A swirl of golden light emitted in the dark of night, igniting the old and worn cobblestone path and rows of cracked, broken headstones around it. From the light’s glow, a tall man stepped out in a dark hooded cloak with a small bundle in his folded arms; a baby wrapped in a soft, yellow blanket. He followed the desolate path, wind rising around him and clearing dead leaves, twigs and rocks out of his way as he came upon a stone crypt covered in dirt and moss, aged poorly over the years. Dry, dead shrubbery surrounded the stone walls and the edge of its steps were buried in mud, the rest covered in more dirt and leaves. Wind cleared the steps for the man once more, and as he climbed the steps, the arched iron door, caked in its own coat of rust and filth, opened on its own in a silent welcome of his arrival. 

Lit torches stood in each corner of the stone room, revealing a ring of cloaked figures. There were six, a perfect number for the perfect ritual. They each stood wordless, faces covered by their hoods, and in each of their hands they held a bowl. They surrounded a stone coffin in immaculate condition, a stark contrast to the crypt it resided within, and in the centre on top sat a large shallow bowl.

Behind the coffin stood a woman, her cloaked hood over her eyes but not her wide, red lipped smile. She welcomed the man with the rise of her arms, her long fingers crooked and bruised with cracks like a broken porcelain doll. It spread along her pale ivory skin, disappearing up her arms and into the shadows of the cloak. A dark red, almost black, fog seeped from the fractured gaps, rising into smoky embers that dissipated into the air.

The cloaked man took his place at the stone coffin, opposite to the woman, and unwrapped the bare baby boy in his arms. The baby fussed, his small face scrunched up and red, ready to cry but calmed when the man gently rocked and hushed him. The blanket floated to the bowl and laid itself over it, as the man hummed a soft tune and gently laid the baby down within the blanketed basin. The baby boy smiled with curious eyes at the man, his small limbs moving and kicking. A soft noise escaped the man’s lips, amused with the child’s glee, and then he lifted his attention to the red lipped woman. His smile dropped, his amusement faded and an intensity filled his stern dark gaze.

She nodded and bowed to him, her cracked arms still out-stretched, and then clapped her hands together. Instantaneously, a choir of voices fill the crypt, all repeating an incomprehensible chant. She flicked her wrist, slashing her long crooked fingers through the air and softly gasped with pleasure as the fog from her cracks grew and coated her arms. Soon, one by one, the voices were cut off with a gurgled choke and blood began to flow. Her magic kept the six cloaked figures standing and guided their blood into their respective bowls.

The man did not seem to notice one bit, his focus entirely on the gleeful child. Even as the woman collected a bowl and began to fill the basin the baby was in, he simply smiled and held the boy’s wide-eyed stare. The woman began to speak, her voice low and deep, reciting a spell that tinged the edges of her fog with bright red embers. She poured in another bowl, the blood now bubbling around the content baby.

Then the man joined the spell, his words sharp and guttural. The fire on the torches danced rapidly and grew greater, as if a wind were sweeping pass. Two voices filled the crypt and as the woman poured in her last bowl of blood, all six of the cloaked members became engulfed in flames.

The man reached out his hands over the baby in the basin of blood and took hold of the woman’s, both in perfect sync with their chant. They watched the baby kick and fuss in the blood, and then a shrill cry tore from the boy. The man flinched and met the woman’s gaze but in her steadfast stillness, he did not falter. The cries grew louder and more desperate, agony in the small child’s wail.

Something felt wrong, fear and dread seeping into him like a chill… Yet, in his anxiety knowing it wasn't right, he relied on the woman, her fearsome confidence enough to keep him going. He wouldn’t stop, couldn’t stop…

… No matter the cost.

The hair on the back of River’s neck stood on end, terror creeping up his spine and tightening his gut with anxiety. His hazel eyes glanced up from his newspaper puzzle, overlooking the small, empty convenience store from where he sat behind the checkout. He leaned over the counter and peeked at the grimy tiled floors, his paycheck not anywhere near good enough for him to even attempt to scrub them clean. Not a single customer was in, and although the rows of well-stocked shelves stashed with overpriced snacks and goods might have annoyed River from the amount of times he had had to restock and organise them, they were ultimately not a threat.

No customer had been in for the past hour and likely no customer would be until the early morning when the sun meets the sky and chases the night away. River’s graveyard shifts were always the same, a boring repetition of stocking shelves, cleaning machines, sweeping floors and manning the counter into the late hours of the night… Alone, he quickly realised. What better guarantee to keep the labour costs down.

Overhead, the headache-inducing fluorescent lights flickered unevenly for a brief moment before returning to keep the store brightly lit. It was as if the convenience store was a lamp to attract bugs, except the bugs were drunks, workaholics, and idiot kids. 

