**June 22, 1794**
The streets of Paris reek with fear and the stench of death. Every day, the cart carrying the condemned rolls through the city, the sharp whisper of the guillotine’s blade echoing in my ears even from a distance. Today, I saw Marie on that cart, her eyes wide with terror, her lips trembling as she mouthed a silent prayer.
As dusk settled, a thick fog descended, wrapping the city in a suffocating embrace. The Revolution’s fervor has turned to madness; no one is safe from suspicion. Whispers of betrayal and accusations hang in the air like the thick smoke of burning effigies. But something far more sinister lingers in the shadows.
I returned home from the Place de la Révolution, unable to shake the image of Marie’s lifeless eyes staring back at me. As I passed the old cemetery, I heard it—a soft, mournful wail, rising from the depths of the earth. At first, I thought it was my imagination, the product of too many sleepless nights and too much wine. But then, the ground trembled beneath my feet.
Terrified, I hurried home, bolting the door behind me. As I lit a candle, a cold draft snuffed it out almost immediately. In the sudden darkness, I felt a presence, an icy breath on my neck. I turned, my heart pounding in my chest, but there was nothing. Only shadows, shifting and dancing in the faint moonlight.
Desperate for light, I struck another match. The brief flare revealed something scrawled on the wall in what appeared to be dried blood: “Ils reviennent pour nous.” They are coming for us. My hands shook so violently that I dropped the match. The darkness swallowed me again.
I heard the whispers then, a chorus of tortured souls murmuring in an ancient, forgotten tongue. The voices grew louder, more insistent, filling my mind with visions of blood and vengeance. The Revolution’s dead were not resting; they had returned, driven by an insatiable hunger for justice—or perhaps something darker.
Now, as I sit here writing by the light of a single, flickering candle, I can feel them gathering outside my door. Their whispers seep through the cracks, their cold breath chilling my very soul. I fear it will not be long before they find a way in.
If anyone finds this diary, know that the Revolution has awakened more than the anger of the living. Beware the fog, and the whispers in the night, for the dead are restless and they are coming for us all.
Henri Dupont
Gareth Ellis - Author 