As the blood flows.
Clash.
It flows, seeping through the gaps of death.
Ring.
While the ashes sow in crimson breath.
Clash.
It all runs, and what is left?
Ring.
You’ll kneel in his solemn bereft.
There dwelt a door.
Made of mahogany, abstruse symbols intertwine with one another. Amalgamating.
Becoming one.
Convoluted, aureate ornaments embellished the sides, cascading downwards.
Clash.
Ring.
The last chime resonated in the air, engendering a lingering and silent reverberation.
Creak.
A deafening, irking grate stemming from the abrading, ungreased hinges, that screeched continually, resounded in a sotto voce manner.
A hoarse, disembodied voice was heard, discordant as if its vocal cords were soon to shatter.
“O’ filial children, thy red drops, shall gratify he who drinks the streaming ichor.”
“Thou indulgent.”
“O’ diligent children, thy labor, shall avail he who is the everlasting altruist.”
“Thou viable.”
“O’ forbearing children, thy fortitude, shall sustain to he who preserves unprejudiced.”
“Thou meritorious.”
“One sole day ere the Grand Feast, thou shalt regale.”
The door opened, its pestiferous resound shrieked stridently encroaching everyone’s ruinated ears.
There stood behind the ostentatious aperture, a dimly illuminated hall, the overemphasized height of the ceiling loomed over the countless heads spilling hearsays whilst forging their ingress inside.
The room possessed three towering, erected pillars.
Entrenched carvings etched profoundly in the pristine white stone, they stretched downhill, enrobing the columns covetously.
Ivory walls surrounded them, encircling them, allegedly ensnaring the elongated pillars in their proprietary. As thin crimson veils sluiced down sublimely from above, hanging desperately on the rusted metal hooks that perforated the ceiling.
A chandelier, vast and ocherous, held flickering candles. The light spread like a whisper, wan, uneven, touching stone, blood, and eyes alike.
Amid it all, a snow-white vermillion speckled porcelain vase tarried, cloistered on the wooden structured altar, encompassed by candelabras, silently reflecting their eternal flames.
Its edges harbored desiccated droplets of crimson. Sputtered perniciously on the outline of the orifice.
Inside lay a loch of red.
Stagnant, no billow.
On the surface, there reflected a staid visage.
Tender, almond-shaped, raven eyes peered in the mirroring, sunken cheeks with defined cheekbones. Ebony black crimped hair dangled mindfully above her withered shoulders, as it scarcely covered her thin, angled eyebrows. A miniscule black dot hovered atop of her cheeks, seemingly lost in the vast pale white skin.
A cadaverous hand arose in front of the sallow face, an index hovering overhead the lake of crimson.
A drop of red emerged from the fingertip and slowly descended into the pool of blood.
...
Each morning, Delyth would go to the temple.
Wait for the end of the ritual.
Give a generous drop of blood.
Get along her way.
She looked at her pricked finger. A blob of crimson appeared on the surface of the cloven skin.
A hint of displeasure broached on her phlegmatic facade.
The bleeding finger approached the pursed mouth and was encased in a damp warmth.
A fleshy tentacle emanating sultriness, enveloped the intruder, swathing it in a turbid, viscous, lucid liquid.
A briny slightly coppery taste wafted in the mouth as the finger languidly left, glistening in the obscured light.
She trudged haltingly towards the exit, her feet slightly dragging against the polished wooden floor. Her white skirt scantly lilting as she sloughed.
Screech.
Scratch.
Screech-
An unsettling sound emanated from afar, yet she heard it as if it was close to her ear.
Scratch.
Her fingers twitched.
Screech.
A sweltering heat seethed through her skin.
Scratch.
Her eyes darted aghast.
A foreboding feeling hewed onto her.
Screech.
Though daunting, an absurd sense of curiosity pillaged her mind, ravaging her rationality.
Scratch.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Despite her unrelenting unwillingness, her feet scuffled forward, yielding to the galvanic descant of inquisitiveness, to be subservient to its allure for perpetuity.
Lethargic and infrangible steps skidded the burnished wood tiles in each stride, skimming lightly the surface as to not make a sound.
