“In the twilight of man's dominion, the Earth shall wither, and the skies shall weep with the blood of the forsaken. In this time of desolation, the chosen shall arise, their hearts pure with Faith.” - Brother Auron, The Return of Christ.
“Uncle?” Micah's hoarse voice forced me back to reality. “I’m thirsty. Do we have any water left?”
I tore my gaze away from the online article—a work of fascinating madness written by a cult. I glanced at Micah and his parched lips. I felt a pang of guilt for my neglect as I rummaged through our provisions.
“Here,” I handed him the last bottle, half-empty but precious as gold. “Drink sparingly, we don’t get our rations for another week.”
“Thank you, uncle.” Micah gave me a faint smile, his eyes reflecting a maturity one would rarely expect from a 10-year-old. His small fingers curled around the bottle as he quietly left my study.
I glanced back at my computer. The flickering screen revealed pages filled with unsettling yet convincing theories and theology. It appeared that the 'Brethren of Revelation,' as this cult had named themselves, had drawn a link from the deteriorating state of the world to a biblical prophecy—the imminent Second Coming of Christ.
As I read the articles, it became apparent that the cult has been researching this ever since the world began to decay a decade ago. I couldn't help but delve deeper into the finer threads of their research, each page I turned drawing me closer to the heart of their belief. They spoke of a ritual, one shrouded in secrecy and as old as time, aimed to hasten the coming of the Messiah. According to them, this ceremony was to take place under the next full moon, which was… tonight.
The chill upon my spine deepened as I learned more about this ritual. Its procedure had no mention of violence, yet I was stricken with the belief that this ceremony should be prevented from taking place. Their plans were encrypted within their text, and the night was steadily approaching before I decoded the location of the ritual. They planned their ceremony to take place in an abandoned church, a relic from a bygone era, near my town. I knew I had to find this church—I had to witness this ritual.
I rose, pulling on my coat against the encroaching chill of the dying world. Outside, the silver moon hung over the mountains surrounding the town. I had to make haste, lest the ritual had already begun. Micah watched me as I made my hasty preparations, his eyes curious. As I readied myself to leave, I hesitated. Turning around, I knelt down to be at eye-level with Micah, placing my hands on his shoulders.
"Stay here, lock the doors. No matter what happens, don't come looking for me," I instructed, forcing a stern edge to my voice that I hoped conveyed the seriousness of the situation. Micah nodded, holding my gaze with a stare of his own. Breaking away from his eyes, I turned towards the silhouette of the church, not knowing whether it was faith or fear that guided my steps.
Through the barren remains of the once-alive landscape, I trekked toward the distant form of the church. As I moved closer, the air grew colder, and the silence lay broken by a discordant chorus of whispers—snippets of prayer, or perhaps pleas, carried by the wind. The ritual had started. I hastened my pace; I felt an unseen force pushing against me, slowing my steps as if unwilling to let me approach. By the time I neared the threshold, the air was filled with the dissipating scent of iron, wax, and incense, the interiors barely illuminated with dying candles. A dead lamb lay upon the altar, its neck slit with a ritual knife. Arcane symbols painted with its blood snaked across the floor, glowing eerily. Yet, there was not a single person in sight.
I was too late.
The silence of the church was abruptly shattered by an ethereal wail, an unbearable blend of cries and hymns that had no source piercing my ears. I staggered back, clutching my ears, as the bloodied symbols began to pulsate. Then, just as suddenly, the cacophony ceased, and a profound stillness enveloped the church. I dared to breathe, approaching the altar, my eyes unwillingly drawn to the lamb, now surrounded by a halo of unnatural light. And in that moment of horrified fascination, the world outside the church erupted into a deep red light as I heard:
“Behold, my children, for I descend upon this world once more. Join me in my grand design, where flesh and spirit divinely entwine. Accept my light and shed your mortal coils, to be reforged into vessels for my glorious purpose, forevermore.”
The voice, resplendent and terrifying, resonated through the very stones of the church, through my bones. I stumbled out into the open, the red light bathing everything in a sanguine hue. The sky was… wrong. The heavens above were a canvas of writhing biology, a grotesque tapestry of flesh with sinewy tendrils converging on one being. It must be Christ, the Son of God.
