’s killed to become his servants. He hasn’t yet, fortunately, but that’s the reason I called you. You must not fail like the man a thousand years ago ...”

“But how can I fulfill the prophecy, father? How can I kill this vampire lord?” I asked.

“I do not know, but I do hope the answer will enlighten you ... very soon I might add. Every single night he takes a new victim.” Said Father Rolando. He stood up, and walked towards the door. The creaking sound of his footsteps so unnerving, synced to my own racing heartbeat.

“Father Rolando!” I called out, a thousand questions I still needed to ask, but the old bearded priest never so much as turned around. There he just stood in the doorway of the dimly lit chamber.

“You’re my only hope ...” He whsipered weakly, though audibly, before exiting and slamming the door behind him, and there I was left alone in the dark chamber as yet another eerie and unwelcomed gust of wind blew inside. So many questions yet unanswered.

A vampire village I have found myself in, burdened with the task of slaying the grand master of them all, risking my life, and with nary a word of detail nor support from any of the villagers I was supposed to save, not even the priest, whom I found to be completely lacking of the warmth a normal human being should always have. His mere presence was deathly, I thought.

Any sane or rational man would just leave by that point I was in, and I would too, if not for my undying curiosity regarding the matter. Once again I must sort through my mind, trying to figure out the answers to the questions, the dozens of them, still unanswered in my head.

“Once every thousand years ... and for what reason, if the legend persists, do people still live in this depressing and secluded village? And if the stranger who was in my stranger supposedly failed in his task, wouldn’t that have meant the vampire lord have won?”

How very strange, and the mere thought that struck me immediately sent a cold chill down my spine, a chill colder than the winds of the bleak December weather. The thought that proposed an answer  to and connected the two of my previously unanswered questions.

“The vampire lord did win, and that’s why the citizens are behaving ever so strangley, they are all vampires.” That was the thought, and it entered my uneasy mind like a soft airy voice just whispered in my ears. Suddenly though, I remembered what I had but not had the chance to show the priest, Father Rolando, and that was the book ‘Sierra Monet: A History’ that I was keeping in the inner pocket of my coat the whole time. There it was, I checked, and I read it shortly thereafter, illuminated by the light of the fireplace.

“How curious ...” I muttered to myself as I began turning from page to page, only to uncover more questions than answers.

The village of Sierra Monet was founded circa 6th century B.C. but clear recorded history of the village didn’t surface until the seventh centure A.D.

Though the first few pages revealed nothing too important and made no mention of the supposed vampire count, Vic Terradame, instead focusing on the geography and cultural history of Sierra Monet, the next few pages began to confuse and confound me, as it would to any weary rational mind.

It was reported that in the year 965, a young gentleman named Ainsley Addams received a letter from a man named Vic Terradame, inviting him to the village. He documented his trip in a personal journal. There, he wrote that Vic Terradame was actually a demonic man that sought after ‘the blood of the living’ by biting into the neck of the villagers. His written documentation of his experiences there began on 13th December 965, when he claimed to have received the invitation letter.

He wrote that he had to fight the vampire lord by means of stabbing him in the chest multiple times, and that he prevailed in the end, freeing the village from the curse of the count, Vic Terradame. It was not clear how the public reacted to his claims at the time, though a local legend and superstition regarding the return of the supposed ‘vampire count’ once every thousand years did begin to surface in the village around the time Ainsley Addams’ journal received public attention. Expeditions to the secluded village have been carried throughout the years, though even to this day, it has not yet been proven whether or not it was fact and thus is just perceived as a mere local legend started by Addams back in the tenth century. Included in Addams’ journal were sketches of what Vic Terradame looked like, along with notes of his traits and abilities. The only other thing that supports his claims other than the journal is the discovery of a locked crypt with the name ‘Vic Terradame’ engraved above the door in the local graveyard by tourists in 1946.

Local villagers however, refused and forbid their intentions of bringing a whole documentary crew to open the crypt, claiming that it might disturb the evil spirit of the vampire lord. Out of respect, the outsiders agreed and the crypt remains closed to this day, and Ainsley Addams’ claims remain as just an urban legend instead of proven history. The village of Sierra Monet continues to lose tourist interest every year due to its uncomfortable seclusion and the infamous unfriendly behaviour of the local villagers.

How the story contradicted Father Rolando’s unnerved me, but I ruled it out as the historian’s fault, perhaps having misinterpreted either the man named Ainsley Addams’ journal or the local legend told by the locals. More curiosities arose in my mind as I pondered, “Who won, Vic Terradame or Ainsley Addams?”