As she wandered in the endless halls and stumbled into a room.
It was darkness devoured avidly the obscure room, not a single fleeting light could’ve eluded the consuming void.
She perceived muffled dialogue distantly.
A hoarse and disembodied voice was heard,
“The ninth flame flickers. How many lambs lie beneath the veil?”
“Seven confirmed. We need two more by dawn. You know the number.” A husky, low, reverent voice responded as it disclosed.
“The boy in the east, he bears the age. But the sister shadows him closely.” The hoarse voice said, uncertainty trailing behind it.
“And his sister? She’ll scream louder than the others. No. Quiet ones only.”
Delyth leaned closer, wanting to coalesce with the conversation.
Bump, bump, bump.
Her heart pounded.
Her breath trembled vehemently.
The blood in her finger throbbed where the wound’s warmth kissed.
“And the kin? They still dream of letters and faraway halls.” The wraithlike one questioned.
“Let them believe it. Their grief keeps them obedient. Hope feeds more than truth ever could.” The huskier one responded, a twinge of quiet distain was hinted.
Delyth pressed her thumb against the needle’s prick, tasting the metallic tinge as she stepped out into the night air. The murmurs of departing villagers faded behind her. She should’ve gone home. She told herself so.
But then —
Screech.
Metal dragged across wood. A slow, deliberate sound.
Her feet moved before thought did. Toward the old confessional corridor, half-lit and half-forbidden.
She passed curtained alcoves, shadows breathing around her, until voices stopped her. Two. Maybe three. Hidden behind a thin partition wall.
“…blessed are the ninth, chosen to preserve the flood.”“They bring peace with their marrow. Samü is pleased with the offering. He still bleeds.” “But… the parents? The children? Do they ever-?” “They ascend, as the boy-god did. Their ignorance is purity. The less they know, the cleaner their flesh.”
A pause. The weight of it felt heavy in her chest.
Delyth’s fingers trembled. Her mind raced through memories, children who vanished at age nine. “Sent away,” they said. “Scholarships,” they smiled. “Samü’s blessing.”
But they never returned. Not one.
A choked gasp absconded the confines of her mouth.
Too loud.
Her hands hastily cloaked her quivering lips, unfortunately her action was belated.
“…did you hear that?” “Someone’s here.”
She stumbled backward, the floor groaning under her weight. In desperation, she turned — and her eyes caught something behind a veil of black cloth.
A curtain, slightly ajar.
She pulled it back.
There it was.
The mummified head shriveled, mouth agape, resting atop a wooden stool. From his parted lips, thick blood trickled into a basin, the crimson glistening in the candlelight.
It was still bleeding.
She stared, rooted in place. The sound of footsteps grew louder. Then-
A hand clamped onto her arm.
A cold, humid breath ghosted her trembling cheek.
The hand, wrinkled, emaciated, its skin retained an ailing yellowish hue, excess skin sagged with spotted greyish pores visible, its nails seemed bitten, jagged edges like a saw’s teeth.
Her eyes widened at the sight of the pallid fingers clinging on her.
They slowly started to distort.
The nails curling into something unnatural, cuspidate, reaching hunger that didn’t feel human.
Eyes still open, staring at her aggressor, shuddering like a bird at the mercy of the hunter.
His lusterless, tenebrous, leaden visage wearing two beady eyes, who harbored crescentic circles, bedecked with tiny smile lines placed on the corners, glowered at her, hollowed cheeks, small flat dark areas mottled his milk-livered skin heightened his pitiful, moribund look.
The two dark orbs reflected sole a vastless void, obscurity drained the light.
A searing pain churned into her flesh, filth infested nails laggardly puncturing into her skin, a prickling sensation overrode the place where the skin broke, scalding throe.
She screamed, shrieked, vociferated, but her bellows were never liberated, restrained and incarcerated in her throat, cleaving to her lungs as a sore, parching pain etched in her gorge.
The grip on her arm tightened as if it desired to sever her limb in two, skin reddened rupturing into two, blood flowing endlessly, dripping onto her white skirt, bones cracking into fractured particles.
The grasp tugged and dragged her on the floor.
