'Sanlough, 4 October 1887'
The hills that surrounded the small hamlet were silent that night. Not even the animals dared tread near the darkness. There was only the howl of wind, below heavy and thick clouds, as if the world itself wanted to cover up that place. But shadows moved in the narrow streets, the cloaked figures illuminated by sickly green flames atop crooked staves and wands; their faces covered by masks of bark, that made them look disfigured and malformed.
The small square in the very centre of the town, right before the church, was adorned with a statue. A tribute, to one hero or other. Between the cobbles and trees, it would have been quaint in the daylight. But it had been given new decorations: green fires lit in a circle, six in total, surrounded the statue, and black lines drawn roughly with charcoal and dirt created a large, jagged pattern. A man was strung from the statue by his arms, his feet dangling limply. Blood dripped from the side of his head, and in the unnatural light it appeared black.
One of the shadows stepped forward, bowing deeply and showing their hands covered in black blood to someone right outside the light.
"The filth is death, the ground drenched in mudblood." Her voice was raspy and coarse, and as she spoke the last word with utter disdain, it turned into a soft, gleeful cackle.
A smile appeared on the face of the woman to whom she spoke: her teeth sharp, her short, black hair wild but the winds couldn't get a grasp on her. She floated, like a corpse in still water. Without so much as a word, she stained two fingers with the blood offered to her, her nails yellowed and curved like talons.
"It has begun." The shadow whispered excitedly to her coven, and they all scattered behind the flames. In their positions, they began a low, growling chant, more like animal rites than song.
Woken by the noise, the man stirred, yet even with his eyes open he couldn't figure out what he was seeing. He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice was silenced. With his eyes wide in fear he struggled to free himself, his feet kicking against the statue to no avail.
The dark witch lifted her two fingers, and slowly moved them down. As they crossed over the shoulders of the man in her sight, she found resistance, and finally uttered a single word: 'abrumpere'. Pushing through, the nauseating cracks could be heard even over the chants and fire, the man arching his back and struggling in absolute silence. His bones broke first, before the muscle and tendon keeping his arms attached were torn apart. The blood that sprayed from the wounds hit the charcoal lines, and immediately they sparked green, like lit gunpowder.
The fire spread rapidly, spurred on by the chant. The winds picked up. Long moaning howls rustled the last of the leaves on the trees, and they withered. The colours rot to dark browns. Swept up around the circle, the dead leaves reached into the sky.
And then suddenly it all stopped. The fires froze, the dust still in the air - even the cloaked figures dropped in the midst of their motions. Only the man whimpered, and the witch lifted her hand. A soft, white light crept up from his chest, and as the essence was drawn from him, what was left of the man's body withered and decayed, his feet first. As his soul crawled up through his throat, his lower body fell apart. Until finally the light left his lips, and what was left of the corpse crumpled unto the cobblestones.
The witch slowly gestured for the light to come closer, and as it followed her motions, it darkened. Once it rested in the palm of her hand, there was nothing left but black shadows. She looked at it greedily, her grin widening.
Another.
The world moved again, but without witch, without her coven: only the massacre was left behind.
Comments (2)
See all