Once upon a time, there was a castle at the edge of a ghostly village. It had been a beautiful castle, once. Back then, the kitchens overflowed with aromas; pots simmered on the stoves, always ready to serve delicacies. Shiny armors lined the corridors, and the ballroom filled every evening with ladies in wide skirts, accompanied by their knights.

But things had changed. Now, the pots lay abandoned, rusted and buried in grime. The armors gathered dust, towering like masts supporting sails of cobwebs. And in the ballroom, instead of rustling skirts, the wings of lost moths were the only thing flashing in the dark. The hall had turned into a cemetery for the castle's mice. Only the insects crawling on the floor remained there to feast.

But alongside all the bugs and creeping critters, another tenant lived in the castle: a sorcerer. And like his abode, he was not in the best of states either.

His name was Pestilence Marr.

Gaunt as a pole and pale as a corpse, Pestilence tended to sleep during the day and wander at night. He had no hobbies or passions, but every two weeks, he indulged in the pastime of gathering herbs and mushrooms under the full moon.

Just like that night.

His hands, white and emaciated as if they were one with the bones, glided over the ebony banisters as he descended the stairs. As he passed, the rats lifted their tiny eyes in the shadow and scurried into the wall holes. There was no love lost between them and Pestilence.

Pestilence pushed the door open and stepped outside. The moon shone in the night, painting the gardens in silver. With a wicker basket hanging from his arm, the sorcerer lifted his ashen face to the sky, savoring the moonlight on his skin. He bent among the herbs and mushrooms and began to gather them.

Cloaked in his black robe, Pestilence roamed the gardens like a shadow, slowly filling the basket. Suddenly, he pricked his finger on a thorn. A drop of blood, black as that of the dead, emerged on his fingertip. He sucked the wound for a moment, then resumed his activity without further interruptions.

Before he realized it, dawn arrived. Pestilence straightened up, watching the horizon, his face contorted in the light. A silvery sweat veiled his forehead. The basket was overflowing, and he was already savoring the thought of tea.

He turned toward the door, about to re-enter, when he was hit by a sickly-sweet stench. Putrefaction. Not too advanced, judging by the nuances he picked up in the smell.

Strange, he thought. The animals of the outside world usually avoided the castle, well aware of the toxicity of what grew in the gardens. But occasionally, some naive ones ended up there anyway. Too bad for them.

Pestilence followed the smell. He brushed aside a tuft of weeds under an oak and found the source. A dead raccoon, with a poisonous acorn still clutched in its paws, a mass of worms burrowing into its intestines.

Pestilence shuddered. From that wriggling mass, a beetle with a white skull-shaped mark on its back emerged. He picked it up with an outstretched finger.

Insects like that were truly rare to see. Only once before had he encountered such a specimen. It had happened many years before.

Uncalled for, the memories overwhelmed him.

Crouching by a stream, little Pestilence contemplated the remains of a slaughtered pig. What the stray dogs had not scavenged, the insects were picking clean. Flies pirouetted around the carcass, covering the protruding bones, moving jerkily along the membrane of flesh stretched between the ribs. Besides them, there were some ladybugs eating, and a beetle with a skull-shaped spot too: he had never seen one like that before!

"Noble Pestilence!"

Frowning, Pestilence straightened up and fixed his black-sclera eyes on the boy standing at the edge of the woods. The boy waved his arms to get his attention. "Noble Pestilence!" he shouted again, approaching. "What an honor to find you here so close to the village!"

Pestilence's lips remained sealed. The vitality and volume of that child disgusted him.

"My name is Tomas." He nodded toward the carcass by the stream. "As you can see, it's pig season!"

The declaration piqued Pestilence's curiosity: "What is pig season?"

"Oh, you don't know? Well, it's a village tradition! Every family in October kills a pig. There's food for days, and what's left is preserved for the rest of the year."

"I see."

"My family is doing it today. In fact, I think my father is just getting ready. Would you like to watch, sir?" The child's eyes sparkled with excitement.

Pestilence did not respond.

