The old village greeted them with silence. Not the peaceful kind—no breeze, no insects, no distant river hum. Just a hollow, unnatural stillness that felt preserved, like the air hadn't moved since the war ended. Irvine tightened his grip on Inara's hand as they stepped over cracked cobblestones, her white prewedding dress swaying against her legs. "Creepy," she whispered, but she smiled anyway, the kind of brave smile she always made when she wanted him to feel safe. He squeezed her fingers. "It'll look amazing in the photos." Their photographer—Grant, a man who valued aesthetics more than common sense—was already pacing ahead with his camera swinging at his hip. "Perfect lighting today. Look at that sky," Grant muttered, ignoring the fact that the sky was unnaturally gray, uniform, and heavy as wet cement. The crew followed behind: the makeup artist, two assistants, and the videographer, all yawning, complaining about the cold, or scrolling their phones. Only Irvine kept scanning the buildings—roofless homes, bullet-riddled walls, a rusted bell tower where no birds perched. Too quiet. "You good?" Inara asked softly. Her voice steadied him. "Yeah," he lied. Grant clapped his hands loudly. "Alright lovebirds, warm-up shots first. Over there. That bunker door would look cinematic as hell." Irvine froze. The bunker. Its rusted steel slab was chained shut, covered in talismans, chalk symbols, and strips of faded red ribbon. "We're not shooting here," Irvine said immediately. "That's not decoration. Those are—" "Old superstition junk," Grant interrupted. "It'll be the perfect backdrop, trust me." Inara tugged Irvine's sleeve gently. "It's okay. We won't go near it." But Grant already stomped toward the sealed entrance. "No, no, the angle is wrong unless the door is open. Just a little peek—" "Don't touch that," Irvine snapped. His voice echoed down the empty street. Everyone stopped. Grant rolled his eyes, pulled out a metal pry bar, and jammed it between the chains. "Relax. This is art." The first chain snapped. The sound was wrong—too sharp, too metallic, like it echoed through something deeper than the bunker. Inara's breath hitched. Irvine grabbed her instinctively, pulling her behind him. "Grant, STOP!" The second chain broke. A gust of dead air burst out, cold and thick like old breath. It washed over them, sweeping Inara's veil sideways. The sky dimmed. Not a cloud moved, but the light simply… withdrew. Grant laughed nervously. "Okay… weird airflow." The last chain fell. The bunker door groaned open by itself, slow and deliberate, like something inside had been waiting—not for decades, but for permission. The wind died. Completely. Even Inara's veil froze in place mid-flutter. And then the village exhaled. A long, low moan of shifting air moved through the valley—like wind forced through broken pipes, but far too human. "Everyone back," Irvine commanded, but nobody listened—because in that moment, Grant's camera shutter clicked three times. Click.
Click.
Click. His hands weren't touching the button. He stared at the camera, pale. "Uh… guys?" The screen displayed the photos—three frames showing Irvine and Inara standing in front of the bunker. But they had never posed. They weren't even facing the camera. "That's impossible…" the videographer whispered. The ground trembled. A deep vibration pulsed from the bunker, rolling beneath their shoes like something massive shifting its weight. A grinding noise echoed from below—stone scraping, metal dragging, footsteps climbing stairs that shouldn't exist. Irvine pulled Inara behind a broken wall. "Everyone get away from the door NOW!" Too late. Grant turned toward the bunker, squinting into the dark. "Is… is someone in there?" Two shadowy silhouettes formed inside the opening—tall, thin, and wrong, like the limbs were bent at old angles, as if assembled by someone who had never seen a human before. The makeup artist screamed. The ground beneath them cracked. A jagged line split the earth between Irvine and Inara. "IRVINE!" The crack widened. The street gave way. Inara fell backward as stones collapsed beneath her feet. Irvine lunged, fingers brushing hers— "INA—!" The ground swallowed him. Dust choked the air. Rocks thundered downward. The world spun into black. Static crackled in his ear—his walkie, still clipped to his belt. Through the distortion, her voice trembled: "Irvine…? Irvine, where are you? Please answer me—please—" Irvine coughed, pushing himself upright in a narrow underground tunnel, his palms scraping against damp stone. The smell hit him—iron, rot, and dust. War and death preserved too well. He dragged the walkie to his lips. "Inara. I'm alive. Stay where you are. Don't move." Something shifted in the darkness behind him. Slow. Deliberate. Like boots.
