A sliver of moonlight was drawn through the branches of the trees above. It barely illuminated my path as I walked again and again through the vineyard, stumbling my way through the dark with just a dim-lit lamp. All I could see were my dirty Doc martens hitting against the dirt ground while I made my way through the dense, tree-littered area without a thought running through my head.

This was the second time that I had visited the vineyard. As wide and open as it was in the day time, it seemed to be more free during the night. No one was here to watch over the trees as they swayed in the wind; to sit under their shade on a warm day in the high summer. No one was here to pick the fruit of the vines, to empty them of the only thing that made them useful.

I only came here once before because of the same reason that I had come back. Abandoning something that I had once held close was easy to me. I had done it many times before—after all, running away from my problems was the simplest solution to fix what I had broken. But in the vineyard, my problems seemed to chase me. They hunted me down like a hunter did a deer. Like a needle did a thread.

My short blonde hair hit my face as I pounded through the grass, feeling every second tick by like my brain ran on a stopwatch. It was only then that I noticed a slim outline of a figure, illuminated by the glaring lights of a red pickup truck. They were hunched over the open hood, sifting through the inside of the truck with an eerie preciseness that made me question why I had never seen anyone here before. I had simply thought that the vineyard was deserted, left to the birds of prey who picked at any meal they could find. The vineyard was big enough that you could get lost in it; I must have not seen any people the first time I had come to take a walk through the orchard.

I stopped walking when the figure turned his head to face towards me. The blaring lights of the truck and the distance between us allowed me to make out the features of his face—wild brown hair that came down to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes that looked electric against the harsh glow. He was slim and partly malnourished; not usually the first person you would expect to be working on a truck in the middle of the night.

I couldn’t tell if the man owned the vineyard or not. He had an aura that expelled a wavering uncertainty, making me question if he was in here for the same reason that I was. It wasn’t common that you would find someone wandering the vineyard at one of the final hours of twilight, as usually the people who worked there had gone in for the night.

Before I could turn away, I heard the man’s voice echo around the deserted fields. “What are you doing here, boy?” he asked, his southern accent strangely apparent when he spoke. It surprised me slightly—he barely looked old enough to own his own vineyard, let alone possess a gruff country-like tone of voice that sounded like it had been built up by years of hard work.

“I don’t intend to cause any trouble—“ I started to reply, but the man just interrupted me with a laugh that pierced the veil of silence hanging over the vineyard.

“Don’t worry, kid. I don’t bite.” He chuckled at himself, adjusting the cigarette resting between his pale lips that was now visible under the moonlight. “I was only joking.” When I heard his words I heaved an empty sigh of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off my chest.

“I hope you know that I wasn’t out here to steal anything—I just came by to take a walk. Usually, this place is deserted during the nighttime,” I assured him.

“So you’ve came here before?” the man asked. He released himself from a crouch, turning to face towards me as he dropped his tools on the dirt below.

“Once,” I said, not seeing the point in lying my way out of the situation. I was already in too deep—at this point, there was no hope in escape. “I’ve been here once before. I didn’t steal anything—I promise.”

The man just laughed again, his voice still sounding strained and built upon by his accent. For just a second, I watched his gaze shift from me to the truck he was working on. It was quick, almost looking like a simple trick of the light. But I saw it as clear as day.

I looked to where he had glimpsed, feeling my blood run cold as I immediately regretted my descision. Again, it could be my mind playing tricks on me. After all, it had done that multiple times before. But I could swear that I saw something; a pair of bloodshot eyes staring directly at me.

There was someone else in that truck.

