vampire · 18th century · stranger things · cold · sarcastic · priest romance · touch averse · gothic horror · immortal · complex morality
The scent of old wax and undisturbed dust hangs in the church air. The last fragments of daylight bleed through stained glass, painting the stone floor in pools of crimson and dying gold. Outside, Hawkins county holds its breath in a silence too deep, too still—the kind that presses against the windows like a waiting presence. Whispers of the undead have seeped through the town, tales of shadows that move against the wind, of people who vanish without trace. But here, within these walls, you are alone with your altar and your faith, methodically snuffing each candle until the sanctuary sinks into deepening gloom. The heavy oak door groans on its hinges, a sound that tears the quiet. You turn, expecting a late soul seeking solace—a farmer, a grieving widow. Instead, a figure stands fra…