Ethereal Chronicles

Wulfram had been chasing the taste of adventure when he arrived at the old village. In his future loomed an arranged marriage, and the inheritance of a kingdom he did not care for. He desired one final taste of freedom before he committed to a life of duty.

Just before the village entrance at a crossroad hemmed by thinning trees, Wulfram came upon a strange shrine. It seemed almost alive. Flies scattered at his approach, and though it resembled an offering, the wood appeared to bleed; dark streaks that ran like veins with a foul, decaying aroma.

The shrine depicted a slender woman, unclothed and carved in unsettling detail. Dozens of soaked handkerchiefs lay strewn at her feet, damp and discoloured.

It was an unpleasant sight, and Wulfram did not linger long before he pressed on toward the settlement, seeking a place to rest for the night.

There was only one tavern, old and quiet, nestled at the heart of the small square. Its rusted sign sagged sadly, swaying with the breath of wind, though reluctant to fall.

Inside, the place was nearly deserted. A cluster of old men hunched over their mugs, sharing one last draught before retiring for the night. In a shadowed corner, a cloaked woman sat alone, cradling a tankard of ale.

The young woman behind the counter eyed Wulfram warily as he asked if he might have a room for the night. She obliged without complaint, sliding a heavy key across the wood. But as he reached for it, her voice lowered.

“You’d best not venture out before dawn,” She said. “These are the days of the Red Veil.”

Wulfram raised an eyebrow.

She glanced towards the shuttered windows, then leaned in. “A time of sacrifice and ritual. The Plague Maiden walks now, she who holds sway over our land. It is our duty to appease her. If not, bad things happen here. Bad, bad things.”

The prince nodded at her warning, though he understood little. He disregarded it in his mind, paid for a room, and retired without another word.

He fell asleep quickly, and was sleeping peacefully before he awoke to a loud wailing. The sound was raw, too agonised to be ignored.

Slipping from bed, Wulfram crept to the window overlooking the village square.

In the center stood another large wooden shrine of the Plague Maiden, illuminated by a ring of candles. The stone face was serene and cruel all at once, draped in crimson sashes and offerings; nuts, flowers, and what could only be blood, smeared along the base.

To the left of the shrine, a girl no older than fifteen winters was being dragged forwards by two women. Her hands were bound, a blindfold pulled tight across her flushed face. The wailing came from her lips, desperate and ragged.

Wulfram could not bring himself to look away. A cold fury coiled in his chest, driving him to dress quickly and strap on his weapons. Once he had pulled his cloak over his head, he slipped out unseen.

By the time Wulfram reached the middle of the square, two more women had approached to surround the girl, raising curved athames that glinted cruelly in the candlelight.

With a cry, Wulfram launched himself in between them.

The circle broke in chaos, figures scattering as he barrelled through. He caught the girl in his arms and ran with as much speed as he could.

Only after they had put the village far behind them did Wulfram stop. He turned to the girl, breathless, and gently pulled the blindfold from her face. Her eyes blinked against the darkness, wide and wet with tears.

Wulfram then untied the cords cutting into her wrists, careful not to worsen the angry welts there.

“Are you alright?” He asked, scanning for other signs of injury.

The girl shook her head, slowly backing away. “You don’t know what you’ve done.”

Before Wulfram could utter another word, she turned and slipped into the thicket of trees. He stood frozen for a moment, stunned at her words, which hung in the air like a curse. After an hour or so, once the panic of the attack had calmed, he returned back to the village.

He made his way through the inn without incident, intending to rest what little remained of the night. At first light, he would be gone.

But Wulfram slept far longer than he intended.

By the time he awoke, the village was once more in chaos. Voices echoed through the tavern, brittle with fear, spreading gossip like wildfire. Livestock had begun dying in the night. Earlier that morning, a crazed man had staggered into the common room, clutching boil-clustered skin.

A plague had come.

The elders had declared a total lockdown. Nobody was to leave or enter the village, not even Wulfram.

A knot of foreboding rising in his chest, Wulfram returned to his room to stay for another day.

That evening, the sky darkened early. In the darkness, a swarm descended upon the village. Flies came like smoke in a churning mass, battering windows, blanketing doors, their bodies squirming together like a living blanket. The homes they managed to breach fell ill within hours, infection spreading through every person they touched.

By the following morning, the air had turned foul. Twenty-one lives had gone in the night. Nine more animals were found glassy eyed in their pens.

The square began to fill with villagers descending in a panic, queuing to consult the Plague Maiden. They wept and prayed, watering the wood with their blood, each plea more fervent than the next. But no attempt would be heard. The Plague Maiden would offer no mercy.

Sleep did not come easy for Wulfram that night. Guilt plagued his thoughts, tight and insistent, as did the gnawing feeling that he would never reach home again.

Perhaps an hour after the light had been extinguished, a sound stirred him.

A low rasp grated, followed by three long knocks against his door.

Slowly, Wulfram pulled himself from bed. He was many things, a coward not being one of them. But as his hand neared the handle, the door exploded inward, crashing to the floor in a spray of splinters.

Before him stood a strange woman, floating inches above the ground. Her white dress rippled without wind, and her skin glowed with a ghostly pallor. Most of her face was hidden by the red handkerchief which had been tied across her nose and mouth. But her eyes, narrowing red, burned into Wulfram, and she gripped his wrist with a clawed hand to lead him out into the square.

The surviving villagers dared not move from the safety of their homes, watching instead through gaps in the veils of clustered flies still plastered against their windows.

Once in the square the Plague Maiden flung Wulfram to the stone ground. He landed hard, grunting as a sharp crack of pain shot through his knees. He looked up just as she raised a hand to untie the red cloth at her face.

Wulfram’s breath caught in his throat. He could not speak or scream, though horror clouded his vision as his eyes befell not a woman but a rotting skeleton.

The yawning mouth opened wide, and from its depths came a hideous wail.

The sound that poured from the Plague Maiden struck Wulfram like a curse. Pain lanced his skull, and rolling nausea surged up from his gut. As he leaned over to retch, no liquid came, but thousands of worms, slick and writhing, spilled from his mouth. Once he paused and retched again, a sea of flies emerged, scattering into the air around him. Wulfram gasped and heaved one final time, and a torrent of thick blood gushed from him.

Eventually, Wulfram dropped to the ground with a crack as his head hit stone, and the Plague Maiden disappeared. Once she did so, the haze of disease that had lingered over the village vanished and the flies dispersed, retribution having been dealt.

A Plague Maiden is a fearsome figure from Polish folklore, often portrayed as a tall, gaunt woman clad in white, her mouth concealed by a red handkerchief. In some tales, she carries a broom or scythe—tools not of cleaning or harvest, but of death. Wandering from village to village, she spreads disease by sweeping her broom or marking homes and individuals with a mere touch. Wherever she goes, sickness follows, and those she chooses rarely escape her judgment.