I was struck with an unnatural urge—an unquenchable desire to stare at the eldritch being we called “God.” But I kept my eyes on the ground around my feet. Whatever this “God” is, I wanted nothing to do with Him.
What I wanted, no, what I needed to do, was get back to Micah as quickly as possible. I raced back towards home, my heart hammering against my ribs with a mix of dread and determination. As I ran, I passed people as they emerged from their homes, their faces upturned, eyes wide with awe and terror. Nearby, a woman began to laugh—a sound that quickly became a scream. One by one, the people succumbed to whatever returned their stare. Their bodies began convulsing, twisting into horrific forms that should not be biologically possible. The cacophony of the transformed beings—the once-human abominations—filled the air with a sickening chorus of cries and wet, tearing sounds. I could hear them behind me; I could almost feel the brush of their malformed limbs as I pushed my tired legs to move faster. Still, I kept my eyes on the ground, the shadows of the transformed dancing grotesquely in the red light that permeated the world.
“MICAH! WHERE ARE YOU?”
As I burst through the door of our home, I found Micah, eyes wide with terror but thankfully still human, still my nephew. I slammed the door shut, barricading it with chairs, bookshelves, and whatever was at hand. After securing the door, I pulled Micah into a tight embrace, relieved to see him safe and not… transformed.
The red light seeped through the cracks of our boarded windows, painting our sanctuary in an ominous glow. Micah clung to me, his small frame trembling as the chaos outside continued. He was always a smart child, and he was able to keep himself safe. Micah clung to me tighter, “Don't look outside, Uncle Isaac, please.”
I nodded, holding him closer. We sat there for minutes, listening to the sound of limbs twisting and flesh tearing outside. I had to stop myself from praying—prayers are quite useless when the very God you pray to is evil. Instead, I whispered reassurances to Micah, words of comfort and lies to keep us both sane.
Then, the voice returned, a siren call promising happiness, beckoning us to gaze upon the divine horror. The voice of Christ was inhuman but mellifluous, seeping through the cracks of our home and into our ears. The allure of looking outside was undeniable. Why must we live in fear like this? How bad could it be to gaze upon the face of a god?
My feet moved on their own accord, drawn to the sliver of red filtering through the boarded windows. In the back of my mind, a voice screamed warnings, but it was drowned out by the divine call that promised an end to suffering, a glimpse of eternal bliss.
In a desperate grasp for control, I clenched my eyes shut, rooting myself in place. I bit my tongue; the sharp pain and coppery aftertaste snapped me back to my senses. I can’t falter now; Micah needs my help. My eyes snapped open, not to look outside, but to find Micah, to pull him back, to protect him from the “God” that had claimed so many.
But Micah was no longer in my arms. My heart dropped as I turned to see him standing motionless, his small body outlined against the red glow. His head was turned upwards, tilted slightly to the side, peering into the sky.
With a cry that tore from my very soul, I lunged forward, seizing Micah by the shoulders and yanking him down to the floor. His eyes were unblinking and impossibly wide, filled with an otherworldly light. The transformation had begun, his skin twisting in the same grotesque rhythm as the others. His last human gaze met mine, full of confusion and a silent plea for help I could not give. The light of recognition flickered and died. And I knew—without a doubt— that I had failed him.
It was like I was plunged into ice water; despair took its cold grip around my heart. I was alone, utterly alone in a world that no longer bore any trace of the one I knew. The walls of our home are now a tomb to my nephew's human soul. I can’t accept this; I can’t accept it even as the misshapen form of Micah writhed on the ground. The voice of Christ crooned and called to me, and I found myself yearning for an end to the pain, a cessation of grief.
So, I looked up. The sky, an uncanny blend of crimson and undulating flesh, held a grotesque grandeur that defied understanding. It was a swirling mass of horror that no human mind should ever behold. Across the cosmos, angels danced, seraphic figures whose wings were not feathers but flesh. And yet, amidst this, there was an undeniable allure. The tendrils danced and weaved mesmerizingly, and the eyes—so many eyes—seemed to peer into my very soul.
And with my final breath as a man of Earth, I whispered, “It is beautiful.”208Please respect copyright.PENANAhOZo4yWMe2