The story of the death Child

The Night of Isabau

It was a cold autumn night when Lena, a middle-aged woman with a past full of sorrow, took her final step toward a mysterious destination. The old castle on the hill had stood there for generations, an intimidating monument of stone and shadow. No one ventured there anymore, no one dared. The rumors of the horrors that occurred there at night had been the subject of chilling stories in the village below for years.

Lena had never believed in such fables. She was merely searching for peace. But on this night, when the moon hung high in the sky and the wind howled through the trees, everything felt different. The air was heavy, as if the earth itself had conspired against her. It felt like something had touched her, something dark, something ungraspable.

In her sleep, deep in the night, she changed. First came the cold sensation, the feeling of her skin stiffening and becoming immobile, like a doll shedding its human form. It was as if her body twisted and contorted from within. Her arms grew rigid, her fingers curled in unnatural angles. Her face felt an ominous tension, like the mask of a marionette that had lost its master. Instead of retaining her human soul, something else took over her body — a name, a voice, a desire: Isabau.

Isabau was no ordinary name. It was the name of an ancient, forgotten spirit who had sought her body for centuries. A spirit who had once lived in the darkness of that very castle, a woman who had surrendered herself to evil. But instead of dying, her soul had clung to the dusty walls of the castle, and each night she came to life in the form of a doll, a monster in search of a new victim to torment.

The transformation was not gentle. It felt like suffocation, a forced change that took away her will and led her toward the old castle. Her eyes, once alive with human fear, now became cold and empty, filled with the void of the undead. Her lips twisted into a grimace that reflected the dark emptiness of her soul.

When she stepped outside her home, it was as though the world opened before her into another dimension, a world shrouded in shadows and the stench of decay. It felt as though the earth itself had conspired to drag her into its depths. She sought her prey — innocent, unsuspecting, a wanderer, a traveler, a villager who had strayed too far from the path. She found him quickly. A man, lost in the night, searching for his way.

“What is that sound?” he asked, as the silence of the night was suddenly shattered by the creaking sounds of her stiff limbs scraping along the path.

“Come closer, come closer,” whispered Isabau, her voice a soft, commanding murmur, as if it came from the very depths of the castle. The man hesitated for a moment, but when he saw her face — that terrifying, lifeless face — he knew it was too late.

His scream was quickly stifled, his body caught in Isabau’s iron grip. The coldness of her touch seeped into his skin, his bones, his soul. He was dragged with brutal force, his last breath escaping into the empty air. His body was pulled, step by step, toward the old well behind the castle — a well not meant for water, but for something far darker.

Isabau loved the depth of the well. There, in the darkness, her victims would vanish, their bodies swallowed by the dark water, forever lost. No one would ever know what truly happened in that castle, what unfolded in the shadows of the walls. She would always return, night after night, driven by an insatiable thirst for vengeance, for blood.

The sound of the body falling into the well, the splash of water, was the last thing the village would ever hear. There was no evidence. No witnesses. Only the fear that spread like a disease. No one knew that Isabau, the doll, would change every night and go in search of the next soul to claim.

And so the cycle continued, forever trapped in the spiral of her terror, a being that would never truly die.