Children of Shadow

Hey guys so here is my submission, I usually write in a humorous tone when making stories. However I’ve always loved Horror and Fantasy writing, so this is me trying to write something serious like all the writers I admire. I think maybe this could be the opener to a full story, it kind of reads like a fever dream that maybe the main character can wake up from or something from their past? Or I could leave it as a short story, either way I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for giving it a read!

The church bell tolls and echoes across a bleak, reddening sky. As the wind stirs across charred, rolling hills, a quiet chant in ancient tongues begins to form from the denizens of these cursed lands. Out of dilapidated ruins – a shadow of the former great city – they exit their hovels. Adorned in torn robes and baubles of years and glories long past, the procession marches slowly out of town. They sway side to side in single file as they move up the hill. Many are chanting, some are howling to the sky; some are weeping. For today is the Eve of Great Shadow, the single most important day in the lifetimes of these people. One in which they must entreat the survival of their clan by summoning the dawn. And to bring forth the dawn, a sacrifice will be required. The young in the back clinging to the robes of their parents have never seen this unholy rite preformed, because The Eve only comes once a generation. But that does not exempt them from the ritual. All must be present, and all must be subject to the High Priest’s selection. So onward they march, up the burnt plains to the highest point of their doomed valley under the great and burning evening sun. Though they are only halfway up the slope, the High Priest’s commandments can be heard bellowed from his perch at the ritual site.

Old and wicked is the High Priest. It is said that he has seen more than three Eves in his lifetime, leaving him withered and, some say, raving mad. His voice is raspy and torn, but with commanding volume he calls across the valley to his followers.

“Come O children of Shadow! Come! Meet me on the Great Plains of Offering. FIND me in the Cradle of Ever Night. The time has come for judgment to be passed upon us, O’ye who’ve been forgotten.”

The wind surges once more and those who look to the sky can already see the moon cresting over the jagged peaks in the distance. It is on a direct path with their mighty sun, drifting closer with every minute’s passing. The ground crunches beneath their feet as they step over the dried-out grass and weeds that line the dirt path to the site. They are walking the line that their ancestors have walked for untold generations, to a ritual that may potentially spell their doom. Hardly anyone beyond the High Priest has witnessed the events of this dark rite, yet those who have are very old and hardly speak of the grim evening. It is only through the priest’s sermons that the clan know of the ritual and what is expected of them.

As they near the top of the hill the ancient stone archway of The Cradle of Ever Night rises to their view. The Cradle may once have been a temple, a place of prayer and worship to deities of the forgotten past. But for the folk of the Charred Valley, it is a fearsome altar where terrifying darkness comes to life. Chipped rocks and crumbling stonework are all that’s left of the walls of the Cradle. The ceiling is no more, exposing the inner chamber to the sky completely like a great maw opening in the ground. In fact, the only major feature of the temple that survived the ravages of time, is its gloomy bell tower. A relic of the old days that still somberly calls to the cursed followers it now serves. As the procession approaches the structure, the High Priest’s terrible voice can be heard beckoning them from inside.

“O children of the shadow, steel thy selves for the coming of night! Bring me those who must partake in sacrament! For their lives will protect us from the darkness. O ye wicked! O ye wretched! O ye DAMNED!”

Like a wave a whimper rolls through the crowd and even temporarily interrupts the chanting of the devout. They shuffle through the archway into the Cradle’s main chamber and take their places amongst the decrepit sunburnt pews that they had built many years ago. All of them, except the ones who are up for selection. At the front of the chamber stand nine folk of the clan, three elders, three women, and three children. Each from a different household that was marked by the priest’s divine insights. He paces before them, his withered frame hidden below dark and voluminous robes. The sun and the moon were approaching, nearly touching one another and the chamber was bathed in red light. He turns towards the congregation and lowers the hood from his head revealing wispy white hair, cloudy grey eyes, and a sun spotted face. The folk ceased their chanting.

