The night loomed like a veil of ice, suffocating the earth with its freezing embrace. The sky, heavy and oppressive, was a mosaic of gray clouds that concealed the stars and the moon. Lightning, like serpents of light, slithered beneath the clouds, briefly illuminating the vast expanse of darkness. Thunder, a primordial roar, made the air vibrate and seemed to rise from the depths of the earth, shaking even the most resolute hearts.
The wind, howling like a wild beast, whipped the trees into a symphony of chaotic rustling, drowned only by the celestial fury. It was as if the world itself held its breath, bracing for what was to come.
At the center of a vast field shrouded in shadows, a group of hooded figures formed a perfect circle. Their black robes, tattered by the wind, swayed like specters. In their hands, torches cast flickering light, reflected on a small bronze statue in the center of the assembly. The figure was bizarre and unsettling: a human body, naked and vigorous, bore the head of a hawk. One hand held a covered chalice, the other a meticulously coiled serpent. Even in its stillness, the statue exuded an aura of malevolent anticipation.
The hoods obscured their faces, but reverence was palpable. A man, distinguished by his purple hood, stepped into the inner circle and knelt before the idol. Brutally, he struck his head against the ground, the muffled sound echoing into the night. His voice pierced the air, harsh and fervent:
"Oh, great Vivaht, master of perversity and hope, entity that hovers over all realms!"
The group around him echoed in unison, like a chorus of shadows: "Oh, great Vivaht, master of perversity and hope, entity that hovers over all realms!"
The man bowed again, striking the ground once more. "Hear us, lord, and accept our offerings. In return, grant us your power!"
The shadowy voices reverberated: "Hear us, great Vivaht!"
Then, thunder tore through the air again, but this time it brought something beyond sound: a deep crack, like metal being forced to shift. The totem's eyes, previously inert, lit up with an intense white glow, briefly dispelling the surrounding shadows.
And then came the voice.
It was not a sound but a presence. An invasive thought that slithered through the mind of each person present, shaping itself into words:
"[Present them. If they please me, great power shall be yours.]"
The tension in the air exploded into feverish reverence. The man in the purple hood rose, trembling with emotion, and shouted, "Bring them!"
A figure among the hooded ones pulled a rope that seemed to stretch infinitely. Slowly, like souls being dragged into the abyss, a second group emerged. They were men, women of varying ages and attire. Yet there was something horrifying in their eyes: a total absence of soul, a void that spoke of something beyond death.
Herded like cattle, they were dragged into the circle. The hooded group made way for their passage, their cold gazes observing the ritual unfold. As the first of the captives neared the statue, something seemed to break within them. The leading man, middle-aged with a lost expression, began to disrobe, as though compelled by an invisible force. One by one, the others followed his example until sixteen naked bodies surrounded the statue.
Then, as if moved by an unheard command, they began to circle the bronze figure. At first, their steps were delicate, almost ritualistic. But soon, grace gave way to grotesqueness. They intertwined in frenetic movements, their bodies colliding in a profane ballet of lust and despair.
Their eyes, once devoid of spirit, began to glow—but not with life. It was the glow of absolute terror, a late realization of the fate awaiting them. And yet, their bodies did not stop. They touched, united, and swapped partners in a depraved and inhuman orgy, their guttural screams and animalistic moans filling the air, mingled with a heavy odor that clung to the night like a curse.
Time seemed meaningless. But after thirty minutes of desecration, something changed. The statue, until then motionless, appeared to react. A smile formed on its bronze hawk's head—macabre and wide, a distortion pulsating with life.
And then the voice returned.
"[I accept.]"
Instantly, the naked bodies around the statue froze mid-frenzy. A tremor rippled through them like an invisible wave, and their bellies began to swell grotesquely, as though something monstrous was growing inside. The stretched skin seemed on the verge of tearing, revealing purplish veins throbbing under the tension. Their murmured groans turned to piercing wails, filled with agony. Tears streamed in torrents from their wide eyes, reflecting the sheer terror they felt but could not physically express.
A sickening, macabre sound of something breaking filled the air, followed by a loud pop reminiscent of balloons bursting—only multiplied and grotesquely visceral. A thick mist of blood sprayed in all directions, painting the ground and the hooded figures in a vibrant, sickly red. The shredded flesh revealed indistinct silhouettes of unnatural forms, twisting and lurking in the mist like predators emerging from freshly opened prey.
And then came a scream. Not a human sound but a primordial echo, tearing through the air with an ancient fury that even the wind seemed to retreat from.
---
"HUAAAHHHHHH!!"
Asher awoke with a jolt, the scream tearing from his throat as if he were being flayed alive. His body was drenched in sweat, his clothes clinging like a second, suffocating weight. His lungs felt unable to draw air, and the room around him spun, hazy, as if he were still trapped in that horrible nightmare.
Grasping his chest with trembling hands, his nails dug into his own flesh in a desperate effort to prove he was alive. But the lingering sensation of pain from those other bodies, of flesh and blood exploding, seemed imprinted on his skin. His scream still echoed, repeated by the walls of the room in a distorted melody of absolute terror.
