The Shadow of Death: The Tale of S’Accabadora

Winter evenings at the family villa were a ritual as dear as it was unchanging. All the relatives gathered around the fireplace while the flames danced and warmed the atmosphere. It was one of those nights when Aunt Irma, with her deep gaze and grave voice, began to tell one of the darkest stories of our tradition: the legend of S’Accabadora, the bringer of death.
According to the tale, this figure was not just a myth but a presence that lingered in the moonless nights, searching for the chosen one. Her hammer was the final caress for those destined to leave this world, an act that blended pity and terror. Every time Aunt Irma spoke of her, the crackling of the fire seemed to fade, and everyone remained silent, as if the very breath could summon her.

The Oath of the Black Night

In the heart of Sardinia, at the edge of a village forgotten by time, stood a ruined house. It was the home of the Mulas family, who had lived in silence for decades, isolated as if carrying a burden no one dared share. The house was brought back to life after years of abandonment by Lidia, the last descendant. Despite the warnings of the elders, she decided to move in, convinced that the stories were just superstitions from old people frightened by the unknown.
The first night, while unpacking boxes in the attic, she found an old chest wrapped in dark fabric. Inside, she discovered a small wooden hammer, smooth and worn from use, along with a black handkerchief. A chill ran through her, but she convinced herself that they were just relics of times past. She couldn’t imagine how wrong she was.

The Midnight Call

It was that night that everything began. At midnight, a sudden sound woke her: three sharp knocks at the front door. Lidia’s heart raced as she got out of bed. She hesitated before opening the door, finding a female figure wrapped in a black cloak. She couldn’t see the stranger’s face but felt the eyes watching her from under the hood.
“Are you the Mulas?” asked a hoarse voice, almost a whisper.
Lidia nodded, confused.
“It’s time. Your family’s debt must be paid.” Before Lidia could respond, the figure vanished into the darkness, leaving only a faint smell of wax and damp earth.

The Shadow in the Room

Lidia tried to convince herself that it was just a dream, a product of her imagination. But in the following days, inexplicable things began to happen. Every night, at the same hour, the sound of three knocks echoed through the house, growing louder. Objects moved on their own, and the air grew colder, as if something invisible was wandering through the rooms.
One night, determined to end it all, she returned to the attic and took the wooden hammer from the chest. At that moment, a piercing scream filled the house, a sound that seemed to come not from a human, but from something ancient and unnatural. From the dim light, a figure emerged: it was the woman in the black cloak. This time, her face was visible, pale and hollow, with eyes that glowed with a spectral light.
“The hammer belongs to me,” she hissed. “And with it, your blood.”

The Final Debt

Lidia tried to escape, but every door and window closed, as if the house itself had turned into a prison. The figure moved slowly, while the walls seemed to whisper in an ancient and incomprehensible language. Desperate, Lidia remembered an old saying from the village: “He who strikes back breaks the bond.”
With a courage she didn’t know she had, she raised the hammer and struck the figure. A sharp scream filled the room, and the woman vanished in a burst of ash. But the relief was short-lived. As the dust settled, Lidia realized that the hammer had fused with her hand. A burning pain surged through her, and when she looked at her reflection in the window, she saw that her face had changed: pale, hollow, with eyes that glowed with a spectral light.
From then on, no one ever saw Lidia again. But sometimes, in the village, a knock can be heard at the door of houses, three sharp knocks in the night. Whoever answers is never found again.

The Figure Beyond the Gate

At the end of the story that night, something struck me in a particularly unsettling way. Perhaps it was the light of the flames reflecting strange shadows on the wall, or maybe it was Aunt Irma’s tone, darker and more serious than usual. When I went to bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more to the legend, something that hadn’t been told.
I woke in the middle of the night, confused from the heavy sleep. An unnatural silence filled the house, broken only by the sound of leaves stirred by the wind. Through the window, I saw the path illuminated by the pale moonlight. And there, I saw her.
She was a humped figure, completely wrapped in black, moving quickly along the path, almost gliding on the ground. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I rubbed them, but she was still there. Before I could think too much, she disappeared into the night, swallowed by the main road. I returned to bed, but a sense of coldness paralyzed me. I couldn’t explain what I had seen, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t a dream.

The Tragic News

A few days later, in the dead of night, a noise of fast footsteps and frantic voices woke everyone. A tragedy had struck our family: my cousin, the son of my grandmother’s brother, had suddenly died. No one could explain what had happened. He had gone to bed healthy and never woke up.
The news hit us like a cold wave. The pain was unbearable, but in my heart, another emotion crept in: fear. Suddenly, I remembered the black figure I had seen outside the gate. I didn’t want to believe it, but I couldn’t ignore the connection between what I had seen and what had happened.

Aunt Irma’s Words

The day after the funeral, I gathered the courage to speak to Aunt Irma. I told her everything: the black figure, its unnatural speed, the direction it had disappeared in. As I spoke, her face grew even paler. When I finished, her words made my blood run cold.
“That,” she said in a low voice, “is death that circles around, not knowing who to take… and in the end, it chose your cousin, just for fun.”
I stood still, unable to respond. Her words echoed in my mind. That figure was not a shadow, not a trick of my imagination. It was real.

An Indelible Memory

Since then, every time I think back to that night, I wonder: what if it wasn’t just a coincidence? What if that figure had come back? I wonder what would have happened if I had gone out that night or stayed awake longer.
Even now, when I walk at night and see a shadow too long or a figure in the distance, my heart races. I wonder if she’s still there, circling and waiting, deciding who to take next.