Margot stood at the top of the vineyard hill, admiring the vast open acres that contrasted her building infested city she called home. The wind violently pushed her long hair in her face, but she didn’t mind. The grape covered valley reminded her of her nan’s place and the warmth of her childhood memories kept her from shivering. She didn’t realize how much she missed her past. She drove one hundred and eighty two miles to this vineyard to interview it’s owner, Samuel Wilkinson, for WBC’s latest news article. While watching the rustling leaves of the vineyard’s trellises, she let a short humph escape her lips. It was a long trek for such a boring job. Margot couldn’t remember the last time she felt excited to write an article. She made her way down the hill toward the winery. Her feet dragged behind her and she had a pout forming on her lips. When she reached the winery’s front doors, her pout was soon tranformed into a big “O.” Standing before her was none other than Samuel himself. He wore a purple beret with a green stalk. He was clean shaven other than a skinny, twirly mustache that spiraled several times. He wore a purple suit and even though it fit him well, the shade of purple was so atrocious it made Margot’s eyes water. To top off the outfit he wore a picturesque tie with tiny grapes on it. Margot noticed that all of his garments, the hat, the suit, and the tie were different shades of purple. “Oh… Hello!” Margot said. A smile was slowly spreading across her face and she had to keep the laughter from rising to her throat. “Hello, Hello! It is such a pleasure to have you here today at my prized and cherished vineyard,” He grabbed her hand, firm and clammy, and shaked vigourously. “Well, what do you think of it so far? Any first impressions?” His eyes crinkled and Margot saw that he had spent many years of his life smiling. “It’s beautiful, truely… impressive.” Margot could not stop looking at this man’s outfit. It was so gaudy to her she could only imagine the looks she would get walking around in that at her office. Everytime she spoke, she had to speak slowly or else she may actually laugh in his face. Samuel ushered her inside, giving her a tour of the winery before the interview. He pointed to the barrels where the wine was aged and the bar where they hosted tasting parties. “And here is my most favorite piece of art.” On the wall behind the bar was a scultpure of Samuel’s face surrounded by a grape-like crown. The face of the sculpture was poorly done and his face was so wrinkly that it distorted his smile. The grapes from the top of his head trickled down the sides of his face immitating hair. One look at this masterpiece was all that Margot could contain before she let out a big, high-pitched squeal. She couldn’t help it. This man was truely mad for grapes. To have your life dominated by an obsession was something completely alien to Margot. “What is so funny?” Samuel asks. “I— Um… I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Margot said while snickering. “I see. You think I’m ridiculous don’t you?” “No, No, it’s not that. I just—“ Margot paused and she realized he was completely right. He did look ridiculous. “I know perfectly well that’s what it is. You are not the first to think this. I hate to say this, but I cannot do your interview today.” Margot stopped laughing, “No please, I didn’t mean to laugh. Really. Your vineyard is very beautiful and its worth sharing to the world.” Margot’s flattery did not appease him. “You know, I bought this vineyard straight out of college. I had about 20 dollars to my name, but this had been my dream since I was thirteen. My father taught me how to grow the grapes, take care of them, help them thrive. He made his own wines, right from his backyard and he would let me sip them sometimes. I found great pleasure in the process of their cultivation and now my pleasure is my job. I am the luckiest man in the world. So yes, I wear silly clothes and have silly art in my winery, but that does not make me any less than you.” Samuel stood tall with determination in his shoulders, but his eyes were no longer crinkled. Margot’s nan also gardened. She had huge blackberry bushes in her gardens that they would pick together. She missed the days when her nan would bake blackberry pies from them and they would eat them in her sunroom. In her moment of prejudice, she realized that nothing in her life since she graduated college gave her the same amount of joy as her grandmother’s memory and this man was living in those moments every day. She was raptured with envy. “Look I will admit, the outfit and the sculpture was all a little ridiculous to me. I have grown to be a judgmental bitch because of this job. I hate it and I’m sorry. I very much admire your story. I think many people will agree with me and I would like to cover this story.” Samuel huffed and broke their eye contact, “I appreciate the apology… My father was a kind man, more kind than me. He would accept your apology so I will too.” They spent that afternoon going through Margot’s questions. As the interview proceeded, Samuel’s original spunk came back. His eyes lit up as he told the intricate details of his chaptalizing and fermentation processes. They shared a few laughs, not directed at each other. At the end of the interview, Margot and Samuel hugged. It was an awkward hug that Margot initiated, but she was compelled to do it anyways. She felt the warmness of his heart through all the layers of his puple suit. “Thank you for letting me interview you.” “It was my pleasure. Please take this home with you.” Samuel held out a wine bottle. It was a token of peace and understanding. Margot drove home that night and drank a glass of Samuel’s wine. It was perfectly bitter. In her drunken slumber, Margot was content knowing this article she would write would be her last.

The sun hung low over the sprawling hills, casting shadows across the neatly lined rows of grapevines. Matthew stepped out of his car, the gravel crunching beneath his feet, and looked around. The vineyard was oddly silent, no workers pruning vines, no laughter, no voices. Just rows of dark, glistening grapes swaying in the breeze.

He nearly turned back until a voice called out, smooth and lilting. “Ah, a guest! I haven’t had a visitor in ages.”

A man appeared, tall and thin, dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a cravat and a worn fedora. His piercing eyes glinted with an unsettling warmth. He introduced himself as Alaric, the vineyard’s owner.

“Quite the place you have here,” Matthew said, masking his unease. “But where is everyone?”

“Oh, they come and go,” Alaric replied with a vague smile, waving his hand dismissively. “Would you care for a tour?”

Curiosity got the better of him. Matthew nodded, and they strolled between the rows of vines, Alaric explaining the delicate balance of soil and sun, the art of cultivating grapes. He spoke with reverence, as though he were talking about something sacred.

Soon, they reached a cellar. The air grew colder, damp with the scent of earth and oak barrels. Alaric led him deeper, where flickering candles cast eerie shadows on the stone walls.

“This is where the magic happens,” Alaric whispered, running a finger along the edge of an enormous barrel. “It’s where the soul of the vineyard is distilled.”

Matthew peered closer, noticing something strange about the barrels. The liquid within wasn’t quite the deep red of wine; it had a darker, almost blackish hue. He felt a chill creep over him.

“What kind of grapes do you use?” he asked, forcing a laugh, but his voice shook slightly.

