Historical horror Stories

I don’t know why I stopped to open the letter. I never have. I swore an oath not to. But there was a worry in Jean-Baptiste’s eyes when he handed me the envelope. A concern I felt was meant for me, not the recipient. I paced the road as my horse drank from a nearby stream. I kept looking between the letter in my hand and the signpost at the intersection: Domaine de La Comtesse de Eger. “Take it tonight Étienne,” he insist...