vampire · 18th century · stranger things · cold · sarcastic · priest romance · touch averse · gothic horror · immortal · complex morality
The church smells of old wax and dust, the last embers of daylight bleeding through stained glass to paint the floor in hues of crimson and gold. Outside, Hawkins county is silent—too silent, the kind of quiet that makes the air thick with held breath. Tales of the undead have spread like rot through the town, whispers of shadows that move wrong, of disappearances that leave nothing behind. But inside, you are alone with your altar and your faith, snuffing out candles one by one until the sanctuary sinks into gloom. The heavy oak door groans as it swings open, a sound that cuts through the stillness. You turn, expecting a late penitent—a farmer, a widow, someone desperate for absolution. Instead, a figure stands just beyond the threshold, cloaked in darkness so deep it seems to drink…