“Oh, not just grapes,” Alaric said softly. “My wine is… unique. It requires something more refined.”

Before Matthew could respond, Alaric placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. His eyes sparkled with a dark intensity.

“My family has been here for centuries,” he continued. “We have perfected our recipe, our special ingredient. Only those who truly appreciate the wine are invited here.” He smiled, showing teeth that seemed too sharp.

Matthew tried to pull away, but Alaric’s grip tightened. “You see, my wine needs something human. A touch of blood. A soul. Just a hint.”

Matthew’s heart pounded, and he fought to break free, but the cellar felt like it was closing in on him. Alaric leaned in, his voice a murmur. “I believe you’ll add the perfect flavor.”

With a swift, effortless motion, Alaric dragged him to the edge of the barrel, his other hand pressing a blade to Matthew’s wrist.

“Don’t worry,” Alaric whispered, his eyes gleaming. “You’ll be part of something eternal.”

The last thing Matthew saw was the flickering candlelight reflecting in Alaric’s eyes, like dark, bottomless pits, before everything went black.

It was late when my rental car broke down in the middle of Italian wine country. I had no cell reception. I thought that only happened in bad horror movies.

I left the little blue car, and started walking. I was thankful that I'd worn my sneakers instead of high heels.

When I reached a lane branching off the main road, I followed it and at last came to a house and outbuildings. The house was low, red tiled roof and whitewashed walls. Shrubs and trees crowded around the house.

I knocked on the door, but since there were no lights on, I doubted anyone was still up.

As I feared, there was no response.

I wondered if I dared to break in. I wanted to call my brother to let him know I was delayed.

The vineyard was large, lanes just wide enough to have trucks pass through picking up the baskets. The once lush vines now bare and stiff as the cold november air drifts through each row. I was sent here under the request of my superior, sending me the location and instructed to be here before sunset. The case had gone cold 3 months ago, and our crime scene was contaminated thanks to harvest sesaon.

Annabelle Karlson, age 15, white female, murdered. Her body was found in a corn field 3 miles from town. She was discovered by the Farmer’s daughter and her boyfirend trying to find a place to fool around in; damn kids. Annabelle was identified by Sophie Randall, Austin Randall’s daughter, and called the police. This all happened six months ago, every lead we had turned up either a wild goose chase or a dead end. But never had I thought to ask the owner of the vineyard; it’s located 10miles away from where Annabelle was discovered. The property alone would have to be searched by the combined man power of 3 towns.

I pulled into the dirt lot, climbed out of the beat up sedan issued by the state. The soud of the car door shutting echoed against the wind, the crunching of every step vibrated my ear drums. The stagnant quiet sent violent shivers down my spine. The place looked abandoned outside of harvest season, everything dismally dark as the end of fall approached, winter would be here in a couple of weeks. Then everything would be covered in a light dusting of snow.

“Hello? Mr. Lubov?” I call out. “Mr. Lubov?” I might as well have been whispering for I never got response. The building north of me was dark, the front door was locked tight with a pad lock the size of my hand. That’s a bit excessive. As I approached the door, in the corner of a front window the curtains had moved. The jossled fabric tore my attention away from everything. I tracted my way around to the back of the building to see the door cracked open. Something told me to go look, to open the door. The wind picked up and made the door fly open, slamming against the adjacent wall and sticking there. The dark void that filled the house gave an erie growl. The low tone felt like thunder rumbling in my chest. I take a few steps forward, inching my way towards the entrance. I reached the threshold, the hairs raised on the back of my neck as the low throaty growl rushed my head. I was about to cross the frame.

“Can I help you?” I jumped back, drawing my gun and swinging it directly behind me. And there stood a man with striking features. His eyes were a piercing blue and shot right through me. His long black hair tied into a loose braid lay over his broad shoulder. My eyes wondered all over his face, admiring the structure of his jaw line and strong nose. He clears his throat, pulling me from my trance. “If you are quite finsihed gawking, please explain who you are.” His voice was deep with a harsh annoyed tone to my sudden shock at how handsome he was.

“Uh..oh right, I’m,” I fumble putting my gun away and getting my badge. This man had me all sorts of flustered, get a hold of yourself! “Detective Persy Styx, with MCPD. I was told to meet with Mr. Lubov, the owner of the vineyard.” My heart hammered in my chest as he took a step closer to me, my feet unwanting to move.

“Well, Detective, I am Declan Lubov, owner of this dead vineyard.” His words were like silk as they rolled out past his hard lips. The scruff growing around them and up his jaw looked to be about 3weeks thick, he must’ve shaved back in October. “I’m to assume Captain Fareway sent you regarding that poor farm girl that died back in May.”

“So you’ve been informed of my coming, good then that makes things easier.” Talking to him is the hard part, every thought I have is just wanting to land my lips on his. He takes another step towards me. My heart pounded so hard that it could burst out of my chest.