"Would you like to watch, sir?"

"Alright."

Tomas clenched his fists in victory. "The noble Pestilence is coming to my house! How awesome!"

He skipped ahead. Pestilence followed slowly, shoulders hunched.

They arrived at the village. Tomas' house was a rustic building surrounded by a muddy yard, with a farm at the back. A pungent smell filled the air; Pestilence wrinkled his nose as they headed toward the stables.

Inside, the morning light filtered through a barred slit in the far wall. Tomas waved a hand at a man standing by the pigsty gate.

"Dad, dad!" chirped the boy. "Look who I brought!"

The man looked up at them. He wore a pair of handlebar mustaches that extended past his chin. Over his shirt, he wore an apron with faded bloodstains, somewhere between gray and pink. He was holding a hammer in his hand. "Noble Pestilence! What an honor!" He gave a slight bow. "My name is Giocondo! Come, come and watch!"

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Pestilence advanced with Tomas toward the pigsty, treading on the straw scattered on the ground. He observed the pigs over the wooden gate. Papa Pig, fat and pink, stood on all fours, as if to shield Mama Pig, who remained huddled in a corner, surrounded by a dozen piglets.

When the man opened the gate, Mama Pig perked up her ears and let out a squeal, while the piglets hid behind her. Papa Pig remained motionless on the lookout, his eyes calm and resigned.

Giocondo advanced beyond the fence, tapping his palm with the head of the hammer. Tomas, restless with excitement, glanced at Pestilence. Pestilence had become still. As he watched Giocondo approach Papa Pig, his palms began to sweat. Something stirred within him, something he had never experienced before.

The man stopped a step away from the pig. He raised the hammer over one shoulder and struck.

A nauseating crunch echoed in the stable. Papa Pig collapsed with a cry, while Mama Pig and the piglets screamed in the corner, trembling.

Pestilence felt a moist heat under his eyelids; for the first time, tears streamed from his eyes. "It's horrible!" he shouted, clutching his head in his hands. "Stop it now! Stop it!"

Papa Pig lay sprawled on the ground with a shattered skull. His legs twitched in spasms; a remnant of breath still escaped from his snout, stirring the straw. Giocondo's face was a mask of wild joy. The man raised the hammer again: the metal head was encrusted with blood and pink bristles.

The same heat Pestilence felt in his eyes began to grow in his stomach, filling his chest. It cut off his breath. "Please, please...!"

The hammer came down on Papa Pig once again, completely smashing its skull. The spasms ceased.

Pestilence doubled over, pressing one hand to his stomach and the other to his throat, as that vibrant heat grew more and more inside him, threatening to overflow.

"Noble Pestilence," murmured Tomas, reaching out a hand toward him.

Giocondo also noticed Pestilence's state. The sadistic pleasure on his face disappeared, replaced by alarm. He rushed out of the pigsty and bent over Pestilence, holding his hammer down. "What is it, Noble Pestilence?" he asked. "What's happening to you?"

Pestilence opened his eyes and his gaze fell downward. Giocondo's hammer was dripping blood.

"AAAAAAAAAH-"

The thing filled him to the brim and burst out with an explosion. A black miasma filled the stable. Father and son were engulfed, and all the flesh on their bones evaporated instantly. The screams of Mama Pig and the piglets were swallowed up in the roar of the black cloud.

Darkness enveloped him. Pestilence collapsed to the ground, his chest and stomach finally empty, while the miasma raged around him like a tornado.

He lay on the straw for what seemed like hours. Then, as soon as the darkness disappeared, he stood up. The miasma had dissipated – right in front of him lay the skeletons of Tomas and Giocondo. Beyond the gate, the pigs had also been reduced to piles of bones. Pestilence observed the scene, astonished.

He left.

The villagers had poured into the streets. They screamed and ran around in a frenzy. All, without exception, had skin covered in pustules and black crusts. The miasma... A chill ran down Pestilence's spine. It spread through the village!