Marching. A voice—a man's voice—whispered from deeper in the tunnel, too close, too cold: "The bride… has arrived." Irvine's blood turned to ice. He raised the walkie again. "Inara. Run."
When Inara and Irvine travel to an abandoned WWII village for their
dream prewedding photoshoot, they expect perfect lighting, vintage ruins,
and memories to last forever.
What they get instead...
is a tragedy carved in blood.
The moment they step through the rusted archway, the air feels wrong—
too still, too heavy, too aware. No birds, no breeze, no sound except
the echo of their footsteps brushing across cracked cobblestones. It is
as if the entire village is holding its breath, watching them.
Inara squeezes Irvine's hand.
"Creepy," she murmurs, half joking, half uneasy.
"Understatement," Irvine replies.
Her white dress—the one she insisted on bringing "for ambiance"—glows
softly in the muted daylight. Satin against ruins. Lace against
bullet-scarred walls. Beauty against decay. It should have been romantic.
But the silence is suffocating.
Grant, their photographer, strides ahead with manic energy.
"God, the shadows here are insane. We're gonna break the internet with
these shots."
He stops suddenly at the collapsed fountain in the village center.
"This place is perfect. Inara, stand right there. Irvine, step closer,
hand on her waist—yeah, perfect."
The camera clicks once.
Then twice.
Then… it clicks on its own.
Grant freezes. "Didn't press that."
Irvine frowns. "Maybe timer mode?"
"No, man. I never use timers. Messes with my shots."
The third click echoes too loudly, like the village swallowed the sound
and spat it back distorted. Inara shivers.
A cold gust sweeps through the ruins—
except the trees don't move.
The dust doesn't move.
Only their skin feels the wind.
Irvine tightens his arm around her.
"We'll finish quick. Don't worry."
But Grant is already wandering toward the northern trench, eyes lit.
"Holy—guys. There's a bunker door back here! Completely sealed. If we
open it, we'll get INSANE shots."
Irvine's voice sharpens.
"Grant. Don't touch anything. This place is government-restricted.
We're already pushing it being here."
Grant laughs.
"Relax. It's abandoned, not haunted."
He wedges his crowbar beneath the rusted steel.
The metal SCREECHES.
Inara flinches.
Even Irvine takes a step back.
The wind stops.
The sky darkens.
And something deep under the earth exhales.
Grant grins like an idiot.
"See? Easy."
He forces the door wider—
and a long, guttural CRACK echoes like a bone breaking.
A smell seeps out. Old metal. Wet stone. And something else. Something
like time rotting.
Irvine's instincts scream.
"Inara, stay behind me."
The bunker yawns open as if waking from a decades-long sleep.
Shadows shift inside.
Not shapes. Not people.
Just movement—wrong, slow, stretching where light shouldn't bend.
Grant lifts his camera.
It clicks.
The flash illuminates the bunker for half a second—
And they see fingers.
Dozens.
Pressed against the far wall, like something tried to claw its way out.
Inara grabs Irvine's arm.
"Close it. Grant—close it now—"
But the ground trembles beneath them.
A deep rumble.
The foundation of the entire village shifts.
Then—
A deafening CRACK as the earth beside them splits open.
Inara screams as the cobblestones collapse beneath her heels.
"Irvine!"
He lunges for her hand—but the ground swallows him whole, dropping him
into a narrow tunnel beneath the village.
Dust blinds him. Pain throbs in his shoulder.
Above, Inara kneels at the edge, reaching for him.
"Irvine! Talk to me!"
"I'm here—just stay back, the edges aren't stable!"
The walkie on Grant's belt bursts to life with static.
Irvine grabs it from the rubble.
"Inara—stay where I can hear you. I'm coming up."
Static cracks.
Then—
Her voice trembles.
"Irvine… there's someone down here with us."
He freezes.
"What do you mean someone?"
"I saw… I don't know. A suit? No. A tuxedo. Black. Old. He—he was
standing near the bunker door."
Irvine's blood chills.
The camera—still dangling from Grant's neck—clicks again.
Another photograph prints from the ancient Polaroid slot, even though it
has no film.
Inara picks it up with shaking fingers.
A groom.
Standing behind her.
Smiling.
Her breath stops.
"Inara?" Irvine's voice cracks through the walkie. "What do you see?"
She whispers—
"He's choosing me."
The tunnel lights flicker.
A shadow glides across the stone behind Irvine—too tall, too long, like
a stretched silhouette searching for a body to inhabit.
The Groom is awake.
And he has found his bride.