The full moon illuminates the tiny abandoned house. Today is the third full moon of the year, the time of the Ancient Rite of Blood.
She dances joyfully, throwing her legs high, jumping, and waving her arms. A wide smile is frozen on her lips. She wants to laugh carefreely, and she laughs. She laughs with all her might until tears well up in anticipation of delight and euphoria. Why would she not? If she knows a miracle is about to happen!
“The darkness thickens around the mighty oak, but cannot swallow it whole – blazing braziers drive away the darkness. And in the shadows, tall figures in white robes are hidden. Druids. They hold golden sickles in their hands – how beautifully the sacred fire reflects off the polished surface.
The sacrificial victim is already prepared.”
How annoying this squeak is! Thin and plaintive, it does not evoke sympathy but only anger. Her smile is distorted—the left corner of her lips creeps up and the right down, and her eyes narrow with anger. She tries to ignore it. It will stop soon. She clenches her teeth tighter to drive the damn howl of fear out of her head. It does not work.
The howl grows louder, poisoning the anticipation of a miracle, like dirt rising from the bottom and clouding a crystal-clear spring. It pierces the ears, prevents them from concentrating, and vibrates in the temples.
No, this will end right NOW!
“The golden strokes of the sickles rise and fall on the bound body. Scarlet streams are absorbed into the earth and fabric. The white garments are painted with the color of life – thick, bright… red in drops and spreading streams…”
She calms down, and her smile stops being crooked. After a while, the dance resumes. She feels good, perfect.
“The druids begin to sing a strange lullaby – soothing and powerful, praising the power of Mother Earth. Orange sparks fly to the heavens to meet the stars.”
That’s how it is said to be in the myth. And she likes it.
There are no druids in white robes, and she is alone. She wore white pants, white sneakers, and a white hoodie, its deep hood thrown over her head. Her wear is all splashed with red now, but it doesn’t matter.
A sprout in a pot instead of a giant oak – she grew it herself from an acorn – is decorated with fresh sprigs of mistletoe. And there is no starry sky – instead, it is the wooden ceiling of an uninhabited house on the city’s outskirts. It is her most significant omission. But it’s too dangerous to perform the ritual outdoors. The last time, it was very unpleasant. There were too many victims. And that isn’t good for the sacred rite, as not having any at all.
The sickle in her hands is simple – just gilded instead of gold. In some places, the gilding has already peeled off a little. The sickle is crazy-sharp. It ripped the victim’s throat open with one precise blow, cutting off the unnerving sounds. She hated it when people cried, so she ceased the nasty howls with pleasure.
Actually, the victims that are to be sacrificed should be the large animals. But where would she find a bull, especially two, especially the white ones? Besides, as funny as it may be, she feels pity for the innocent cattle.
She doesn’t choose her victims. The victims choose her, appearing in the right place at the right time, late at night. Besides, those who wander in the darkness are looking for adventure. It’s not her fault that this adventure is their last one.
Today, she took a homeless person. In a way, she did her a favor. All those happy stories are lies. A few can find the strength to rise from the bottom. But now, the homeless don’t have to worry about that. The Gods will take care of them.
And isn’t that the greatest miracle of all – the transition from life to death?
She squats down and looks into the homeless person’s blue eyes, which roll back. It is an absolute pleasure to watch how life leaves them! She will live with these memories until the next ritual, until they begin to fade. She closes the homeless person’s eyelids, which stubbornly lift back with two of her fingers. Oh well, to hell with them.
A banal murder is too dull. At least, she thinks so—the ordinary prose of life. Many people are being killed each year. But a sacrifice. To imagine yourself as a priestess of the ancient gods. Yes, that’s very good! And they favor her – since she hasn’t been caught yet. But the favor of the higher powers is only half the battle. She also does not need to screw up. That’s why she always cleans up after herself, arranging a cleansing fire burial for her victims and ceremoniously asking for forgiveness.
She dances on the thick, slippery blood on the wood floor. The bag that was put on the victim did not absorb blood completely – it turned out to be too much, as if there was only blood in a body, without flesh and bones. A wineskin with blood shaped like a human. She dances to the music only she can hear. This music is beautiful. Playful and gentle, piercing and melodic.
Ancient Rite of Blood went perfectly today.
She gets into her car and drives away. The burning house is reflected in the mirrors.
***
“Honey, I’m home.” She walks into the kitchen in her usual scrubs.
“Hey, sweetie, I’ve been waiting for you! The twins are already asleep. I’ll warm up your dinner now. I love you!” Her husband kisses her.
“I love you too!” She kisses him back.
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Natalia Plos is a horror fiction writer. Her fiction stories have previously appeared in magazines such as 50-Word Story, Stygian Lepus Magazine, and Havok Magazine, as well as in the anthology horror ‘A Reimagining of Poe’s Tales’ from Dark Myth Publications. Natalia can’t imagine life without great coffee, chocolate, and books.