In the heart of the rustic English village of Eldersbury, a tale circulated among the locals that sent shivers down spines and caused whispers in dimly lit pubs. The legend was simple yet chilling: The Last Share. Many swore by its existence, tales of eerie encounters and unsettling revelations circulating with the fervour of folklore. It was said that whoever partook of The Last Share would not emerge unscathed from the experience.
The roots of this story stretched back to the late 1970s, when an enigmatic man named Albert Faulkner settled in Eldersbury. A man of gaunt stature with a mop of grey hair that seemed to have a mind of its own, Albert was shunned by most villagers due to his peculiar habits. He often wandered the streets, eyes glazed over as if searching for something just out of reach. Some said he was a seer, others claimed he was simply mad.
Months passed, and an air of unease began to settle upon Eldersbury. It was said that while many villagers hosted gatherings, Albert preferred to remain isolated, sharing his meals with only the occasional roaming stray. However, one fateful night, borne out of curiosity or perhaps a more sinister desire, a group of young men dared each other to invite Albert to The Crown, the village’s only pub, for a drink.
As they burst through the door that evening, Albert sat hunched over in a darkened corner, his presence almost blending in with the shadows. Light flickered from the candles scattered about the pub, casting odd shapes across the wooden walls. The youths mustered their courage and approached him, the clinking of their glasses providing a discordant melody against the backdrop of hushed conversations. They found Albert’s eyes glinted with a strange, unsettling light as he looked them over.
“Wanna share a pint, old man?” one of the young men jested, half-heartedly, to mask the tension in the air. The others stifled laughter, their apprehension masked by bravado.
“The Last Share?” Albert’s voice sliced through the cacophony, audible only to those gathered at the table. There was an uncanny calmness, a chill that snapped the merriment. “Many have indulged, few have survived.”
His words were cloaked in a portentous warning, but arrogance simmered beneath the surface of the young men’s bravado. They dared each other, egging on the bravest of their group, Oliver, to accept Albert’s invitation. With the flicker of candlelight reflecting in his youthful eyes, Oliver grinned widely and declared, “A drink is just a drink!”
Gathering a motley of ales, the group nestled closely to the odd recluse. An uncomfortable silence enveloped them as Albert produced a single, dusty bottle from his shabby satchel. The label read, “The Last Share,” in faded gold letters that seemed to shimmer ominously in the dim light. It was as if the bottle had absorbed all the light around it.
With a delicate yet ominous gesture, Albert poured a share for each of the gathered men. Laughter echoed in the pub, the atmosphere thick with camaraderie. Little did they know that the fabric of their lives was about to be irrevocably altered. They raised their glasses, a mock toast to the unknown, and downed the drink in a single gulp.
For a moment, nothing happened. Laughter resumed, and the bravado masked an impending doom. However, as the hours dragged on, the world began to change around them. The tick-tock of the old clock mounted on the wall seemed to slow, the candlelight flickered unsteadily, casting erratic shadows.
Oliver was the first to notice. “Boys, I think I’m seeing things,” he muttered, dismissing the sensation of unease roiling within him. His friends hooted in laughter, but their amusement began to falter as they too grappled with the strange occurrences enveloping them.
One by one, the four men began to experience bizarre visions. Faces of long-dead villagers danced on the edges of their perceptions, eyes weeping blood, mouths moving in silent screams. Whispers, barely audible, cut through their laughter, “You shouldn’t have…,” they echoed hauntingly.
“Stop messing about, Oliver!” one of his companions shouted, attempting to dispel the growing dread that was challenging their bravado. Yet, there was nothing to laugh about. The pub was thrumming with grotesque energy, mingling merry cheers with a profound sense of despair. The very walls seemed to lean in, eager to eavesdrop on the unfolding horror.
