In the temperate outskirts of the pastoral province of Burgundy, nestled in a cradle of verdant grandeur, lay the vineyard, an untouched marvel of arched vines and crimson clusters. Communities seldom whispered its name: Château Sanglant, the blood drenched castle. Its wine was celebrated far and wide, though few knew of its precise origins. Among these few was Barnabas Delaunay, a man lauded as a connoisseur of exquisite grapes, with a penchant for adventure and the unknown.

Barnabas arrived at Château Sanglant on a sullen autumn afternoon, welcomed by the sight of far-flung rows of vines, hanging heavy with rubied fruits. An ethereal quality draped the tranquility of the vineyard, cloaking it with an unnerving silence and the faint aroma of raw sweetness. Barnabas was welcomed into the château by its reclusive proprietor, an old man of alabaster skin and obsidian eyes, known only as Le Seigneur.

“Barnabas, isn’t it?” the old host crooned in a graveled voice, a soft echo of forgotten years. As Barnabas followed him through the stone corridors, he could not shake off the nagging feeling of unseen eyes watching him, of whispers that ceased as he entered rooms.

Over dinner, the ruby decanter trickled the precious fluid into Barnabas’s glass. As drops of the Lipstick Merlot bounced against the crystal goblet, he could feel the very air grow thicker. When he tasted it, the wine unraveled a myriad fragrance; luscious berries, tender vanilla, the freshness of mint, and beneath it, a note he could not define, more than metallic yet less than repugnant. This was the allure of Château Sanglant – a wine that excited the palate and blackened the heart.

In the dead silence of the night, Barnabas was drawn to a series of screams, lost to the ancient walls of the château. He followed the seemingly muffled cries and found himself facing a wall of overgrown vines, the timeworn trellises sprawled like a witch’s net. The moon above shone spectral light on the vines, bathing them in a blood stream of spectral radiance, revealing to Barnabas, a gruesome secret etched in red.

In an alcove of the vineyard, bathed in wayward moonlight, were bodies, strung up like marionettes amidst the great vines. Their life fluids dripped, a slow torment and nourishment for the ravenous roots below. The vines were rich and flush, thriving on the agony of the wretched souls ensnared within them.

Terrified, Barnabas was aware of the presence sneaking up behind him. It was Le Seigneur, his eyes reflecting the moon’s ghostly light as a grim smile cut across his pale face. “Barnabas,” he drawled. “Welcome to the true heart of Château Sanglant.”

Eyes wide with horror, Barnabas looked at the ghoulist spectacle before him. Vines that surged with a fervent crimson, reeking of transgression and an unholy sustenance. There he stood, within the sanguinary vineyard, at the threshold of a terrifying adventure, ensnared in a nightmare that promised to unravel in the dark heart of the vineyard’s secret.

(More to follow)