Nightingale

Prologue

 1880 | England

          The night gleams with fire and is plagued with thunder and rain. I watched the fire dance with its reflection throughout the oil lamp. The sound of my pencil scribbling on my parchment entered my ears. It helps me to relax in some ways.

          The storm had grown considerably stronger. My heart would skip a beat whenever the tree branches outside slapped against the window. I sigh heavily. I returned my attention to my parchment. I found myself lost in words.

          I placed my palm on my forehead as I tapped the tip of my pen on the parchment.

          My eyebrows met as frustration lingered on my head. I couldn't complete my feedback on my great-great ancestor's book - or I would say journal – as reality and fantasy battled in my head.

          Although this journal seems old and unpredictable, what makes it more ineffably unique is its every storyline written by someone with a creative mind. I sometimes find it amusing and uncanny at the same time.

          I wonder what he means about the "Devils roaming around the town." And "Long claws and red-eyed creatures who killed 72 wives of the wealthy men."

          There was something stuck in my throat.

          There is a statement here that says...

          "The night had come again with blood and a welcome with death. The devil had moved again. He had taken 5 lives of innocent's children. Monstrous and vile. He's the death. Must be perished. The monster must be killed. They should have known...They should have warned..."

          I stared at the words as cold brushed against my skin. I brushed my foot at the back of my other foot and breathed in.

          "Who's he?"

          The journal was written by Eanruig Nightingale and grandma said it was set between 15th century.

          Ever since I laid my eyes on this journal, I have always been curious about these creatures he's been mentioning. Someone would say that this is just purely fictional; created by imagination. But it was so detailed that somehow everything is being documented over centuries.

          Like he's been watching everywhere... every time...

          I jumped as the window made a sound again. My heart quickened as I observed the window.

          "Should I perhaps close the curtains?"

          My eyes switched to Nikolai, who was laying on his back – feet on the wall – while reading Hamlet by Shakespeare.