In the misty mountains of northern Albania, where the wind hums through broken monasteries and pine forests never sleep, people still whisper of the Lugati Nates — the Night Leech. They say it was once a man who betrayed his clan, a coward who sold his brothers for gold. For that, his soul was cursed to wander after death, never resting, never forgiven. When darkness swallows the valleys, the Lugati Nates rises from the cold earth, pale and eyeless, its skin like wax, its breath colder than the grave.
It does not feed on blood — that would be mercy. It feeds on warmth, drawing the life-heat from its victims until they freeze from the inside out. Animals sense it first; dogs refuse to bark, and cows stiffen in their stalls, eyes wide with terror. But the Lugati Nates prefers more cunning prey. It seeks out spies, traitors, and cowards — those whose hearts have already gone cold. It whispers to them in the dark, promising safety if they open the door, promising power if they let it in.
When the moon hides and the night feels too still, listen carefully. If you hear slow, wet dripping near your window, do not move, do not breathe. For the Lugati Nates smells fear — and it always finds those who run from it.