The uneasiness grew worse, his fear clawing into the pits of his stomach and gnawing on his heart like a festering beast, each heartbeat a plea for him to run. He nervously darted his eyes around for an answer, paying extra mind to the cracks in the walls and the stains along the ceiling. Perhaps something sinister would leak out, however he hardly knew if it were possible; he only knew something wasn’t right.

He clenched his jaw and sat back on his stool, but made no other sudden movements to reveal his awareness of the danger he knew he was in, no matter what the evidence would suggest. His intuition warned him and it had never been wrong, not once in his twenty-one years of living.

The loud, welcoming chime went off and he jolted up from his seat, fists clenched and ready to fight despite his lack of experience. A short, lanky customer had entered the store in a sweatshirt, and just when River tasted the edge of relief, he came face to face with a gun wrapped in a paper bag.

“Arms! Where I can see ‘em!” The man shook the paper-bagged gun at River with his demand and River did not hesitate to shoot his hands up beside his own head.

“Alright, alright!” River desperately said, his already racing heart now beating in his ears. “Tell me what you want, just don’t shoot, I swear I’ll do it!”

“Cash, I-I want the cash!” The man yelled out suddenly, banging the butts of both his palms against his head while keeping hold of the gun. It was clear something was off about him, from his erratic behaviour to his sunken eyes wildly darting around the store. It was as if he couldn’t decide what he wanted or if he should steal in the first place. Yet there was no uncertainty of River’s intuition, warning him of a threat he needed to run from. “Hurry up or I’ll, I’ll shoot you!”

River dropped his hands to the register and just as he was about to open the till, he paused. A lie, his intuition told him, and when River looked back up to the paper-bagged gun, doubt seeped into his gut. His ability, his intuition, never failed, and truthfully, River really wasn’t in the mood to be robbed.

“Is that a real gun?” River calmly asked, as if it were a curiosity rather than a matter of life or death. The man blinked back in shock and stammered, shaking on the spot as he motioned his paper-bagged ‘gun’ towards River, as if that were enough to prove it.

“Of course it’s real!” 

Relief soared through River like a hawk after its prey. Another lie, he detected. He smiled bitterly at the man, who audibly gulped and quickly realised his facade was seen through. Sweat was already soaked down his sweater but another thick layer built up on the man’s skin, dripping from his brow. River leaned his hands down on the counter and held the man’s nervous gaze.

“You got two options,” River began, “either you leave and we pretend this didn’t happen, or I grab the bat from under the counter and beat your ass with it.”

The man quickly scampered on the spot and ran for the door, spitting out a squeaky apology before he burst out of the store. River watched as he ran down the street and then let out a sigh, relieved it ended without death or a theft report to his boss. He might’ve taken the bullet in the end, now that he thought of the unpaid overtime the police and report would have caused.

He wiped his hands over his own sweaty face and then through his blonde tousled hair that stuck his skin. He sat back on his stool and exhaled a sigh, only for his stomach to drop with dread. The danger his intuition warned him of should have faded, yet he still felt uneasy and threatened.

Outside the window, he peered closely into the dark for the failed attempt of a robber, but saw no one nearby. The streets were empty, the only sign of life being the lone bus stop directly across the store with its flickering lamp post. River narrowed his gaze, recalling his own store’s flicker, and then noticed movement. From the shadows of the sheltered bench, a tall figure of a cloaked person stepped out, a black silhouette in contrast to the bright, white light beside them.

The light flickered off and River’s breath hitched, his heart in his throat. Pure darkness engulfed the bus stop, his store’s light emitted only enough to reach the kerbside. He startled as the light flicked back on, the figure closer to the road and now taller. Longer. The light went off once more and River clutched at his newspaper. He knew he should lock the doors and hide in his boss’ office, but fear glued him to his spot, left to stare past his own wide-eyed reflection in the window.

The light flicked back on and the figure stood in the middle of the road, taller than the bus stop behind it like an ever stretching shadow. It was like an abyss that beckoned for River, promising to reach him. He felt bile rise to the back of his throat, pure terror ready to empty the contents of his stomach and his bladder.

A bus passed then, straight through the silhouette of the figure as if it weren’t even there, and left nothing behind. The lamp post didn’t flicker again and no matter where River looked, it seemed the strange figure had vanished completely along with the dangerous, hostile feeling his intuition had wrecked him with for the better part of the last hour.

He glanced down at his newspaper, crumpled in his fist, and slowly smoothed the paper out as well as the remnants of his fear. A tremor remained in his hands as he reached out for his pen and sat back down, unable to accept the calmness settling in. He was safe now, he knew that, yet anxiety hung over his shoulders. He couldn't shake off what had just happened, peeking out the window beside him and wondering, despite what his intuition had told him, if the figure he saw was real.