I stood at the center of the coven’s circle, flanked by my uncle and a friend of his who led the ritual. It wasn’t my choice. I had no choice.
They handed me an old, cracked book and told me to read an excerpt aloud. I refused at first, pleading, but they pressed on with the necromancy.
The air smelled of burning herbs and wet feathers. A **** was swung around me, its wings flapping against the cold night, before guttural words were muttered into the wind.
Then came the bath — water mixed with thick oil, sliced fruit, and other strange concoctions. The liquid clung to my skin like a second layer, its scent heavy and impossible to ignore. Fear shivered through me as the cold bit deep.
My uncle’s voice was low, each syllable vibrating in the stillness as he guided me through the reading. With every word, I felt an unseen weight coil tighter around my chest, tendrils winding around my heart.
They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I knew he had stepped onto it. The air felt charged, as if something ancient had stirred from a long, hateful sleep.
My mother stood outside the circle, her eyes fixed on me. They glowed with a strange light — not joy, not love, but a hunger I didn’t recognize. It was only then I realized there was a part of her I had never known. Her hands trembled slightly, not from cold, but from anticipation.
The ritual ended in silence. A silence so deep it pressed into my ears, whispering of secrets too heavy to name. I felt it before I saw it — an unnatural presence, cold and suffocating, curling at the edges of the shadows.
This isn’t over, something inside me whispered...
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 9:47 AM UTC
I stood at the center of the coven’s circle, flanked by my uncle and a friend of his who led the ritual. It wasn’t my choice. I had no choice.
They handed me an old, cracked book and told me to read an excerpt aloud. I refused at first, pleading, but they pressed on with the necromancy.
The air smelled of burning herbs and wet feathers. A **** was swung around me, its wings flapping against the cold night, before guttural words were muttered into the wind.
Then came the bath — water mixed with thick oil, sliced fruit, and other strange concoctions. The liquid clung to my skin like a second layer, its scent heavy and impossible to ignore. Fear shivered through me as the cold bit deep.
My uncle’s voice was low, each syllable vibrating in the stillness as he guided me through the reading. With every word, I felt an unseen weight coil tighter around my chest, tendrils winding around my heart.
They say the road to Hell is paved with good intentions. I knew he had stepped onto it. The air felt charged, as if something ancient had stirred from a long, hateful sleep.
My mother stood outside the circle, her eyes fixed on me. They glowed with a strange light — not joy, not love, but a hunger I didn’t recognize. It was only then I realized there was a part of her I had never known. Her hands trembled slightly, not from cold, but from anticipation.
The ritual ended in silence. A silence so deep it pressed into my ears, whispering of secrets too heavy to name. I felt it before I saw it — an unnatural presence, cold and suffocating, curling at the edges of the shadows.
This isn’t over, something inside me whispered...
Inspired by true events which may or may not have happened
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