THE TARVEN OF THE DEAD

I don’t even know why I’m writing this. Maybe because if I don’t, I’ll go mad. There’s a tavern in South Africa. Everyone talks about it, wants to go, thinks it’s just a place to drink and have fun. But no one knows the truth. The only living people there are the men. All the women… they are dead. Not really gone. They are trapped, twisted, used. But they look real. Too real. Beautiful. Perfect. Too perfect.

I’ve been there. The moment you step inside, the air changes. Cold, but not normal cold. It snakes into your skin, crawls over your bones. Every hair stands. You feel eyes on you. Everywhere. Watching. Following. You want to leave. You try. But you can’t. Something holds you. Something whispers, soft, pulling.

The women… they are beautiful. Not like normal women. Too perfect. Smooth skin, shiny hair, eyes that burn into you, full lips that smile just right. They look alive. You think they’re real. You want them to be real. And that’s how they trap you. They look so alive, so soft, so… human. But they are dead. Ghosts. Shadows. And yet… you can’t tell. You can’t see the difference.

The first time I had sex there, I thought I was dreaming. Their bodies… warm, soft, wet, perfect in every way. I knew it was wrong. I felt it deep inside me. But I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to. It was addictive. You go back. Again. And again. Every time, the women are closer, watching, circling you. You feel them brush your skin. Their whispers in your ear. Their hands on your chest. Their mouths on you. And when you look… no one is there. But you feel them. Every part of you.

I’ve seen what they do to other men. One night, a man laughed. He thought he was clever. Then he froze. Their hands pressed on him. Whispered to him. He fell to the floor, shaking, screaming softly. And they… they laughed. Soft, cruel, beautiful laughter. I knew I would be next. And I was. Every time I go back, they take a piece of me. Every time, I want more.

Sometimes I follow them. One night, I saw a woman behind the bar. Pale skin, black eyes, hair flowing like silk. She smiled at me. That smile… I felt it inside me. Hunger. Desire. Fear. She circled me. Whispered secrets, my sins, my shame. Then she vanished. But I still felt her. Inside me. Under my skin. I couldn’t leave. I had to go back.

Another night, I watched a group of women surround a man near the pool tables. He laughed. Then he cried. They pressed against him, whispered in his ears, circled him like predators. And they were beautiful. Too beautiful. Perfect skin, full lips, eyes that seemed to see into your soul. And I wanted them. I hated them. I wanted them to vanish. But I wanted them too much.

They are everywhere. Under tables. Behind curtains. In mirrors. Even when you are alone, you feel them. Their hands, soft and cold, their whispers, their breath on your neck. You can’t fight them. You can’t leave. Once you feel them… you belong to them.

The tavern… it owns you. The women… they own you. They are ghosts. Dead. But so alive. Beautiful. Real. And they take you in ways you can’t explain. You leave pieces of yourself every time. Your mind. Your body. Your soul. And you go back. You have to.

I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know what is real. But I know this—I will go back. Every time. Because once they touch you, once you feel them, you belong to them. And they are perfect. Too perfect. Too real. And I will never escape them.