Deep within my cold and still uneasy heart however, burned a desire to know the truth.

That very night I trotted the snowy streets, and the first step I took to uncovering the mystery was to find Vic Terradame’s unopened crypt mentioned in the book.

Mysterious noises, almost like moaning and groaning of despairing animals, were heard the complex of houses afar, but I ignored them and went straight into the graveyard. There I stumbled and slipped, holding on to the cold, snow covered grave stones as I walked. Their jagged appearances under the snow, a painful reminder of mortality, their bodies buried and eventually forgotten under the snow. A rough sight in an already rough and depressing terrain, and even more creepy was when I finally stumbled into what I was looking for. The Crypt.

Old and ancient with its stone walls and roof cracked in many areas, I ran my fingers across them and read aloud, “Vic Terradame.” And that’s when I noticed something about the door, something yet even more eerie and mysterious ...

It was unlocked, and the lock itself was lying on the white snow right beneath my feet. I was startled as I accidentally kicked it away.

Painful thoughts of what horror the truth may actually hold, doubt and curiosity conflicted about in my poor mind as my pupils dilated and my face began to sweat. In the end however, my curiosity won over my body and slowly, and with trembling hands I pushed the crypt door open. How I wished I remembered the old saying, ‘curiosity kills the cat’ when I did so.

Much to my surprise, the interior of the crypt was very bright in comparison to the darkness I had been getting used to since arriving in that secluded village, the one I was anticipating as the stone door of the crypt swung open. Lit torches decorated the walls and illuminated the whole interior. Empty it was, except for the coffin in the middle ... the open coffin in the middle.

With caution and doubt I approached, not knowing what to expect nor hope for, and as I got close enough to take a peek, I stopped and did so, making sure that I was at a safe distance, should some unsightly demon of the foulest form were to lunge at me. It didn’t, but unfortunately, the term horrific was still an understatement of what I did see.

A corpse, pale and in relatively perfect condition for one whose age was reportedly over a thousand, odd, though not grotesque nor rotten. It was the corpse of man with brown hair, wearing a very old english attire. Both his attire and body were very well preserved, though the latter was whiter than snow. Another odd thing about his appearance was that there was a gaping hole on the left side of his chest, where his heart ought to be. Dried blood stained the suit around that particular area.

 

The corpse’s expression symbolized pure agony and pain. The lifeless eyes were bulging out, wide open, with the pupils rolled all the way up the sockets, and the mouth was gaping open as well, as dry as a corpse’s mouth could get.

I stood horrified, confused, and as my heart raced like it was about to pop out of my chest, I held up the book and ran my fingers through the pages, flipping them fast, checking, and thus confirming my thoughts thereafter. The light from the torches illuminated the book perfectly and I could see exactly what I was looking for. The illustrations of Vic Terradame that Ainsley Addams made. It was him, the corpse before me was the supposed vampire lord himself, Vic Terradame. Below the ghastly yet accurate illustrations were some notes, chilling to read:

The horrific vampire lord that I faced, be careful for thou might not know what he will look like if he were to rise again.

Vic Terradame, he has the ability to shape shift, and whilst the form that I fought and buried in the crypt was that of a regular middle aged gentleman like illustrated above, should he rise again, he could take the form of another being, for his ability was to transfer his celestial consciousness into the weak mind, when his old body he deemed already unworthy to contain him. That being said, and though he swore, and I quote, ‘I will rise again to try once more what I could not succeed now because of your meddling! I will try once more in a thousand years whatever the cost! Mark thy words!’ he should not be able to steal another body if the crypt remains undisturbed, for I have run a stake through his heart, rendering his body useless, and together with the locals, sealed his tomb. He would not be able to transfer his conciousness from the body I have defeated to another if no soul gets close enough to it. He would be alive yes, but dormant and would not wake unless someone enters his crypt and get within his perimeter. DO NOT OPEN THE CRYPT!

That being said, if someone have opened the crypt by the time another is reading this, presumably a millenia after the time I wrote it, the time he swore he would return, then beware! For once again I remind thou, thou might not know what form he has taken, what body he has stolen! That’s why I will point out several of his distinguishing features, ones that he will always have no matter what form he has taken. Those are as follows: Bright green eyes, pale deathly skin, and sharp, prominent fangs.

I dropped the book to the ground, and fear flooded my veins as my heart continued to beat faster and faster. It was then, that a deep menacing voice suddenly called from behind my frozen, trembling body. “So you’re here.”

Turning around, I saw that it was Father Rolando, though not quite the same as before. Something was off about his appearance, something about his eyes ... and teeth.