In a sudden fit of panic, Oliver leapt from his seat. “I need air!” he gasped, pushing through the crowded pub exit, followed closely by his friends who could not shake free from a primal dread bubbling in the pit of their stomachs. As the fresh air hit them, they stumbled into the night, the stars above twinkling in mocking brightness.
The village wasn’t quite the same; familiar pathways were now obscured by shadows that seemed to breathe. The air felt heavier, each step forward bathed in a sort of ink-dark foreboding. The world they had known transformed into a labyrinth of uncertainty.
As they reached the old churchyard at the edge of the village, Oliver’s bravado cracked. “What was… what was in that drink?” he stammered, an uncharacteristic tremor betraying his usually steady demeanour.
Albert’s voice echoed in their minds; “Few have survived.” Panic coursed through them; they felt an inexplicable urge to flee, to discard the burden of what they had invoked. They split off, racing in different directions, hoping to escape the weight of the ominous encounter.
Oliver stumbled too far from the others, his heart pounding like a drum. The shadows that had once been friends now loomed malevolently around him. He sprinted towards the old oak tree, desperately seeking comfort in its timeless sturdiness, whispering phrases of disbelief. But the moment he reached it, the ground beneath him shifted, and he fell into a hollow beneath the roots.
Gasping for breath amid the darkness, he realised he wasn’t alone. Visions exploded into view — lost souls trapped in an eternal bondage. The faces flashed by, familiar and foreign, reaching out with grasping hands and hollow eyes, embodying a despair he could hardly comprehend. They murmured secrets of the afterlife, revelations of choices made and paths untaken. A baritone voice resonated, “Why did you take The Last Share?”
Desperate to escape, Oliver clawed at the earth, emerging breathless into the moonlit night. His pulse surged as he fought every urge to flee but found himself drawn back, inexplicably anchoring him to his past, to their shared, careless decision.
Meanwhile, back at The Crown, the remaining friends desperately sought solace in each other’s company. Anxiety swirled as they realised Oliver had not returned. Whispers of the pub began to meld with cries of anguish, the boundaries of reality swelling and aping their fears. They abandoned their seats, racing into the chilling embrace of the night to find him.
As they tore through the desolate streets, shadows lingered, haunted by the lingering echo of regret and folly. It felt as if the village itself turned its back on them, concealing Oliver’s whereabouts. They searched frantically but were unsuccessful. Hours of lightning storms of panic erupted as they trudged back towards the darkened churchyard, the air thick with dreadful anticipation.
Then, they heard it; a wretched sound traversing the moonlit graveyard. A scream racked their bodies with fear, a primal cry echoing off the stones. They sprinted towards the sound, hearts racing until they came across Oliver, his anguished face twisted in terror, eyes wide and bloodshot.
“He’s here…” he gasped, his voice a threadbare whisper that barely held together. “It wants… it wants the last share.”
The friends reached for him, fear pricking at the edges of their minds. But as they did, the ground began to shake. Faces emerged from the graveyard; ghosts twisted in agony, begging for release. A tension hung in the air, the remnants of their decision suffocating them. With a blinding flash, the ground broke apart, and the darkness unfurled like an insatiable maw, threatening to consume everything.
Each man made a choice in that moment — whether to stand and face the shadows they had summoned or to slip away into oblivion. In an unimaginable kaleidoscope of moments, they grabbed with desperate hands, pulling Oliver from the brink. But the ghosts of Eldersbury were always hungry.
In the years that followed, the tale of The Last Share morphed into legend. The Crown remained, shadows swirling through its thresholds, but no one spoke of it. Many avoided sharing their last drink, fearing the curse that hung like a cloud over Eldersbury. People whispered of a darkness that hung over the village, a legend of five young men, who dared to partake of something that should never be shared.
As time passed, the individuals involved began to vanish, absorbed by their choices and the curse they had invoked. But on certain nights, when the moon finds its way shrouded in clouds, the villagers still hear a distant echo, a reminder that there are some secrets too dark to share, and some drinks best left undisturbed.