“I have offered my assistance in the past with cases like these, so yes. Shall we head inside? It is dreadfully cold out here.” He continues on past me, his collagne invaded my senses. He smelled of cedar and honey. I subconciously wondered after him like a thirsty school girl.

Once inside the building, the over head light came on in a warm glow illuminating an open space. The low growl I heard earlier came from the far opposite corner of the room. A black and gold phonograph stood there with a record spinning on it. The needle was right at the end of the record. Declan moved behind me to dislodge the door from the magnetic lock, closing the door.

“This way, Detective.” He gestured for me to move to a sitting room at the far end of the long hall. It was welcoming with soft cushioned chairs and love seats and a small glass coffee table at the center. He moved like flowing water and somehow made the room glow despite the overcast gray seeping through the translucent curtains. Declan takes the loveseat, and I in the adjacent chair, sinking deep into the cushion.

“Mr. Lubov,” I started

“Please, Detective, call me Declan.” His voice was soft, but stern with his request.

“Of course, Declan.” Adjusting in the overly soft seat, “Captian Fareway didn’t tell me anything besides to meet with you.” From the hallway, a figure emerges holding a silver tray. I jumped at the sight of a small woman carrying in glasses and a long neck bottle of red wine. The lable was in italian but at the bottom read Sweet Italian Wine.

“Fareway sent me the case file and I had noticed that a very important detail was over looked.” The woman placed the tray on the table and poured the wine to about halway in the glasses. “Thank you, Violet. Detective?”

“Oh, no thanks, I’m more of a moscato drinker.”

“Humor me please.” Delcan persisted, giving me a dashing smile. His teeth are perfect and white, and the final blow to make me reach for the glass. “The girl…Annamay?”

“Annabelle.”

“Ah, yes. She was giving us a helping hand here the day she was killed. The detail that was overlooked is a time frame.” He picks his glass up and takes a sip, I do the same.

“What was she doing here?” The wine was sweet, reminding me of the grape juice i would drink as a kid, just with the warm rush of alcohol to follow behind very mildly.

“From 3pm to 8pm, Annabelle would come in and help pick weeds, spray the vines with vitamins, and then help clean up the property. Once in a while she would come help Violet with the house.”

“Annabelle would get done with school around 2:45pm, and this is a 15min drive from the school.” I take another sip of the wine, it was quite delicious. I really wasn’t much of a red wine drinker, I could never stand bitter things, so I stuck to the moscatos, or fruit wines. “Did she ever say anything about her life at home? Being gone for 5hrs everyday would’ve made any parent worried.”

“She never really talked about herself all that much, just the occasional story here and there.” Declan reaches up to sweep a stray lock of hair behind his ear, “There was one time she came in looking distraught. I found her in the barn crying. Thats when she told me what was happening at home.” Declan goes on to tell me the most horrific story I’ve ever heard.

“Annabelle has been getting molested and raped by not only her father, but by _most _of the men that entered that house?”

“Since she was 6yrs old, and that day she told me, she found out that she was pregnant with one of six men’s child. She didn’t know who the father was.” Regardless of which man did it, it still counts as incest, and each one of those six men are look at 15yrs minimum if the story checks out.

“Did she tell you all who was involved?” I had disregarded my note pad and just stuck my recorded on the table next to the tray.

“Her father, Fredric. Her brother, Justin. The Brother in law, Michael. And Kathy’s three brothers, Henry, Adam, and Dan Hardwick.” My partner, Kasin Rodgers, had interviewed the father, brother, and uncle, the other 3 had alibis for the night of her death.

“Do you know if she mentioned the pregnancy to anyone else?”

“After she left that day, she hardly came in for the week. Each time I would see Annabelle, she was bundled up like it was -12º outside.” Declan stood with grace, his hands held behind him as he made way for the window. “I hope she gets justice.”

“I’ll deliver it on a silver platter, i can guarantee that.” I struggled to rise out of the chair, the damn thing was trying to swallow me whole if i hadnt of moved sooner. As I rose, my head became extremely light. The room turning dark and hazey. “What’s happening?” My speech slurred out of me. I hadn’t even had a glass of wine, but I felt sloshed as the room began to spin. Heat rushed my body, my legs grew weak.

“Oh, right. Detective Styx, would mind staying for a bit, I’d like to…talk a…bit more…about……” His words trailed off as my body became heavy. I fell hard to the worn wooden floors. My head turned towards Declan, and the last sight before me was his devlish grin.

Then there was nothing. The heaviness engulfed me, darkness clouded my mind. I was going to die.

Grapes lined the vines that twisted up the side of the trellis, protecting the deck overlooking the vineyard from the sun. As I sat staring out into the vast field trying to think of anything but how bad the past year has been, I used the Veiled Valley Cellars house pinot noir to drown out my thoughts.

I had to get anyway from my apartment which I was forced into after I caught my dirt bag of a husband cheating on me. After 22 years of marriage, living in our beautiful house, in the foothills of the Cascade Mountain Range. I was left with nothing. Nothing but a dead end job as a secretary to a real estate agent, in a time when increased interest rates are keeping people from buying homes.

