“Villagers’ Testimony: The Midnight Wedding Carriage That Stops the Living on Their Way Home”

The night was heavy with fog, thick and suffocating, wrapping the ancient forest road near a small Serbian village in an eerie silence. Marko, a young man tired from a long day at work, decided to take a shortcut home through the woods. The villagers had warned him countless times not to travel this road after midnight. Strange things, they said, happened here — things no one could explain.

But Marko, stubborn and impatient, ignored the warnings. He was determined to reach home faster, unaware that this decision would change his life forever.

As he walked deeper into the mist, the silence was suddenly pierced by the faint sound of music. At first, it was just a whisper, like the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze, but soon the unmistakable melody of violins and distant drums floated toward him, echoing off the trees. His heart pounded — the music was joyful, celebratory… it sounded like a wedding.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he followed the sound, stepping cautiously onto the narrow path that led deeper into the woods. Through the dense fog, a glow appeared — flickering like candlelight in the distance.

Slowly, from the shadows emerged a grand procession.

A magnificent carriage, drawn by two black horses with glowing red eyes, rolled silently toward him. The horses’ breaths were visible in the cold night air, steaming like smoke. The carriage was decorated with white ribbons and flowers that seemed to shimmer unnaturally in the moonlight.

The driver sat motionless, cloaked in black, holding reins with a grip that seemed almost too tight, his face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat. Behind the carriage walked a line of guests — pale figures dressed in elegant, old-fashioned wedding attire. Their faces were ghostly white, with vacant eyes that seemed to stare into another world.

At the center of the procession, the bride and groom sat side by side. The bride wore a beautiful white gown that flowed like water, perfectly clean despite the damp night. Her long black hair spilled over her shoulders, partially obscuring a pale face with sunken eyes. The groom was equally pale, dressed in a traditional black suit, his expression empty and distant.

Marko stood rooted to the spot, frozen by a mixture of terror and fascination.

The driver turned his head slowly and gave a thin, chilling smile. His pale hand beckoned Marko to come closer.

“Join us,” whispered a voice, soft and haunting. “Celebrate with us, drink with us, be part of our joy.”

Before Marko could fully understand what was happening, the bride stepped down from the carriage and approached him. Her movements were slow, almost floating, like a ghost gliding over the earth. She held out a silver flask — a ćutura — filled with deep red wine that glowed faintly, as if containing the essence of blood itself.

“Drink,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “and be one with us.”

Marko’s hands trembled. The wine looked inviting but ominous. His instincts screamed to refuse, but the strange power in her eyes was impossible to resist.

Just as he lifted the flask, panic surged through him. Without thinking, he crossed himself quickly, murmuring an ancient prayer his grandmother had taught him.

He drank.

The moment the wine touched his lips, the world twisted violently.

The music ceased abruptly. The carriage, the horses, and the ghostly wedding guests vanished like smoke, swallowed by the thick fog.

Marko was alone on the empty forest road. The cold air bit into his skin, and a deep dread settled in his chest.

He looked down at his hands and realized he was holding something cold, heavy, and terrifying.

A horse’s head — lifeless, with glassy eyes that seemed to pierce his soul.

The grotesque trophy fell to the ground with a dull thud.

Marko turned and fled through the woods, branches scratching his face and arms, heart pounding like a drum in his chest.

When he finally burst out of the forest and reached the safety of his village, he was pale and shaken, unable to speak of what he had witnessed.

But the story spread quietly among the villagers.

They said the midnight wedding carriage was cursed, trapped between worlds, doomed to repeat its dark celebration for eternity. The bride and groom were souls caught in a tragic fate — the bride had died on her wedding day, struck down on that very road by a runaway carriage.

Every night, the ghosts reenacted their wedding procession, searching for someone to join their endless feast.

Those who accepted their invitation were marked forever, carrying the grotesque token as a reminder of their brush with the supernatural.

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If you ever hear the distant sound of wedding music on a lonely road at night, beware.

Not every celebration is for the living.

Sometimes, the dead invite you to join their eternal dance.

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