Villages have two personas. One is the quaint, quiet home to people who want to take a breath and a moment away from a busy world. The other is the quaint façade, hiding a grotesque secret, where the villagers hold pagan rights to appease dark, ancient gods.

In the movies anyway. In real life, the former was the norm, though villages had a habit of growing, and the villagers themselves allowed the business to encroach, morphing what was quaint into something even more grotesque. Suburbia.

Simon arrived in this particular non-descript little locale on a wet Tuesday. The rain had followed him from his home in a too noisy city all the way to this escape, as if it had a personal vendetta against him. He'd been driving almost randomly, taking vague turns he'd use his satnav to navigate back upon, until he saw a sign for somewhere he'd never heard of. This was the place he could disappear into for a while. He could take the time to remember who he was, rather than who Life had made him become.

It was tucked between a forest, a cliff and a restless sea, content to ignore the world around it. He liked that.

His house, an Air BnB he'd booked just before pulling into the long entry lane, was a few down from a pub. The Black Swann, with two 'n's and a sign depicting the titular bird with what seemed to be a broken neck sat opposite a roundabout with a large old well in its centre. What more could he want?

He tapped in the code on the key safe and entered, helping himself to the well-stocked drinks cabinet and going to bed early.

When he woke, showered, dressed and stepped outside, he noticed the blindfolds.

Not everyone wore them, but enough to make him pause. Soft cloth, embroidered with delicate patterns, was tied neatly over the eyes. People walked slowly, calmly, guided by a touch or by the gentle murmur of another villager beside them. No one stumbled. No one hesitated. They moved with a strange, serene certainty.

Simon thought it should be unsettling, but, instead, it was calming.

The smell of freshly baked bread drew him to a bakery. The woman behind the counter wore one too. She handed him his change without struggling to count or fumbling.

"Part of a tradition?" he asked.

"The blindfold? More a practice," she said, smiling. "You understand?"

He didn't, but any further questions felt impolite. He nodded, briefly, and took his leave.

Days passed, and he settled into a quiet rhythm he hadn't know could exist. He took long walks. He listened to the waves batter the rocks in the evenings. At night, he lay awake feeling the quiet, as if it pressed upon him, keeping any distractions at bay. Because the blindfolds were just... there... he quickly came to accept them.

One night, he found a folded cloth on his doorstep. It was embroidered. Soft. Inviting.

A gift, perhaps. Or an invitation.

He held it for a long time, wondering who'd left it there and what he should do with it. The answer to the second question was obvious. He tied it over his eyes.

Darkness didn't descend abruptly. It drifted over him, slowly. Gently. His breathing slowed. His shoulders loosened. Any remaining tension within him eased. Without sight, the world felt simpler. It was reduced to sound and texture. A floorboard's creak. The whisper of the sea. A faint hum he couldn't place.

He wore it again the next day. And the next, finding his way slowly, but finding it without issue.

The villagers seemed pleased. They guided him with light touches, murmuring encouragement.

"You're doing well," they said. "You're learning to trust."

Trust what, he wasn't sure. Himself? But, he felt steadier. Less fractured by everything he'd left behind, which was beginning to seem to. much to return to. It was as if the blindfold held him together, so he allowed it to, keeping it in place.

Still, odd things crept in.

Doors opened, silently, before he reached them. People stepped aside a heartbeat before he brushed against them. He heard movements that didn't match footsteps - soft, sweeping sounds, like something large shifting its weight just beyond his reach.

By the third night of wearing it, the sea sounded wrong. Too close. Too much like a living thing.

He tried to ask about it, but the villagers only smiled.

"Don't worry," they told him. "You'll understand when you're ready."

One night, unable to sleep, he went for a walk, more confident in his abilities. On a whim, he lifted the blindfold.

The village was not as he remembered.

The houses leaned at unsettling angles, as though built by someone who had seen houses once and recreated them from memory. The paths curved in ways that made his eyes ache. The dark sky pulsed faintly, bruised and swollen.

And the villagers - the serene, gentle villagers - were not blindfolded at all. All had been removed...

Revealing empty sockets, voids that drew him in if he looked for too long.

Every head turned towards him, perfectly synchronised.

"You weren't ready," they whispered.

He stumbled back, his heart hammering. The world seemed to tilt. The air thickened, vibrating with a low, distant rumble – the sound he'd been hearing until it became background noise. Something moved beyond the houses, vast and deliberate, its presence pressing against the edges of the village like a hand testing a boundary.

"What is that?" he whispered.

"The reason we chose this path," a villager said, stepping closer. Her voice was soft. Kind. Reassuring. "It hunts by sight. It sees too much. We gave up our eyes to be spared."

He shook his head.

"I didn't choose anything," he said. "I just came here..."

"To find something," she said. "You looked, and now it knows you."

The rumble deepened. The ground trembled. A cold wind swept through the village, carrying the scent of salt and something metallic.

The villagers surrounded him, hands gentle on his arms, his shoulders, his face. He tried to pull away, but his body was defying him, offering no resistance to their touch.

"You must choose," they murmured. "Blind faith... or being seen."

He felt the weight of the blindfold in his hand. The cloth trembled slightly, as if aware of what approached.

Beyond the houses, something enormous sighed, sounding as if all the air in the world was being exhaled.

He closed his eyes, but it wasn't enough. He could feel its attention, sharp and hungry, drawn to the thin thread of sight he still possessed.

The villagers waited. The creature moved closer.

Simon gripped the blindfold, lifted it as if debating whether to don it again, then released it, allowing the cloth to fall to the ground. The villagers gasped, drawing away. The darkness rushed in, sweeping past them.

Simon saw, then screamed...

So, as I was writing this, I had a thought. It transpired, as the story progressed, it may well have been happening in Black Thickett, the village from my ONC 2026 entry of the same name, especially when the pub turned out to be none other than the Black Swann!

So, the thought was that the village, and particularly the Black Swann, were focal points across various different (but closely linked) short stories. Like a nexus point of sorts. Strange creatures. People looking to escape their busy lives. Villagers who are welcoming, but accepting of their fates - and the fates of newcomers.

What do you think?