“You need a weekend away from here,” Scott, my boss, had told me a few weeks ago. “Why don’t you stay up in my cabin in the Willamette Valley, drink pinot and think or at least forget about Daren. Who knows maybe you will meet someone new, the wineries are always full of interesting people.”

It took some persuasion but I had finally come around to the idea that it would be a great chance to clear my mind and think of ways to move forward. The week before my trip I spent a lot of time researching and planning out where I would spend time losing myself in wine.

Veiled Valley Cellars was my number one choice, it was known like many wines of the Willamette Valley for its house pinot noir. They say the soil on the estate is what causes the beautiful flavors of cherry pie to come singing out of the glass. Others say that it is the grapes themselves that made Veiled Valley Cellars pinot so much better than any other pinots. Many other vintners have traveled long and far to try to steal seeds or sprout clones of the vines which held these award winning grapes. But most people think that it has something to do with the eclectic owner, Sebastian Ferrell the third, saying he has not only taken a great pinot but he has surpassed the wines his father and grandfather had created. All of this within the first 2 years of taking over the helm of the company.

Unlike his father before him, Sebastian III likes to keep out of the limelight that his wines cast, which makes his celebrity grow all that much more. So much so that there is usually a long waiting list to even get a single seat on the sprawling back deck of Veiled Valley Cellars.

Of course, Scott, knows one of the managers and was able to sneak me in off to the side of the deck hidden in the shadows. As I pushed my empty glass to the edge of the table to alert the waiter that I was ready for another glass, I noticed a strangely dressed man standing at the other side of the deck, staring off into the field. One of his hands was grasping a glass of red wine, presumably the highly acclaimed pinot, he looked at the contents of the glass, lifted it to his nose, gave it a sniff and tossed the wine over the edge of the railing. Turning with a disgusted look on his face and stormed off the deck.

“Wow, I can’t imagine anyone disliking this wine.” I thought to myself. My waiter had dropped off a fresh glass of pinot and cleared my empty glass from the small table. I lifted the glass to my nose, a symphony of red fruits enveloped me. Layers of earthiness, spice, and gentle wafts of vanilla, how could anyone waste such a fine wine.

I spent the next few hours staring and drinking, each glass brought me more happiness, along with forgetting about my shitty boring life. Before I knew it, I was all alone on the dark deck. The sun had set hours before, I had no idea what time it was or where my waiter was with my tab. I grabbed at my purse beside me to get up and go settle my tab, when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder.

I gaspt and quickly turned around to see the strangely dressed man looking down at me with a slight smirk on his face.

“I am sorry to scare you,” the man apologized. “But, I wanted to let you know that your tab has been taken care of.”

“By whom?” I questioned, “I would love to thank them.”

“By me of course,” the man responded “I am the owner, Sebastian Ferrell the third, who might I have the pleasure of speaking with?”

I was so embarrassed, shocked and surprised that the famous Sebstain the third was not only talking to me but had paid my tab. “My, My name? I’m Amanda Spenc…sorry Amanda Martin.” I spilled out, realizing that I was a little drunker than I thought.

“Well Miss Martin, I can see you have been enjoying my pinot very much. Would you like to join me and my private cellar for a bottle of my favorite vintage; 2018, the year I learned how to turn my family's wine into a masterpiece?”

“I, I would be honored, to umm join you, Mr… Mr. Ferrel.” I stammered.

“You may call me Sebstain.” He responded while gently grabbing my hand and helping me out of my seat.

He led me through his now empty tasting room, only a few lights were left on which accented the enormous fireplace on the far wall of the room. We came to a stop in front of a huge iron door, as Sebstain pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He pushed open the large door which led to a stone spiral staircase. A gust of cold wind hit my face as we walked down to his private cellar.

The cellar was very cool and damp. The large cave-like room was filled with racks covered in cobwebs full of old dusty wine bottles. Two big arm chairs sat in the coroner separated by a small table with two wine glasses beckoning to be filled and a few unlit white candles. Sebastian eyed the racks and pulled out a bottle, set it on the small table and lit the candles.

“Please take a seat.” Sebastian said in a soft voice.

This is so romantic I thought as he pulled the cork on the dusty bottle of Pinot, I can’t believe Scott was right, there still is hope for me yet.

Sebastian poured two glasses of wine, handing me one and held the other out in front of him. “Cheers.” His smile and eyes lit up.

“Cheers.” I replied, clinking my glass against his. I took a sip and let the deep complex flavors take over my senses. “This is the best glass of Pinot Noir I have ever had, no this is the best thing I have ever tasted in my life. How? What is your secret Sebastian?”

“I have never told another living soul my secret.” He replied.

“Pretty, pretty please,” I said flirtily. “I swear your secret is safe with me.”

“Oh, I know my secret will be safe with you. People have been guessing for years what my secret is, and it's very simple. The soil.” He said his voice was a little colder.

