In the mountains of Eastern Europe, there is a place that doesn't appear on maps.
Locals call it "The Monastery of the Vein."
But no one dares speak of it after sunset.
It's said to be older than the country itself.
Built from black stone.
Its halls drip with red.
Because its worship… is blood.
---
In 1983, a team of documentary filmmakers hiked into the region, looking to expose the "myths."
Five went in.
Only one camera came back—
Found shattered at the foot of the trail.
The footage was recovered.
But it was… unholy.
---
The monastery had no windows.
Just candles made from bone marrow, and walls covered in dried flesh parchments.
The monks wore robes made from stitched faces, mouths still sewn shut.
They didn't speak.
They bled.
Constantly.
Every prayer was carved into their skin.
Every offering was made by slicing open a vein and whispering into the blood.
> "We are not bodies," one monk wrote.
"We are vessels for the Eternal Bleeding One."
---
The leader, a towering figure with no eyes, was called Father Clot.
He preached one truth:
"Pain reveals the divine."
When a soul suffered enough, they claimed, its blood would turn black—and become sacred.
Those chosen were drained, one drop at a time, while alive.
For weeks.
For months.
Their screams became part of the daily hymns.
---
On the final footage, the filmmakers tried to escape.
But the monastery had no true exits—just hallways that bled.
The stone itself was flesh.
It absorbed their cries.
One of them tried to hang himself.
But the noose turned to muscle.
And pulled him upward into the ceiling—still breathing.
---
At the end of the tape, the camera focused on a hallway mirror.
The reflection didn't match the real image.
In the mirror, the monks were writhing, headless, feeding on themselves in an endless loop.
Then the mirror cracked.
And the final frame showed someone—one of the filmmakers—wearing a robe.
Smiling. Slashing open his chest. Whispering thanks.
---
They say the monastery still exists.
Hidden. Feeding.
Some claim those who bleed too often in dreams are being marked.
Called.
And when you hear the wet chanting in your sleep?
> "Cut the skin. Drink the hymn.
Bleed for Him."
Don't answer.
Because if you do…
You wake up with carvings you never made.
And blood that's no longer your own.
---
Whispers found on torn flesh at the monastery gates:
> *"He bleeds through us.
His hunger is endless.
We are the veins.
You are the heart.
Let us drain you… slowly."*