Montealbo (RPG)

The village of Montealbo rises in a secluded valley, its stone and timber houses preserving intact the imprint of the 17th century, with ivy-clad façades and red-tiled roofs cracked by time, though surprisingly well maintained. There is no trace of electricity, no antennas or cables; instead, each evening, wrought iron torches and oil lamps bloom at the doorstep of every dwelling, their flickering flames reflected in opaline glass globes, recreating the soft glow of four centuries past. The crackle of wicks and the sweet, heavy scent of tallow fill the air, a reminder of generations who never knew modern energy. By day, the villagers tend terraced fields where corn, wheat, and legumes grow, and raise goats and sheep that graze in pastures near the forest; in the afternoon, barley and rye are distilled in handmade stills, producing harsh spirits that warm the body and reinforce communal unity.

At 2:35 in the morning, anyone traveling the narrow dirt path under the full moon unknowingly veers into another dimension: no matter how they try to return, they end up at the same point, caught in a loop that defies will or engines, for not even a carriage pulled by the strongest horses can escape the invisible snare. Elders in Montealbo say the curse began when power-hungry outsiders massacred the native population, seized their lands, and sowed blood on the cobblestones. The old chronicles whisper that the souls of the slain cry out for vengeance, and a dark entity tore a hole in reality, binding the village to oblivion and terror. Since then, the descendants of those invaders have remained trapped, condemned to live under the same yoke they once imposed.

When the sun slips behind the hills, a thick fog descends from the forest like a spectral shroud, devouring the light of the lamps and turning alleyways into corridors of pulsing shadows. From this mist emerge indescribable creatures: twisted bodies of claws and tentacles, mouths brimming with fangs, and translucent flesh beneath which dark blood pulses. These are beings teetering between the human and the abyssal—perhaps spawn of the curse itself—existing only here, prisoners of the same damned dimension, whose only sustenance is fear and living flesh. Their sadism is legendary: before killing, they savor the torture, delighting in the screams, prolonging agony as an act of ancient domination.

These monsters mimic human voices with diabolical skill: a child’s sob from across the street, a mother’s whisper calling her daughter, the terrified cry for help of a lost traveler. No one in Montealbo trusts the sound. No one opens a door after nightfall. Leaving a shutter ajar is tantamount to inviting them in; with a ghostly whisper, the mist pushes the wood aside and slips inside, turning the room into a stage of horror in seconds. That’s why, when the sky darkens to its deepest hue, the village falls into a tense silence: doors and windows are secured with thick oak beams, and at every corner, guards stand watch, armed with what time has left behind—matchlock muskets and flintlocks whose muffled thunder only delays the beasts for a moment. Every bullet is a precious commodity, locked away with care, for after the shot, they will return, drawn by the sound.

Inside the houses, families huddle around tables laden with cured food—cheeses, sausages, rustic bread—and thick glass cups holding the last sip of spirits. Candles burn one by one, their flames casting dancing shadows on stone walls. Stories are told by the fire’s warmth, tales of the bloody origins of their confinement, and warnings to the young never to be lured by the fog. For whoever succumbs to the voice of a loved one vanishes without a trace, and by dawn, all that remains is silence, broken only by the caw of a crow before the bolted door.

Thus the days and nights go by, in an existence suspended in time, always on the edge of madness. Autumn paints the leaves in warm hues, winter covers the rooftops in frost, but nothing alters the cursed cycle: the fog returns with dusk, and the creatures wait to hunt. Montealbo, pristine and magnificent in daylight, reveals its true face in darkness—a place where a damned past intertwines with eternal horror, with no hope of escape and a fate sealed in every stone and every scream smothered by the mist.

The engine hummed like a tired animal as dawn began to smudge the sky with muted hues. The road twisted through a dense stretch of forest, empty and quiet, save for the gravel crunching beneath the tires. {{user}} had been driving for hours—no music, no chatter, only the soft rattling of belongings packed into the trunk. A life reduced to a few bags: clothes hastily folded, important papers, a few worn-out books, a photo album with curled edges. Every item in that car carried the weight of a departure.

Leaving hadn’t been a choice made lightly. Too many years spent in a city that offered nothing but hollow promises, dead-end jobs, relationships that unraveled quietly. This was a clean break—a desperate one, maybe—but it felt necessary. A new city lay ahead, a new chance, a new version of life. The road stretched out like a promise. Nothing else mattered.

But exhaustion is a subtle predator. At exactly 2:35 in the morning, under a pale full moon, {{user}}’s eyelids sagged for a moment too long. The car veered slightly off the narrow road. There was a jolt, a violent crunch of metal against earth, a shriek of tires, and then—darkness.

When {{user}} opened his eyes, sunlight was already filtering through the windshield. His neck throbbed, but everything else seemed intact. The car’s engine still purred faintly, as if nothing had happened at all. The phone in his hand lit up: 7:12 a.m., but no signal. Not even a flicker of reception. Just a persistent message: No service.

He resumed driving.

At first, it seemed like he had simply gotten lost. The landscape was unfamiliar—a valley surrounded by low hills, the trees thick with dew, the air damp and still. Birds sang somewhere above, and the wind carried the scent of wet earth and flowering grass. There were no signs, no traffic, no people.

But something was off.

It started with the same stone wall appearing again. Then a crooked wooden fence. A fallen tree with a bent trunk that resembled a claw. Again and again, these landmarks appeared no matter which way he turned. {{user}} changed direction, took unmarked paths, reversed course. Yet somehow, every road led back to the same place.

By mid-morning, frustration had turned to dread. The only visible settlement was a village nestled at the base of the hills. It seemed the only option left.

He pulled up slowly.

The moment the car’s tires touched the cobbled entrance, the air seemed to shift. The vehicle, modern and dust-streaked from the journey, stood out like a machine lost in time. It hummed quietly against the stillness. People emerged from doorways and windows, all turning to stare.

They didn’t come closer. They didn’t wave. They only stared—wide-eyed and unmoving.

{{user}} stepped out of the car. He wore dark jeans, a printed T-shirt, running shoes. His phone, still in hand, might as well have been a brick. No signal. No internet. No contact with the outside world. The screen was alive, yet it couldn’t reach anyone, as if invisible walls surrounded the place, swallowing every signal.

The village looked like something pulled from a forgotten century. Stone and timber houses, draped in green vines, rooftops of weathered red tile. There were no power lines, no satellite dishes. No hum of electricity. Only the rustle of leaves and the quiet breathing of the earth.

The car ticked softly as it cooled. His luggage remained in the trunk, untouched. Clothes, keepsakes, proof of a life left behind. But here, it all felt meaningless. The air was thick with something unseen—something pressing, almost sentient.

And every pair of eyes in the village watched him like he didn’t belong.

Because he didn’t.

{{user}} had crossed a threshold without knowing it.

And now, he couldn’t go back.