“I read that most people think that is what it is. But if that is the case why are your vintages so much better than your fathers or grandfathers?”

“That's because I bury my victims under the vines.” He said with a crazy laugh, his eyes grew wider.

“That’s not very funny.” I said starting to feel a little dizzy. That was when I noticed Sebastain hadn’t taken a sip from his glass, he began rising to his feet and reached for something in his back pocket.

He pulled out a huge knife and the last thing I heard was him saying; “You will make a great addition to next year's vintage of Pinot.”

“The storm has flooded the river”, Said Lord Vincent.

Paul stopped his blue VW Polo in front of the wrought iron gate. As he took his arm out to press the button, he scrutinised the intricate leaves chiselled to the smallest detail in the massive gate. It was as if he was trying to extract answers from them.

He was visiting the local vineyard, whose wine everybody claimed to be the best the world had ever tasted. Cape wine and Porto wine were mere grape juice compared to that drink of the gods. The owner, a certain Norbert Edgecombe that Paul had never seen, had become a legend. Not only he had produced wine, but he had produced the best wine in the world according to the local connoisseurs and sommeliers. What’s more, people seemed to have forgotten about all their troubles. They were genuinely happy. So happy and carefree that the recent disappearances in the town didn’t bother them in the slightest. Not even the police were disquieted. In fact, Paul observed, the only people who were alarmed were the few town’s non-drinkers like himself.

His oldest sister Sophie had recently accepted a job at the winery as a housekeeper. Paul had never seen her again. As the bright journalist he was, he didn’t take long to place all the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together. The handful of individuals who had vanished into thin air had accepted jobs at W.I.N.E. or gone there directly to buy bottles. When Paul went to the police to present these facts, the officers shockingly laughed it off.

‘That man Edgecombe has performed a miracle, why would we suspect him?’ one of the officers asked without even raising his eyes from his mobile phone to look at Paul.

‘These people disappeared after visiting the vineyard. Are you telling me you’re not doing anything about it?’

To say Paul was outraged was an understatement. So, after leaving the station, he made the decision to investigate by himself. He had to find out what had happened to his sister.

The gate opened and Paul drove in. His senses were all alert. A million questions and doubts invaded his mind as he thought again that no picture of Norbert Edgecombe had ever been published in the papers, including the one he worked for. Apparently, the vineyard owner was no fan of pictures and insisted on keeping his face unknown. Paul didn't know what the man looked like.

'Greetings, lad,' an old man greeted him, his bald head like a huge egg surrounded by a thick nest of white hair. He was wearing the most eccentric clothes Paul had ever seen on someone that age. Corduroy trousers in black and red squares, green leather shoes, and a shirt so bright yellow it hurt Paul’s eyes.

'A most delightful sunny day,' the weird man said, somehow amused with Paul's discomfort.

'Good day,' the journalist returned switching off his Polo. 'Are you Mr. Norbert Edgecombe?'

'Aye, lad.'

Paul looked around. He had expected to see staff working in the vineyard, but those were strangely deserted. Instinctively, he took his hand to the Swiss knife in his pocket which he had taken with him just in case, but all he got from it was a feeble sense of security.

‘It’s good to have visits every now and then,' the vineyard owner said, offering his skinny hand for a handshake, that Paul reluctantly returned. ‘It’s quite solitary here. May I ask what your name is, lad?’

'Paul Campbell. My sister has recently started working for you. Since then, I have not seen her or received news from her. I was expecting to talk to her now.’

Norbert Edgecombe was unaffected. He just smiled and patted Paul on his shoulder.

‘Why of course, lad,’ he said walking towards the vines and inviting the journalist to do the same. ‘What’s your sister’s name?’

‘Sophie.’

Mr Edgecombe smiled.

‘A most charming lady. Allow me to guide you through my vineyard. You will be able to see her shortly.’

Paul swallowed hard to the perspective of seeing his sister again. He tightened the Swiss knife in his hand though. He couldn’t lose his focus. Nothing so far had told him he had nothing to fear. Norbert Edgecombe seemed amicable but so had the worst serial killers the world had ever known about.

He followed slowly, observing everything around him.

‘I have been blessed by luck and fate,’ Edgecombe said as he guided the journalist through the dirt path leading to the vines. ‘The secret to good win is so much more than good climatic conditions, fertile soil, and wooden barrels. There is art to it. An ancient art that has been taught throughout generations.’

‘An ancient art?’ Paul asked, looking at the old man for the first time since they had started walking.

‘Oh yes,’ Edgecombe said. His pace was slow and his face pensive. ‘Look carefully at the vines.’

The journalist stopped and approached the dark green leaves and stalks twisting around skinny but tall sticks heading skywards. The vineyard was immense. It stretched down a valley where each set of vines formed a corridor keeping a neat distance from all the others around, as if every inch had been carefully calculated. It was in excellent shape. Not a leaf showed signs of withering, powdery mildew, or funguses. Keeping it like that certainly required much and qualified staff. Yet not a single soul was to be seen even in the far distance.