Her limp body sliding against the wooden surface, her slightly damp skin rubbing agonizingly against the adhering planks. She felt as it her skin were to rip by dint of constant and forceful friction.
The hand continuously pulled.
Delyth didn't want to be dragged.
She didn’t want to be touched by those repulsive claws, who knew only how to scratch.
She didn’t want to lose her arm, unable to find anymore pretty birds for her brother.
Escape. Survive.
The words were engraved achingly in her heart.
She planted her fingers on the floor, digging her fingernails in the gaps of the floorboards, clasping blisteringly the edges of the planks.
The tips of her nails clawed deeper, scratching desperately at the wood, attempting to clench on longer.
A gnawing agony embedded itself in her fingertips’ shells. Lugging, wanting to peel off the clinging nails.
The pallid hand tugged fiercer.
Her fingers were tingling and numb from pain, blood seeped unnoticed out of her cuticles.
In the midst of the excruciating agony, an extinguished candelabra stood silently on the clothed table.
A glint of sanguinity gleamed in the young girl’s red-rimmed, blood struck eyes.
One hand still gripping the floor, claws ingrained, a lake of crimson pooling underneath, the other released its clutch and rammed itself into the table.
A wrenching, stabbing burst of ache resonated in her hand, phlegm plagued endlessly, pain muted by desperation.
Clang!
The aureate candelabra hurled stoutly into the ground, slamming into the wooden floor.
A welting pale hand swiftly glommed the fallen candle holder.
Her fingers clawed tensely at the gelid object; the cold feeling sharply contrasted against the scalding agony.
Delyth gripped the candelabra.
Stretched her arm backwards.
And lunged the metal stick forwards.
It hurled vehemently swiveling.
Bang.
Wide streaks of crimson descended the sickly face of the man. His once beady eyes of void held the briefest moment of vulnerability.
His mouth barely agog, displayed a sliver of decaying, yellow teeth, black spots residing in the deepest crevices.
The clasp on her arm loosened.
The young girl plopped onto the rigid, polished floor.
She sluggishly turned her head;
The lifeless eyes looked directly at her, ruptured swelling surrounded the festering wound; it was inflamed with webs of red visible underneath the lucid waxen skin.
Her vision blurred, eyes stinging.
Numbness coursed through her veins.
Her senses were dulled, insensate.
Quiet, rasping, strangled sobs were strained out.
Heavy, coarse breaths were exhaled.
Her pale finger twitched incessantly, as if convulsing.
Slowly, progressively, she haled herself up, stinging ache and pain ringing everywhere.
On her two feet, her wooden shoes felt blistering, throbbing resounded in the soles.
One. Two
One. Two
The young girl trudged forward, taking two steps at a time.
“It’s her!”
A husky voice roared in the distance behind her.
A bone-chilling shock bashed into her mind like a freight train.
Unwittingly, her feet ricocheted ahead, the hard soles slamming into the ground, catalyzing a harsh clacking sound.
She ran.
Her legs articulated themselves, her feet pulsed in the intensive agony, fatigue draining her like a wildfire.
Her ragged exhales were loud and desperate.
She felt nothing.
Only instinct.
There dwelt a door.
Made of mahogany, abstruse symbols intertwine with one another. Amalgamating.
Becoming one.
Convoluted, aureate ornaments embellished the sides, cascading downwards.
Its knobs a copper color, the gold fading by grace of excessive use.
A white light faintly outlined the door.
A pale hand reached out, clenching desperately the air, she leaned forward, attempting to reach the door.
Thud.
Her body fell flaccid towards the rigid floor.
Clack.
Her teeth collided together, a briny slightly coppery taste wafted in the mouth, a stinging pain in her lip emerged.
Coldness invaded her senses.
She wanted to live.
Survive.
Her tensing fingers gripped the ground once again, crimson streaked down her slender claws.
She clung and pulled.
Clasped and lugged.
A trembling hand clutched the rusty doorknob and opened it.
The waning moonlight cascaded down her face, illuminating her glistening eyes.
The refreshing scent of nature clashed with the iron odor of blood.
She felt the wind caress her cheek as she whispered,
“Oan.”
