The moment they set foot in the main square, the air shifted.
James and Laura had come to the remote village in Eastern Europe hoping for a quiet escape, but the silence that greeted them was unnatural—too complete. As soon as they crossed the cobbled threshold, the locals watching from behind lace curtains vanished into shadow.
“There was a lack of diplomacy in how we entered,” Laura whispered, shivering. “We should have asked permission or something.”
James scoffed. “It’s just old superstition. Let’s take some photos.”
That night, screams echoed from the square. At dawn, James was gone.
Laura ran to the innkeeper, pale and trembling. “Please, you have to help me. Something took him!”
The woman only shook her head. “The local residents used to take exception to the rudeness of the tourists… They still do.”
Laura didn’t understand. “We weren’t rude!”
“You made reference to them with your camera,” she hissed. “You disturbed them.”
Laura booked the earliest flight out. But the flight was held up due to unforeseen mechanical problems. Stranded, she returned to the square, desperate.
There, she saw James—or what was left of him—standing still among the ancient statues. His eyes were empty. Stone veins crawled up his neck.
“No improvement can save you now,” the innkeeper said from behind her. “You’ve been claimed.”
The statues turned their heads in unison.
Laura screamed, but no one heard.
By morning, two new statues stood in the square—one of a man mid-laugh, and the other, a woman with her mouth open in eternal horror.
@Yolanda Muriel 
yolandamuriel.com 