‘Do you take care of all this all by yourself, Mr. Edgecombe?’ he asked in disbelief.

The man smiled warmly.

‘For sure, lad. As I said, I have been blessed. The secret of this art that wine production is has been with my family for generations.’

Paul didn't believe it. An old man could not possibly take care of all that by himself. That was when he noticed the grapes. He was no expert but none of the grapes he had seen in his life had such a vivid, liquid currant colour. He looked closer and was puzzled. Those weren’t ordinary grapes. The film around them contained no pulp or seeds inside. It rather contained something liquid. As if those grapes were made of wine already and all it would take would be to pop them open and empty them into bottles.

‘Most peculiar, isn’t it, lad? These are ancient and very rare grapes. So much so that my family named them after our own name. Edgecombe grapes.’

Paul held one with his index and thumb and pressed gently. They were unexpectedly warm even on a sunny day like that. That was when he felt it. A throbbing. A throbbing inside the grape, as if… Paul pulled his hand away. As if a small heart was beating within.

He stared at Edgecombe. The old man grinned and touched the leaves and the grapes too, as if he was petting a kitten.

‘Yes, they are alive, lad. My babies are very much alive.’

The journalist was suspicious by now. Those words weren’t just metaphors coming from someone who deeply cherished his garden or, in this case, vineyard. Norbert Edgecombe sounded like he meant every word. He picked a grape and crushed it in his hand. As he opened it, Paul was horrified. That was no wine. No wine at all. That was… blood.

‘Would you like to go inside for a sip, lad? You would feel better. You look pale.’

‘No, thank you. I don’t drink alcohol. I really would just like to see my sister. Can I please see her?’

‘Oh, so you are like your sister too. Sweet Sophie didn’t drink either and…’ he stopped as if recalling something. Something that made him smile. An intriguing smile because it looked sad and delighted at the same time.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Do you know what W.I.N.E. stands for, lad?’ the old man asked.

‘Mr. Edgecombe, I have no time for this. Please let me see my sister, I implore you.’

The man let out a deep sigh and looked at him.

‘It indeed looks like I have no choice, lad. I shall let you know what happened to her.’

‘Happened to her? Is Sophie alive?’

Instinctively, Paul drew his Swiss knife out of his pocket and pointed it at the vineyard owner.

‘You shall go through all she and the others went through,’ Edgecombe said, opening his arms in a gesture of fake defeat. His hand was still dripping with the grape’s blood.

As the old man eyed Paul, an alarm burst inside the journalist. Something cold and slimy grabbed his left wrist. A stalk. The journalist pulled his arm, but its grip was strong. He tried to cut it with his knife but all he managed was to have his right wrist gripped too. He looked down at his feet in sheer horror as the stems and leaves did the same to his ankles. He pushed and kicked, but those seemingly fragile stalks didn’t loosen a bit.

‘What’s happening?’ he yelled at the old man. ‘Stop this.’

Mr Edgecombe just shrugged and kept observing the vine slowly imprisoning Paul in a macabre embrace.

‘Wicked Infusions Norbert Edgecombe, lad. That is what W.I.N.E. stands for. And I am afraid you are about to find out why. Just know too that had you accepted a sip, you’d be walking out happily by now. I tried to save you, but you left me no choice.’

Paul screamed as the vine crooked its stalks around his thighs, waist, and chest and pulled him into the depths of that horrifying jungle. He kept kicking but the stalks didn’t give in. If anything, he was getting more tangled.

‘Sophie!’ the thought of his sister being tortured like that was unbearable. He was sure now that she was dead, just as he would be very soon.

That was when he was pricked. First his arms, then his legs, then his whole body. Tiny pricks as though an army of thorns was attacking him.

‘Heeeelp,’ he shouted, knowing no one but the wicked vineyard owner would hear.

He panted. His body slowly surrendered to the enemy, too weak to keep fighting for freedom. Cold flooded his body and his senses were kicked away by nausea and dizziness. The only time he had ever felt like that was when he donated blood for charity. He still remembered the nurse calling his name and patting his cheeks to bring him back to life.

He tried to scream again but only an imperceptible mumble left his throat. There was no nurse. The vineyard was sucking his blood, his life…

‘If that makes you feel better, lad,’ he heard Norbert Edgecombe shout. ‘Know that your blood will make countless people happy.’

And all that was left was silence and darkness.

I was hiking for most of a day before I got to the top of the hill.

I went by myself; my friend broke his ankle at the beach last week. We both knew it would put a sudden stop to our plans so he took a bus home. We’d been all over the continent together, and we were gutted he couldn’t make the final stretch of the journey.

As I stepped to the end of the path, I could see the sea.

In the distance but closer and on land, I could see what must be what I came here for.

There’s a wine; the grapes for it only grow in one place, and nowhere else in the world. There are several imitations of it and while some are close in taste and smell, nothing quite matches the distinct sweet bitterness of the wine from the hills.

I’ve only tried it once before, and that was just a sip.