A peasant woman with a bonnet fell to her knees at his feet. She reached out to him; the pustules on her face burst like lava bubbles, pus running down her neck and under her shirt. Her eyes turned white and she collapsed to the ground, motionless.

Screams rose all around him. It was me, Pestilence realized, feeling a sense of suffocation. I caused all this.

He ran away, climbing up the hill. When he reached the castle, the echoes of the screams had died down. Every villager was dead. So it was that Pestilence remained the only living human being in the area. That is, if Pestilence's existence could be called life.

Pestilence sighed. He lowered his hand, letting the beetle slip away along with the memories. He stood up, smoothed his robe. The sun had risen, and he could not tolerate the sight of the golden morning sky.

With the basket full, he returned to the castle, eager to make tea. Nothing lulled him to sleep like tea.

The dry wood collected in the fireplace caught fire at once. The flames illuminated the small room, windows barred so that not a sliver of light could penetrate. The water came to a boil and the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling began to dance in the steam. Pestilence threw handfuls of mushrooms, herbs, and flowers into the cauldron until the basket was empty. With a ladle, he stirred and stirred until the tea was ready.

He poured the blackish concoction into a cup made from a human skull: the smell it emitted would have caused anyone else to faint. Pestilence, however, inhaled with pleasure. Almost to the point of smiling, he went to his bedroom.

Immersed in darkness, his fingers wrapped around the steaming cup, he was struck by a thought: it must be one of the first days of October, unless he had completely lost track of time. It was blueberry season. He wouldn't mind having a snack of seasonal berries to accompany his tea. But blueberries weren't poisonous, so they didn't grow in the castle gardens. If he wanted them, he had to venture outside the walls, down the hill, and into the woods.

Pestilence pondered for a long time, letting the tea cool down. When he realized it, he cursed under his breath. A rat squeaked in the darkness, echoing him mockingly.

He didn't like the idea of leaving the castle, but he wasn't willing to give up the blueberries either. Those two forces clashed within him, churning his stomach, but in the end, the desire for blueberries prevailed. He retrieved the wicker basket and left.

He reached the woods on foot (there were no horses in the castle stables).

The forest greeted him with the scent of fertile earth and the song of birds. Pestilence covered his mouth, suppressing a gag. His eyes squinted against the light filtering through the branches, he began searching for blueberries.

He wandered for a long time, and then found them. They grew in clusters so abundant that they bent the twigs of the shrubs.

Pestilence began plucking the blueberries, staining his fingers. The sorcerer observed the blue juice standing out against his ivory skin and sighed before wiping his fingers on his robe. Then he looked at the basket, pleased with his haul. Now he just had to reheat the tea, and he would have a feast fit for a king. Toxic tea and a handful of blueberries represented, without exaggeration, the peak of Pestilence's existence.

Too greedy to resist, he tasted one. At that moment, a wail echoed through the forest.

Pestilence stopped chewing. He waited, senses alert, as he finished swallowing the bite with extreme slowness.

The wail echoed again. Whoever it was, they were close. Too close.

On tiptoe, Pestilence walked and crouched behind a tree. He peeked out from behind the trunk as his slender fingers closed over it.

A maiden. She was a few meters ahead, near a tangle of brambles. Her brown hair fell in wavy locks to her hips. She held the horse's halter with one hand, the other busy trying to free her dove-gray breeches from the brambles that had snagged them. The woman gave a tug, letting out another wail. Finally free, she took a step forward, huffing; the brambles had pricked her, and a trickle of blood ran down her thigh.

At the sight of that ruby-colored blood, Pestilence winced. The woman lifted her face abruptly, and their eyes met.

A pang pierced Pestilence's heart. The sorcerer staggered back, stumbling. The basket overturned and the blueberries spilled to the ground. His heart, usually motionless, had begun to beat.

Pestilence clutched his chest, his face contorted with pain. The sensation of a beating heart was so intense it threatened to make him vomit. Panting, covered in cold sweat, the sorcerer stood up.

He knew the maiden was still there, beyond the tree, but he didn't even dream of checking. He ran back to the castle and locked himself in, bolting the door behind him.