The Cursed Tomb

The black bird watched them impassively from its gloomy watchtower, while the ruthless grave robbers violated that last resting place.

The raven had witnessed their misdeeds on countless occasions, but tonight he would witness the terrible outcome of their greed.

The men worked fast, expert in their fateful work. The stoutest of them dismembered the gravestone with his pointed tool, while his accomplice watched nervously.

In the darkness of Edinburgh, the law punished harshly those who dared to disturb the eternal rest of the dead. But the seven pounds they would earn for that fresh corpse was worth the risk.

They cared little for the identity of the deceased or the dark rumors that surrounded him in life: a being pale as death, who never saw the light of the sun. They opened the crypt without misgivings, greedily, tossing the marble lid aside.

The raven continued to watch stoically when a flash of lightning rent the heavens and a clap of thunder shook the night. Then, a piercing scream emerged from the depths.

The accomplice peered out in terror, his lantern barely illuminating the darkness of the open grave. What he saw chilled the blood in his veins.

His companion lay at the bottom, his eyes open in a grimace of indescribable horror. The coffin had burst into a thousand pieces and its occupant, an abomination with sharp fangs and contorted limbs, was pouncing on the hapless man with an unearthly shriek.

The raven cawed then, its sinister cackling echoing in the night, as the shadows engulfed the second profaner who fled in madness. The rumors were true after all: they had awakened an ancient evil that had been waiting centuries for its chance to return.