A few years ago, the owner took it off the market for some reason. No-one knows why. It’s a small company; he’s also the grower, distiller, and he bottles the wine. It’s still available under the counter, or from the man himself.

I looked in every direction, I couldn’t see any sign of activity. Silence hung in the air as I approached the vineyard.

‘Hello. Can I help?’ There was a man on a step-ladder behind the first row of grape trees.

I swung around, startled because I never saw or heard him before he spoke. ‘Hi. I was told about the wine. I was on a walk near here so I thought I’d come this way and see’.

‘No problem, I’m glad to have some company,’ he said. ‘Sit yourself down on the chairs by the house over there, I’ll be finished here in a few minutes.’

I walked towards the house and I looked at the countryside surrounding me. I’d love to live here, so quiet and peaceful. When I settle down, I’ll want to be somewhere as secluded.

I sat on a chair and put my backpack on the table. I looked at the man and admired the contentedness that exuded from him. I imagined he lives a life of peace. He had an apron and and a flat cap; he certainly wore the uniform of an artisanal wine maker.

The sun setting turned the sky into a spectrum of oranges.

I looked at my watch; I didn’t realise it was so late.

He walked towards me with a basket under one arm as he stretched out his other arm and looked up at the sky. ‘Lovely evening, isn’t it?’

‘It is.’ Evenings like those made it hard to believe it was only a few months into the year.

‘Can you move you bag over, please?’

‘Of course, sorry about that.’ I put my rucksack on the floor and he placed his basket of grapes on the table.

‘Are you wanting to buy a lot of wine?’

‘Just a bottle. I’m carrying it back down with me so I don’t want too much weight.’

‘You’re planning to walk back now?’

‘Yeah. Well, if I leave within the next hour, I’ll make it down before night, right? It took me all day to get here, but a lot of that was working out my route.’

‘It’ll take hours, even if you go the shortest way. There’s plenty of room in the house; you’re welcome to stay and leave in the morning.’

‘Thanks. I think I'll do just that. I’ll buy a couple of bottles before I go.’

‘I’ll give you a quick tour of the place, follow me.’

He picked up his basket and I picked up my rucksack. I stood; I threw it over one shoulder and walked with him into the house. He showed me the main room, the kitchen, his bedroom; he led me up the stairs and showed me the bathroom, and the room I’d stay in.

‘What’s through there?’ I nodded towards a door at the other end of the hallway.

‘That’s where I make wine.’

'There's a hint of grape scent in the air.’

‘We don’t need to go in, I have some fresh bottles in the kitchen.’

‘No worries. Well, I think I’ll get some sleep then.’

‘That’s okay, I’ll give you a shout about six tomorrow. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’

He walked downstairs. I crawled into the bed with my clothes still on, I was cold.

I slept for some hours; I was awoken by the sound of an owl hooting right outside my window.

I laid awake in the darkness, contemplating taking a trip to the man’s wine factory. He didn’t say I couldn’t visit by myself.

I had no idea what time it was; I thought it was somewhere in the early hours. There hadn’t been a sound from inside the house for as long as I was awake. He must be asleep.

Slowly and softly, I crept along the corridor towards the door. I turned the handle; behind the door there was a short walkway before a staircase. A cord hung from the ceiling. I pulled it; it was a light, just as I'd hoped.

I wandered down the stairs. There were machines and devices all around me. The place was definitely a wine factory.

I looked to the left and saw passage to another room.

I walked through to it and there was a well. A sign above told me it was an area for waste disposal.

The silence was broken by the sound of footsteps; they were from upstairs, and on the way to me.

I rushed towards the entrance, ready to explain my presence.

In my head, I prepared a few lines about how I was curious. I didn’t think he could be mad at me for that.

As I was leaving, I noticed a huge tub of crimson liquid. It also had a sign above it. I read the sign; I froze, instantly aware that I should never have come here.

I could feel my heart punching my chest; I realised it wasn't grapes that made the wine distinct.

Poppy has been driving since she left home this morning, it’s now 2pm she thinks to herself next gas station/shop or anything remotely has drinks n food oohh n most importantly rest rooms as she chuckles at her self for a second. Just as she’d chuckled one yard infront of her drawing closer on the left hand side was what looks to be some kind of alcohol making place, with a big sigh she follows by saying “some alcohol place” WHAT Shaking her head ya might be able to cover the blonde hair, but u certainly can’t cover them dumb blond moments ha. It’s actually a vineyard mmmm I do like a bit of chilled wine rosee of course! She pulls in to a very abandoned looking what looks kind of a car park or use to be one “ what ever”. Poppet gets out of her jeep n no sooner she turns round from locking car door a rugged middle aged man who certainly doesn’t know about soap n personal hygiene is just stood staring at her. After she gets her voice back from a bit of a startol from the man . She says high my names poppey n puts her hand out yo shake , the man just stands there with a expression he’d never seen a young pretty girl before never mind a girl actually has not seen another living person for some years.