Several disappearances and unexplained events have been registered shorty after the commercialization of an ancient statue linked to some legends from a mysterious place called "Reich der Finsternis" in eastern Germany, there is no know route leadin...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Black butterflies
The bugs took flight inside the hut. Bernard stepped back, visibly disturbed, watching as they circled around him. His unease deepened when the butterflies landed on his injured arm, still bandaged from Steffi's treatment. He stared at them intently, the sight of the insects making him increasingly anxious as their needle-like legs dug into his skin. They looked like creatures from some twisted underworld, harbingers of something terrible.
The insects paused, seemingly drawn to the scent of Bernard's blood. The agent's growing discomfort was palpable as he imagined them siphoning his vital fluids. He lost himself for a moment, mesmerized by the iridescent glow of their wings, and a flood of his worst memories washed over him. Chief among them was the mutilated body of a child, abused and discarded during that tragic mission in Arkansas—an image burned into his mind. The child's lifeless face seemed to scream at him, locked in eternal torment.
With a sharp jerk, Bernard shook his arm violently, trying to dispel both the insects and the haunting visions. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the sound of fluttering wings filled the warm air of the hut. The butterflies' movements were eerily synchronized, forming a spiraling vortex that ascended and vanished through a window, leaving behind a ghostly trail of flickering shadows.
"Relax," Chris said, watching Bernard as he checked his wounded arm. "They're just butterflies."
Liz, still shaken by the encounter, crossed her arms, her thoughts elsewhere.
"You know," she muttered, "I used to chase butterflies when I was a kid, back in Mom's garden. Even after I joined the DFPD, I'd catch a few on some of my trips. But I've never seen anything like this. Are you sure they're just harmless insects?"
Chris pressed his lips together, unsure of how to respond. Outside, the beating of wings grew louder, more butterflies gathering and stirring the agents' curiosity. Liz gestured for her companions to follow her and investigate.
They stepped out of the cabin and were met by a swarm of black butterflies swirling above something in the meadow. It was hard to make out in the darkness, so Chris turned on his flashlight. The beam revealed a larger-than-usual pool of dark blood, seeping from the carcass of a hare. The butterflies fed ravenously on the blood, like piranhas in a feeding frenzy. The scene was a grim reminder that death still stalked them, waiting for its next victim.
Without realizing it, Bernard became transfixed by the macabre dance of the butterflies. Disturbing images flooded his mind—violent and relentless—each more horrifying than the last. Screams of children echoed in his ears, dying in excruciating ways, and one of the voices sounded eerily like his son's. He lost his balance, his mind assaulted by dreadful visions of what awaited them.
Liz noticed her friend's distress, hearing his labored breathing and seeing the sweat dripping down his face. She rushed to his side as he collapsed to his knees, one hand clawing at the earth while the other pressed hard against his forehead, struggling to maintain composure.
