A blinding blood red sun marked the break of dawn as it peered over distant crags, its warmth providing relief from the crisp air as they raced onwards. John had already journeyed to the Sacred Grounds before, though the vast unspoilt splendour was no less impressive upon a second viewing.
Winter was finally receding for the vibrancy of Spring, illustrated by the wealth of plant life blooming from the earth. Hawthorn, Tormentil, Spindle Tree — previously a gardener by trade, John could name them all. Though none of that really mattered, not anymore.
Bouncing on the back of Arthur’s quad bike as they navigated over rugged terrain, John’s thoughts turned to the precious box clutched in his hand. His bones tingled with anticipation. Few devotees were ever invited to gaze upon The Dark Space, so naturally he heeded the call as soon as he could. He dearly hoped his gift would be adequate.
A faraway church bell piercingly sounded, the wind carrying its faintly off-tune chimes over the secluded hillsides.
One-
Two-
Three-
Four-
Five-
John was momentarily swept away by the rhythmic reverberation, his sight still absorbed on the box. By the time the bell rang six, he was pleased to see the barn already in view.
Everything was just as he recalled. The rigid, rotting barn latch. The unassuming entrance hidden beneath hay bales and loose floor beams. And most of all, the smell. The escaping odour upon opening the cavern trapdoor was something else. A pungent, putrid stench from beyond this earthly realm; John could feel his conscience cry out in pure revulsion. Not that he paid any heed to his conscience anymore, that is.
Slithers of sunlight desperately struggled through small pockets between barn wall slats, mother nature’s last plea for the gardener not to proceed. But with each passing ritual, his curiosity had grown into something uncontrollable. Twisted whispering slowly took root, calling him away from life’s mundane expectations. Calling him towards what lurked beneath.
Arthur led the way, flame torch in hand, as they descended the spiral staircase. After that came the cave tunnels. Obscure and coarse symbology was etched all along the cavern walls, though John could only steal brief glances through the flickering lighting.
For an elderly devotee, Arthur hobbled surprisingly fast. Expertly flitting through the vast maze of burrows, John lost all sense of direction. Nevertheless, from the faint sound of chanting, he knew they mustn’t be far. What started as a whisper steadily rose to thunderous proportions, and as they turned the final corner to reveal the shrine, John stepped inside.
On either side stood disordered assemblies of naked, malnourished figures. Chanting in primitive, guttural tones no mortal cords could muster, their bodies twitched in erratic motions though their eyes fixed unwaveringly ahead.
The Testmaster came down from the raised stone altar to meet John, and looming behind the approaching silhouette, John at last set eyes on it — The Dark Space. A gaping wound running straight through the cavern’s limestone, its pulsating darkness subtly seeping beyond the jagged edges that housed it. Throbbing from deep within, the room’s very foundations vibrated to its off-kilter beat.
Silently, the Testmaster held out his hands and John passed over his box. Inside, a ring finger. Wedding band still fastened. Congealed blood dangling from the bone. Lifting his bandaged and damaged hand, John validated the deed. The final test; an irrevocable severing from his painfully ordinary existence.
But would the offering be accepted? The Testmaster nodded, beckoning John towards the altar. With both knees resting on the cold stone floor, he stared. Waiting. Wanting.
***
Had it been seconds? Minutes? Or hours? John couldn’t tell. He’d been foretold The Dark Space had no desire to uphold the laws of time. Peeking further into its alluring depths, his gaze had been taken wholly captive; suppressing the impulse to even blink.
As his dry eyes agonised, the pounding pulse of the aperture intensified. In pure synchronicity, the chanting congregation recalibrated to its quickening tempo. Their archaic trills bellowed out, an avalanche of unpleasant, painful syllable combinations.
As if enticed by their calls, the darkness began to animate. Long shadowy vines slowly sprouting out from the abyss, eagerly reaching towards the kneeling gardener. John’s heart fluttered. He’d done unspeakable things to arrive at this point. Glaring directly into this indefinable yet tremendous organism, he widened his eyes and opened his jaw, inviting The Dark Space to enter its willing prey.
As it penetrated through his facial cavities and flooded itself inside of him, John grinned like he hadn’t in years. Mortal life was rapidly slipping through his fingers. All nine of them. Drowning out any last morsel of bodily connection, soon his whole being was submerged.
Soaking.
Sinking.
Gone.
***
John awoke from the shadows, wearily adjusting to the bright slither of light before him. As his vision came into focus, he recognised it was done. He’d crossed over.
Looking out from within The Dark Space, John now saw his corpse by the altar — standing and staring right back at him. Naked and faintly smirking through a gaunt face, John’s skin was being inhabited as if it were a mere costume. John smiled back, before watching his cadaver turn and merge into the ensemble of other soulless vessels. From that point on, John never saw himself again. United with all other Brothers who’d foregone worldly autonomy, each swallowed soul served as delightful nourishment for their parasitic host.
Based in the picturesque countryside of Lancashire, England, Reece Howarth is a digital marketer and blogger by trade. Having recently taken the plunge into creative writing, you’ll likely find him hiking, spending time with family or getting beaten up at Jiu-Jitsu when he’s not tapping away at his keyboard.
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