Raising his hands above his head he calls to them, “My children it is time! By divine Will I shall choose the three that must go to the suns grace!”

Devout silence and a few sobs pass through the crowd, the cries coming from parents whose children have been nominated for selection. Of the three children, there is only one boy, and like all the children up for selection he is terrified. He had never seen the priest before today and the old man filled his entire being with fear. This man looked like he was made of black robes, skeletal hands, and ghostly hair. He looked too old to still be alive, too withered to be standing, and that scared the child. The priest closed his cheerless eyes and extended his hands before the chosen. Slowly, he walks back and forth down the line muttering to himself with spit-flecked lips. Each time he passes the boy, the child holds his breath, fearing that if the priest feels the air leave him, he will be selected.

The first is chosen, one of the elders. Stoically, the old man nods his head in acceptance and shakily steps towards the altar. Elders have long accepted the ways of the people and embrace the sacrifice openly. Then the second, a young woman. Her husband wails and calls out to her but she too nods and steps next to the elder at the altar. She must say goodbye to her love for the greater good of the clan. Finally, it is down to the children. The boy is physically shaking now, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He does not want to be selected; whatever happens after he knows is bad. The priest leans down placing his face inches away from each of the children. His breath reeks of mildew and something the boy can’t place but makes him think of dead things. Suddenly the priest freezes, and slowly reaches a hand out to place on the shoulder of the girl next to the boy. Her parents scream in sorrow, but it is done, the final chosen has been selected, and the boy has been passed over. He lets out a sob and runs to the pew his parents are in and they bring him close to hold. Crying, the boy lets them momentarily comfort him before raising his head to see what happens next.

The chosen were lain upon a giant engraved stone tablet at the front of the chamber and base of the bell tower, the tall obelisk seemingly loomed over the devout three that now lay before it. Even though he did not want to be picked, the boy now felt guilty looking out on them before the priest. Above the congregation, the sun and moon began to touch, and the valley was once again bathed in an even deeper crimson glow. Now showing divine elation, the priest spins to the congregation and calls to them.

“The hour is at hand, my children! Raise your heads to the sky and pray for our salvation! Pray for the darkness to pass over us and deem us worthy! Pray for the return of our sun!”

Quietly, but with rising volume the congregation begins to chant in the old language and turn their faces towards the sky. The boy does not know the words but raises his head with the congregation. But not before taking one last look at the chosen on the altar. They do not move except for the rapid rise and fall of their chests as they look directly towards the sky. The moon and sun have halfway enveloped each other, and the red glow cascading over the valley is absolute. His ears are filling with the chanting of the congregation and the rising wind suddenly blowing through the chamber. Their voices swell and seemingly get carried by the wind up and out of the Cradle. In his heart and soul the boy is terrified and wants to hide but refuses to turn away from the sky, only clings to his parents tighter as his clothes and hair whip about him in the strong gusts. Then, in an instant the sun and moon became one and plunged the entire valley into darkness. The wind died out and the priest screams, “Silence! All of you now! For the sake of us all! Still your tongues!”

The following silence was palpable as the congregation ceased their chanting. Around the boy was utter dark, all was black as if a sudden night had lain a blanket across the world. The only light came from the black circle in the sky.

A massive black orb now stood where their mighty sun and moon had been mere moments ago. Small beams of light lined the circle as if trying to escape from behind the darkness. Again, the boy held his breath and listened to the terrible silence that now surrounded him and his people. It was as if all life had left the valley, as if the very wind were scared to disturb the quiet of this place. The orb looked monstrous and malevolent looming over the terrified villagers. But they continued to stare, patiently awaiting whatever judgement lay ahead. The priest had bowed his head and raised his hands above him in a silent gesture of prayer. Then, ever so slightly, a crescent of white began to cross the center of the dark circle, right through the middle, from one side to the other. The child thought perhaps the light was finally crossing through. That it would break the terrible orb, bathe the valley in light once more, and remove him from this nightmare. But his optimism lasted only a moment. As soon as the crescent made it to the other side it parted open from the darkness revealing giant, sickly teeth. It was a mouth, an enormous mouth in the sky. And it was smiling.