 

Bright green and glowing his eyes were, and long, sharp fangs potruded from his mouth as he opened them slightly. His lips were no longer curved into the frown that I assosciated with the elderly priest, but instead curved into a small smile, unnerving all the same, with his eyes glimmering, relfecting the light of torches as he took a few steps closer to me. “You’ve gotten yourself into a poor location, have you not? And I thought I couldn’t lure you into this very crypt, that’s why I decided to lead you into that old priest’s house instead, but now here we are ... perfect.” He said in the deep, menacing voice, clearly not that of Father Rolando’s.

“Y-you’re not Father Rolando! Y-you’re the demon himself, Vic Terradame.” I stammered as I forced my shaky legs to back away step by step as he got closer and closer as well.

“You know ... I never liked that nickname, the demon. I’d rather have you call me Count Terradame.” Commented the vampire priest.

“B-but ... w-what happened to Father Rolando?” I asked.

“Father Rolando’s already been dead since even before you came here. Foolish man, he was. He opened my crypt on the 1000th anniversary of my last death.” Answered Vic Terradame as my back pressed against the coffin. “Without asking many questions, I immediately jumped into his body and began my struggle to take over. As my soul and his wrestled for control of his body, he told me he’d let me take control so long as I give him power and glory. Such a foolish man, I pretended to agree, and for a while I shared this pathetic body with him, writing those letters to you and mailing them with the assistance of my lovely bats. I’ve been sapping the life out of him since, but I let him take control of this body one last time when I used him to lure you into that old house. Now, he’s truly dead. I expelled his soul just tonight, and used my full power to resurrect all the villagers I’ve killed.”

“W-what ... t-this can’t be ... w-why did you call me h-here though? W-what’s the real purpose?” I trembled and shook.

“I need to spread my influence. That was also the reason I invited that man Ainsley Addams a thousand years ago, so that I could take over his body and escape from  this village. From that point on, I plan to switch from body to body, infecting and turning more and more people in other towns into vampires, my minions. The spread would become much easier that way, much quicker, and on a much larger scale. Eventually, us vampires would rule the world. I failed though, a thousand years ago, and that blasted devil Ainsley Addams imprisoned me in this dying body in the crypt, with a stake through my heart. I was conscious, but unable to move, and since they locked the crypt I was unable to escape. I vowed with last bits of my power to return after a slumber of one thousand years.”

“It was no ordinary vow too, of course, I used my last strength back then to ensure I would get my revenge and achieve my goal after a thousand years. And it worked see, when old and weak-willed Father Rolando came along and opened the crypt. The generations of local villagers that came after apparently knew of my existence as some sort of a local legend thanks to Addams, and that’s what prompted the old fool Rolando to open the crypt in the end.” Finished the old vampire demon. “I believe I don’t need to explain anything else to you, just stay still and it’ll be over quick.” He said as he screeched a most horrible scream while opening his mouth, bracing his fangs as if to bite.

At that very moment, as if by some sort of force that I never knew existed within me, I, with all courage and strength, ran and plowed my body to the old vampire, knocking him into the ground before running away from the crypt without looking back.

How unfortunate that it didn’t end there, though. Outside the crypt, in the snowy graveyard were rows after rows of pale vampires, all with glowing eyes and potruding fangs. They were staggering towards me, moaning as they did. Not only did they fill the whole graveyard, but the streets in front of it too. Their rows stretched on for miles. I was trapped, no better than a rat in a mousetrap.

The short surge of courage that washed over me inside the crypt immediately vanished upon witnessing the ghastly sight, and suddenly Vic Terradame spoke from behind me, “I already told you, I ressurected all of my previous victims right after expelling Rolando’s soul tonight. The mistake I made a thousand years ago was that I waited to ressurect them. Before doing so, I planned to kill and get Ainsley Addams’ body first. It didn’t work out, for as I had not planned, he overpowered me and I didn’t have back up to help. The case is different now though.”

“Just be still, and all of this horror will be over within a flash, and trust me, it would better if you don’t put up a fight against me as I move my soul into your body.” Those words were the last spoken words I heard before the count grabbed my paralyzed shoulder. He turned me around and forced me to look at his old, wrinkled, bearded face. The vampiric face of what once was Father Rolando. After one final smile, with his bright green eyes observing my fear-stricken face, he opened his mouth wide, and screeched.

That was the last of me, Detective Morgan in consciousness, but not in body, for that now belongs to the vampire count himself, Vic Terradame. He has succeeded in achieving what he did not a thousand years ago.