Dylan sat quietly on the chapel stairs, his small frame hunched over as he gazed out over the crowded plaza.

  The crimson sky stretched above him, a deep, foreboding shade that painted the world in hues of fire and blood.

  It was the same shade as that day—

  The day his world fell apart.

  The memory struck him like a lightning. He clenched his knees, trying to keep his breathing steady, but the images came unbidden, vivid and merciless.

  ---

  It was a beautiful Saturday. The kind of day that would stay etched in the mind of a child for its perfection.

  His mother's soft voice woke him early, humming a tune as she brushed his hair from his face. Her voice was weak but sweet, carrying a warmth that always made him feel safe.

  "Wake up, little one," she had said with a fragile smile. "Today, we go to the chapel."

  Dylan had groggily rubbed his eyes, confused. It had been so long since they'd gone to the chapel. The priest had been sick, bedridden for weeks, and without him, the village had no healer.

  "Why?" he had asked, his small voice tinged with curiosity.

  His mother's smile widened, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Because he's well again, my sweet boy. The priest can heal us now."

  She had carried him most of the way, her frail arms trembling under his slight weight.

  "I can walk, Mama. Put me down." Dylan had protested, but she only shook her head, insisting. "It's a special day," she had said. "Let me do this."

  Even now, Dylan could recall the feel of her arms around him, the way she leaned on her walking stick, every step a monumental effort. He had clung to her neck, his heart swelling with a love too big for his small body.

  The chapel had been crowded that day, the entire village gathered to see the priest. The room was filled with murmurs of hope and cautious joy.

  And then he had seen the priest.

  The man was thin and frail, his hands bony and trembling as he clutched his staff. His sunken eyes, surrounded by dark circles, gave him the appearance of someone on the edge of collapse. Yet there was something in those eyes—a light, a strength that belied his fragile body.

  It felt familiar.

  Yes. Exactly like my mother's.

  Dylan had clutched his mother's hand tightly as they approached. He had been scared, uncertain, but she knelt down to look him in the eye, her face radiant with hope.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "Go on," she had whispered. "He'll make you better."

  The priest had placed his trembling hand on Dylan's forehead, his voice soft but steady as he muttered an incantation.

  The golden light that followed was like nothing Dylan had ever experienced. It enveloped him in a cocoon of warmth, chasing away the coldness that had settled in his chest for so long. He felt his labored breathing ease, the constant ache in his lungs vanishing like morning mist under the sun.

  His mother's sob broke through the silence, a sound of unrestrained relief.

  Dylan had opened his eyes to see her crying, her hands clasped together in gratitude.

  "What did I tell you?" she had said through her tears. "Always be good. And God will always smile upon us."

  Dylan had nodded earnestly, his small hand reaching up to touch her tear-streaked face. "Hmm. I'll always be, Mother. So don't cry anymore."

  That day had felt like a miracle.

  The village had come alive in celebration, their joy tangible and infectious. Neighbors who had been starving for weeks slaughtered their last livestock to mark the occasion. They feasted together, laughing and singing under the golden light of the setting sun.

  Dylan could still taste the richness of the stew they hadn't had in so long. For the first time in weeks, his stomach had been full, and his cheeks were rosy with warmth.

  His mother, who had been too weak to stand unaided, had danced with him that night. Her laughter had rung out, clear and bright, as they spun in dizzying circles on the dirt-packed ground.

  Later, as the stars filled the sky, she had hummed a lullaby, cradling him in her arms.

  "I wish it could always be like this," Dylan had thought as he drifted off to sleep, his head against her chest. "I'll always be good. So, God, please always keep my mom happy."

  *

  *

  *

  "Huh? What's happening? It's... warm."

  Dylan stirred, his small fingers twitching as he tried to push away the heaviness that clung to his eyelids. Everything was dark, the kind of darkness that pressed against his skin, suffocating and endless.

  The warmth enveloped him—a sticky, unpleasant sensation that clung to his clothes and seeped into his senses.

  He blinked.

  "Mom?"

  He woke to the sound of hurried footsteps and labored breathing. His mother held him tightly, her frail arms trembling with each step. Her usually calm face was a mask of panic, her lips moving in whispered prayers.

  "Mom, what's happening?" Dylan's voice quivered, his small hands clutching her tunic.

  She glanced down at him, forcing a smile that didn't reach her teary eyes. "Don't worry, my child. We're just playing a game," she said, her voice cracking as she spoke.

  But Dylan could feel her body trembling.

  The air was thick with smoke, the acrid scent stinging his nose. Screams and shrieks echoed through the night, cutting through the distant crackle of fire. Dylan pressed his face into his mother's shoulder, trying to block out the sounds, but they seemed to grow louder, each scream sharper than the last.

  "I'm scared. It's dark. What's happening?"

  "It's okay, Dylan," she whispered, her words more to herself than to him. "We'll be okay."

  Suddenly, a loud voice rang out ahead of them. "Helen! Over here! Run faster!"

  Dylan's heart leaped at the sound. It was Uncle Barret, his father's old friend. He clung tighter to his mother as she pushed herself harder.

  And then—

  A sickening sound.

  "Mom!" Dylan cried as she fell to her knees, cradling him against her chest.

  "No! No! Get up, Mom!" Dylan cried, his small hands clutching her face.

  "Helen!" Barret's ran closer.

  "Dylan... Uncle Barret will take you now. Be a good boy, okay? Go with him... hide inside the chapel. You'll be safe there.

  "No! I want to stay with you! I—"

  "Barret! My child..." Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. "Take him! I... I can no longer..."

  "No! Please!" Dylan sobbed, clutching her robes. "I want to stay with you!"

  Dylan felt himself being pulled away, strong arms lifting him from his mother's side. "No! Mom!" he screamed, thrashing against the man's grip.

  The light from the torch illuminated the path ahead, casting flickering shadows that danced like demons in the smoke-filled air.

  And then he saw them.

  The monsters.

  Grotesque figures prowling through the village, their twisted forms lit by the infernal glow of the fires.

  They moved with terrifying speed, cutting through the villagers like scythes through wheat.

  Dylan's eyes widened as the truth of the carnage unfolded before him.

  The neighbors who had been drinking and laughing just hours ago now lay lifeless in the dirt, their bodies broken and bloodied.

  His friends, the ones who had played tag with him that afternoon, were crumpled in lifeless heaps.

  The parents who had cooked the feast. The kind grandmothers who had sneaked him sweets.

  All of them were gone.

  And then his gaze fell on her.

  His mother.

  Her fragile body knelt still in the dirt, a pool of dark red spreading beneath her. The same red stained her once-beautiful dress, and her chest heaved in shallow, labored breaths.

  But her eyes...

  Her eyes found him. Even through the chaos, they locked onto his, filled with nothing but love.

  "Be good," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the screams and roars that filled the night.

  The world seemed to stop.

  The screams faded into an eerie silence. The chaos blurred into the edges of his vision. Dylan could only stare as the warm red liquid poured from her chest, soaking into the earth.

  Questions swirled in his mind, but no answers came.