The night was silent, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable. A long-abandoned cathedral, its walls cracked with time and despair, stood next to the ancient cemetery. Within its hollowed halls, seven cloaked figures, clad in black robes, formed a circle around an intricate design etched onto the stone floor. Inside the circle, a pentagram lay drawn, each of its five points adorned with ancient symbols, their meaning lost to time—forgotten by men but remembered by things far older.

One of the hooded figures held a large, tarnished bowl filled with a thick, red liquid. A metallic scent, rich and sickly, permeated the air. Within the blood floated small, pale chunks of flesh. Tiny fingers. A severed ear. A single eye, its infantile innocence frozen in eternal horror. The bowl's contents were an offering—an unholy sacrifice to something that should never be called.

A low, eerie hum vibrated through the cathedral, the sound coiling around the air like an unseen serpent. The seven figures chanted in the language of the old, their voices rising and falling in a sickening harmony. Without the aid of drums, they created a rhythm of their own—soprano, bass, and alto weaving together into an unnatural melody that sent chills crawling up the spine. The song carried an ancient power, something primal, something wrong. There was no need for drums; their voices alone formed a rhythm that did not belong to this world.

Outside, the world seemed to cower in fear. The earth held its breath, the wind ceased its whispers, and the nocturnal creatures—owls, crickets, and frogs—fell into a suffocating silence. Even the moon, guardian of the night, hid behind thick clouds, refusing to witness the sacrilege taking place below.The earth itself recoiled. The wind had ceased. The usual chorus of crickets and frogs had fallen into a fearful silence, as if nature refused to bear witness to what was unfolding. 

The world knew.

It knew what these foolish mortals were doing. It knew what they sought to summon, what the Creator had long banished to the depths of the void. Something that was never meant to return. Something that should never again walk this earth.

The air grew heavier. The cathedral walls trembled, its stones groaning in protest. The ground beneath the circle pulsed, as if breathing, as if something stirred below. The figures chanted louder, their voices desperate, eager. They were too blinded by their own arrogance to realize that the moment they finished their ritual, they would no longer be men—they would be puppets, playthings to the very entity they sought to control.

A crack split the air, not from the sky, but from the ground itself. The symbols on the pentagram glowed a sickly crimson, pulsing like veins filled with fresh blood. The scent of sulfur and decay oozed into the space, mingling with the iron tang of sacrifice.

The air inside the cathedral grew thick, heavy with an unnatural force. The temperature dropped, breath visible in the sudden chill. The flames of the torches flickered violently, their light warping, stretching, as if something unseen moved within them.

Then, a whisper.

Not from the hooded figures.

Not from the wind.

A whisper from inside the pentagram.

A voice that did not belong to the world of the living.

The figures did not falter. Their chanting grew louder, more desperate. The bowl of blood was raised high above the circle, trembling fingers tipping its contents into the center of the pentagram.

The ground quivered. A deep, guttural growl rumbled through the cathedral walls. The ancient symbols burned brighter, searing into the stone, releasing an acrid scent of sulfur and decay.

Something was coming.

Something that should have remained buried in the abyss beyond time.

The cloaked figures had succeeded.

They had tangled with the Devil.

And now, he was here.

A deep, guttural growl rumbled from the abyss they had opened, something ancient stirring beneath them.

Then, a voice—dark, amused, dripping with malice.

"You have called, and I have answered. Now, let us play."

The world shuddered as the gates of hell cracked open.

The circle collapsed inward, sinking like a gaping mouth swallowing the earth. A deep, guttural roar echoed from below, shaking the very foundations of the abandoned cathedral. Thick, black smoke poured from the hole, rising like the breath of a buried god, stretching out to the heavens and blotting out the moon. The world was drowning in darkness.

From the depths of the pit, a buzzing sound erupted—deafening, maddening. Locusts, unlike any seen before, burst forth in a writhing cloud. Their twisted bodies shimmered under the torchlight, grotesque and wrong. Their wings were torn and tattered like ancient parchment, yet they moved with impossible speed. Their tails were long and curved, like the stingers of scorpions, dripping with a venom so potent the very air sizzled where it fell.

The hooded figures recoiled in terror, their courage melting away as the swarm filled the air, their monstrous forms blocking out what little light remained. Some of the creatures latched onto the stone pillars of the cathedral, their clawed legs digging into the aged, crumbling walls. Others landed on the figures themselves, their tiny mouths opening to reveal needle-like fangs. One of the robed men shrieked as a locust sank its stinger into his arm, his body convulsing as a blackened poison spread through his veins.

The others stumbled back, their ritual forgotten in the face of the horror they had unleashed. But the leader—the one who held the bowl, the one whose hands were stained with the blood of innocence—did not move. He glared at his cowering disciples, his eyes burning with something far more terrifying than the monsters around them.

"Stand your ground!" his voice was not his own anymore. It was deeper, layered with something unnatural, something ancient. He raised the bowl high over his head, his fingers tightening around its edges.

The locusts did not touch him. They circled him, flying in erratic patterns, waiting—watching.

"You think this is what we came for?" the leader spat, his voice dripping with disgust. "You fools—this is nothing but the warning! He has not yet crossed over. He has not yet been called!"

The others hesitated, their fear battling their devotion. The leader stepped forward, standing at the edge of the pit, his silhouette barely visible against the swirling darkness. The smoke curled around him like living tendrils, whispering in a language older than time.

He knelt down, placed the bowl at the very edge of the abyss, and reached into his robes. From within, he pulled out a book bound in something that was neither leather nor cloth—it pulsed, as though alive, as though it knew what was about to come. The Book of the Damned.

With steady hands, he opened it. The pages were not made of parchment, but flesh—stretched thin, covered in jagged symbols carved deep into the surface. Some symbols still oozed blood.

He turned to the page marked with a seal—a sigil drawn in ash and bone, bound shut with a single rusted chain. The chain had never been broken. Not in this world. Not in any world.

The leader placed a single finger on the lock. It burned, the pain searing through his flesh, but he did not flinch. He only smiled.

Then, he spoke the name.

The name that had not been uttered since the first dawn of man.

The name that should never have been remembered.

A new sound rose from the pit. Deeper than a growl. Louder than a roar. It was not the sound of a beast, nor the cry of a demon.

It was laughter.

A voice from the abyss, rich and amused, echoing from the very depths of the void.

"You dare?"

The cathedral trembled. The sky above twisted. The locusts shrieked and scattered like frightened rats.

The seal on the book cracked. The chain fell away.

And the true horror began.