Suddenly, out of the darkness around them the congregation began to hear whispers. Low, horrifying, and in some eldritch language they did not understand. These voices – if you could call them that- began to swell and surround them. The mouth in the sky never spoke a word, only grinned even wider. Fear had snatched the child by the throat and frozen him in his seat. He wanted to scream, to ask his parents what was going on, but they, too, sat there, tongues dry and eyes bulging as they gazed at the horrible mouth. Whatever out there chanting was even closer now, it seemed as if ‘they’ or ‘it’ were just outside the Cradle slowly making their way to the entrance. Low and muffled sobs broke out amongst the congregation as fear overtook the folk. The boy looked around the room in dismay as the priest continued his silent, head-down prayer and the people of his clan gave into despair. They began ducking their heads and praying to the gods to save them in quiet frantic chants. The boy could feel his parents shaking with him as the voices rose and now seemed to be in the chamber with him. He could no longer bare the terror that swam through his veins and snapped his eyes close, refusing to meet whatever horror lay ahead. For a moment he felt as if whatever was speaking was right on top of him. And then, the voices stopped.

Still the boy kept his eyes closed and listened to the shaky and muffled breathing around him, no one daring to make a sound. There were creaks from people shifting in their pew, sniffles from running noses, and whimpers from those unable to keep their mouths closed. Yet all seemed quiet for the moment. Perhaps it was over? Did they pass the judgement?

He was about to open his eyes when a scream ripped through the air. No, not a scream. Screams. The chosen were screaming in ripped, guttural, cries of terror. In the years of the boy’s short life never had he heard anything more horrifying than the screams of the sacrificial chosen and he may never again. Animalistic and tortured were their death cries, and for what seemed like an eon it was the only thing the boy could hear. He clasped his hands over his ears and curled in on himself trying to get away from the awful sound of them dying to no avail. Their screams pierced through his hands and wracked his brain with the abysmal horror of their fate. The boy cried and screamed and for a moment it seemed like this was the end.

Then the screaming stopped. His ears were ringing; he had soiled himself, and he was pretty sure his father was throwing up next to him. But the screaming had stopped. Still, he stayed in a ball and refused to move. That is, until he heard the sound of the High Priest’s withered voice much calmer now.

“It is done, O children of shadow. We have passed through the gauntlet. And the light returns to us once more.”

The boy opened his eyes to the stone floor first as if not trusting what the priest were telling him. Yet as soon as he did, he noticed the chamber was lit with the soft glow of an afternoon setting sun. Quickly he stared up into the sky, the moon and sun had passed each other. It was over. They had made it. Cries of joy and dismay rolled over the congregation as the people of the clan accepted the fate of those gone and those who remain. The boy shook violently and gazed around the room at the folk hugging one another and crying. His parents swooped him up, spun him in a circle then tightly crushed him in a hug. Relief rushed through the boy as he held onto his parents and clung to them like he would never let go. It all seemed like it was going to be okay, until his eyes fell upon the High Priest gazing at the altar. Where the chosen had lain there only remained three charred burn marks. Scorched outlines of the victims of the sacrificial rite to return the sun to its people. But the priest had not wept for the sacrifices, nor did he shake from the terror of the evening’s horrible events. He merely stood and stared at what little remains of the few of his flock that met a most terrible end. All around the priest there was sorrow and elation of surviving the most doomed night in a lifetime, the room was practically overflowing with the emotions currently filling it. Yet here he stood. Stone still. There was an inherent wrongness to the scene that crept into the boy like an icy chill, and it only got worse the longer he looked. Slowly, the High Priest reached a withered hand out and placed it on the altar. And then the boy watched with mounting terror as a sickly smile spread across the face of the priest. It was a smile he had looked up at mere minutes ago.