The Nightshade Vampire

In the sleepy town of Elmwood, Halloween had always been a time of innocent thrills and frights, but in recent years, a legend had darkened the holiday: the tale of the Nightshade Vampire.

They called him Darius Nightshade, an elusive vampire rumored to have haunted Elmwood for over a century. Every Halloween, when the moon was high and shrouded in mist, he would emerge from the shadows, blending into the parade of costumes and masks. Parents warned their children of his story as a way to keep them close. But no one ever truly believed, not until last Halloween when strange things began to happen.

In the days leading up to Halloween, a chill settled over Elmwood, colder than any autumn they’d ever known. The children noticed it first—the shadows seemed to deepen, especially near the forests and narrow alleyways. Flickering lights and an odd, whispering wind would cut through the air when they were alone. Some children reported a figure watching them from afar, tall and pale, his eyes glimmering crimson.

On Halloween night, the streets were packed with trick-or-treaters. Music and laughter echoed through the air, and no one noticed the eerie figure slipping between shadows, moving from one neighborhood to another. Darius Nightshade wore a cloak that seemed to be woven from midnight itself, his face hidden under a hood. He was drawn to laughter, the sound of small feet darting from door to door. And as he passed, the children felt an odd, drowsy pull in his presence, as if his dark magic was lulling them into a trance.

Darius had a particular way of marking the children he chose: a gentle touch on the shoulder, a whisper too soft to catch, or sometimes just a long, unblinking gaze. No one would remember his presence until later, but the children he touched seemed to drift further into the night, disappearing from the groups they’d arrived with. When parents finally noticed, they called the children’s names, scanning every yard, every porch, but the children were gone, swallowed by the shadows.

The search for the missing children stretched into the early hours, yet there was no trace of them. The townsfolk gathered, trembling with fear and disbelief. But as November dawned, they found small traces: a lone pumpkin lying smashed, a small shoe on the edge of the woods, a trail of candy wrappers leading into the depths of a fog-filled forest. Despite their efforts, the missing children were nowhere to be found.

Every November, for years, the legend of Darius Nightshade grew, and the townsfolk spoke of him in hushed whispers. Some believed the children were taken to a hidden lair where they were kept in an enchanted sleep, bound to wake only under his dark spell. Others believed he took them to a faraway place where the moon always shone full and bright, where their laughter echoed forever in an endless Halloween night.

But no one ever found them. And every year, on Halloween, Darius Nightshade returned, hidden in plain sight, searching for new children to follow him into the shadows.