In an unconscious act loaded with despair, he groped for the nightstand until he found the lamp. The yellowish light finally illuminated the room. The weak glow cast macabre shadows across the space. The air was heavy, suffocating, as if something invisible was still present, watching him.
And then, with a bang, the bedroom door burst open, snapping him out of his paralysis.
"Asher! Are you okay?!"
A tall woman rushed in, her eyes scanning the room like a radar searching for danger. Her voice was firm but filled with concern, and there was something in her stance that suggested she was ready to react to any threat.
Asher looked at her, but his mind was still trapped in the nightmare. He tried to speak, but his mouth could only produce garbled sounds, as if his tongue had forgotten how to form words. He raised a trembling hand to point at something—or maybe to shield himself—but the gesture was interrupted by a fresh wave of panic.
"Asher!" The woman moved closer, grabbing his shoulders. "It's me! What's going on?! You're okay!"
"Ah, uh..."
The memory of the incident attacked him again. The mist of blood filling his vision. The desperate screams and organs flying in all directions. The excruciating pain he felt as his belly swelled like a balloon and the nauseating smell of blood in the air. It all seemed to mix and rise from his stomach to his throat before spilling out of his mouth.
"Bleeaarrrggghhh….!"
"Asher!" The woman was startled but quickly helped him steady himself, rubbing his back to comfort him.
"Ha, ha, ha...!"
His complexion was deathly pale, and his heart felt like it would burst out of his chest. But he began to calm down as her soothing voice whispered gently in his ears. "It's okay. It's okay..."
When his breathing finally stabilized a bit more, the woman let out a relieved sigh and said, "Wait here and relax. I'll take you to the car, and we'll head straight to the hospital. Come on, I'll help you up."
"It was... just a nightmare. I'm fine, Anne," Asher murmured weakly, lacking the courage to meet her worried gaze.
Anne held him by the shoulders, trying to steady him as he breathed heavily, his face still as pale as a corpse. The acidic stench of vomit hung in the room, mingling with the cold sweat dripping from his forehead. She cleared her throat, her tone firm in contrast to the gentle touch on his back.
"Asher, you need to tell me what's happening. This isn't just a nightmare, is it?"
He closed his eyes tightly, pushing away the images of blood and torn flesh that still danced in his mind. He couldn't tell her the truth—not because he didn't trust her, but because he didn't even know how to put into words what he had experienced. Besides, he didn't want to go to the hospital; he didn't think it was necessary to make such a fuss.
"It was just a bad dream," he said with difficulty, his voice uneven. "Something... disgusting and surreal. But it's over now. You don't need to worry."
She raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but didn't press further. Instead, she took a few steps back and crossed her arms.
"Asher, you just vomited in the middle of the room after waking up screaming. That's not normal."
"I know," he replied, holding onto the headboard for balance. "But I'm okay now. Really. I just want to forget it and move on."
Anne studied him for long seconds, her eyes scanning every tremor in his hands, every nuance of his expression. She was worried about him but knew her brother better than anyone else and realized he wouldn't easily give in. She sighed, defeated.
"Be that as it may, I need you to promise me something."
"Promise what?"
"If this happens again—whatever it is—you tell me immediately. No hiding anything. Got it?"
Asher hesitated, but her gaze was firm, unwavering. He nodded slowly, trying to muster a reassuring smile, though it looked more like a weary grimace.
"I promise."
Anne sighed again, this time relieved, though a shadow of worry still lingered on her face.
"Well, it's four in the morning. You've got about three hours before you need to get ready for school. Your bed is dirty, and honestly, you look exhausted. Why don't you sleep in my room? I'll grab the spare mattress and set it up next to my bed."
"No, it's fine," Asher responded quickly, almost too eagerly to decline the idea. "I probably won't be able to sleep again, anyway. I'll clean up here and maybe watch some TV until it's time."
Anne frowned but chose not to insist. She knew that once Asher made up his mind, it was nearly impossible to change it.
"Alright," she said, picking up the bucket and cleaning cloths from the corner of the room. "At least let me help you clean this up."
"I can handle it," he said gently but firmly.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, just... go rest. You need it more than I do. I swear I'm fine."
Anne watched him for a moment longer, as if trying to catch any sign that he was lying. Finally, she nodded, handing him the bucket.
"If you need anything, call me."
"I will. Thanks, Anne."
She lingered at the door for a few seconds before leaving, casting one last worried glance at her younger brother. Asher listened to the sound of her footsteps down the hallway to her room and the creak of her bed as she lay down.
He took a deep breath, as if finally alone with the weight he carried. He cleaned the room with mechanical movements, tossing the sweat- and vomit-soaked bedding into a corner basket. When he finished, he changed into clean clothes and went downstairs to the living room.
The old couch welcomed him with familiar comfort, but the television felt like an empty echo, its colors and sounds passing by without meaning. He didn't know how long he stared at the screen, lost in thought, before turning it off.
Asher lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The silence in the living room was oppressive but not enough to silence the memories of the dream. Every detail returned to his mind: the screams, the blood, the sensation of his own flesh being forced beyond its limit.
He had been one of those who had exploded.
His whole body trembled at the thought. Even now, he could swear he still felt the pressure, the pain, as if part of him was still in that ritual.
"What was that?" he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible.
But no answer came.