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.