May 13, 1903.
Weary moonlight penetrating the circle-shaped window of the Darkgrove Academy was the only source of light illuminating the victim. Amid the ashen night, the sounds of crickets and crows were blending with the sobs of the bleeding boy. Heavenly beams in the sky were absent; even the stars seemed to despise such brutality.
"Crying is pointless; don’t waste your last breath doing that," A rough voice, which had grown raucous with beer, skimmed through the walls of the dungeon, molten by damp.
"Your attitude is making this worse every time, Orlando. Just kill him, or else he is going to wake everyone up!" Beatrice hissed, her knuckles were white as marble as she grasped her blade.
“There is nothing wrong with seeking some fun, even in an ancient ritual. But if you still want to play the coward, I’m fine with it.”
Beatrice was accustomed to Orlando’s greed, even in the inhumane requirements of the cult. She made no answer, except muttering something under her breath; her strawberry blonde bangs were barely
hiding the offended expression on her face.
“You are all ruining the energy — get your asses at work; I don’t want to repeat everything!” Elliot exclaimed, the blood dripping from the chalice in his hands were leaving new stains on the straw floor.
"I think you are just mad that you didn’t get to use your seductive charm when choosing the victim this time." The other girl, Miranda, commented with a mischievous air. With her rainbow-colored ribbons and handmade ornaments, she looked like a huge cupcake.
“Maybe I should’ve. Because that’s the only part we manage with success—”
Nick, whose hair was the same color as the blood on the altar, sliced the air with his blade. “Just because we are not fond of the rituals, that doesn’t mean we are not good at them.”
“Then stop talking, and focus for once!”
Four of the students formed a circle around the victim: audacious Beatrice; attractive and devious Elliot; frisky Miranda; and crooked-toothed Nick... Their navy blue uniforms were darkened with blood and wrinkled with worriment — and the worst part of a ritual was always trying to get rid of the dirt in their neatly ironed skirts and sweaters according to Beatrice. No matter how much she tried, the smell of blood would always stick to their clothes like a second layer of perfume. The tarnished altar started spitting the ashes belonging to a lamb that they tore that evening. Taking the sign, Orlando walked into the center of the circle. His gaze was piercing the victim without the need for a knife.
He kneeled down to look at the boy tied up with rusty chains which were already sucking the life out of his veins. He had stopped trying to escape hours ago when they tore apart his abdomen with knives that charred his flesh up to the bone. But despite the dirty cloth in his mouth, he was still whining silently.
“I’m going to make it fast this time.”
“Yeah, you better,” Elliot scoffed; his eyes were aglow like winter flames. “Did you remember last year? It took us three days to get rid of the blood on the ceiling."
“I’m repeating this one more time: my knife was working perfectly before that girl vomited all over my hands!”
“How many times do I need to tell you all to shut up?” Beatrice whispered with an alarmed expression on her porcelain face.
Finally, Orlando placed the knife in the boy’s throat. Stricken by a maddening panic, he started screaming like a choked frog. For a second, sweat followed his hairline and plump drops of tears cleaned the dirt in his sunken cheeks. He was sobbing, begging for mercy. Yet Orlando wasn’t even hearing him. Dim chambers in his mind were swelling with a mist, dazing and deceiving. That wasn’t much to his surprise. Thickened with dust, gnawed by moths; such dungeons were the emptiness where unnamed souls slept in. They would wait for such nights for the ritual blood to envelope their disembodied desires like wine.
Swiftly and almost gently, Orlando drew the knife across the boy’s throat; a torrent of dark, mesmerizing crimson rushed to cover the aged straw and muck lying upon the cracks of the floor. An uncanny chanting filled the restless silence in the room, accompanied by astream of energy collecting around the bloody hands of the cult members.
“It’s happening,” Beatrice whispered, looking at the mist of sudden cold visiting them in the dungeon.
The candlelight trembled in their torches. Ebbing and flowing, a massive haze passed along the window, through the narrow cell, up the fences, and into the hungry ritual fire. A silvery surge of sparks surrounded the limp, dead body. It wasn’t clear what kind of a spirit had just lurked in the place, but its rotten smell was telling them how
unfriendly it was...
After a minute, the group was scampering in the dimly lit halls of the Academy. Breaths heavy and minds still possessed, they climbed the stairs that lead to the dormitories. Everyone was still under the wings of a peaceful slumber. No one felt the wavering light of a breath, the heat of Hell churning the dungeon, or the otherworldly darkness visiting the chambers, except for the five students.
A sudden wind trembled the tree branches outside, carrying the heavy odor into the depths of the night. An owl shrieked, and the Moon hid herself in a piece of cloud as if she didn’t like what just happened...
★★★
I know you're thirsty for more, dear reader. But let me remind you...
YOU CAN READ THE BOOK HERE. ITS AVAILABLE ON AMAZON WITH PAPERBACK, HARDCOVER AND KINDLE OPTIONS.
Have a good day;))
— Ezgi YUCEBAS, author.
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