Page 12 of Threads Of Madly Whispers

“Right, that right there should be a red flag. A full moon and shit like this will lend us on the news,”his hands move berserkly.

Yes, yes, and yes, and perhaps I too am not quite ready to die. But the truth beckons us, and chasing it is never a graceful pursuit. The things long buried beneath ages of time are hidden for a reason, their silence a warning rather than an accident. Secrets perched on the tips of tongues stay unspoken for the same purpose—they bear the burden they carry. And those who dare to unearth these truths, to pull back the veil and stare into the abyss, rarely return whole, if they return at all.

“The severity of the purpose outweighs the fear, Miro,” Naseria pleads, her voice a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges.

But when is it enough? When does the hunger wane and the thirst still? Or do we, like the very monsters we chase, prowl forward, blind to the line between hunter and hunted. How long before the pursuit drives us deep into thewoods, to the foot of the prey’s gate, where the air is stifling with something primordial and waiting.

My gaze moves to the file on the table, a trace of unfinished thoughts. Fingers ghosting over its surface, I reach into my bag, drawing out a collection of blotting papers, their ink bleeding like veins through brittle pages. The ends are jagged, torn from a journal, a relic of words never meant to be found. I had spent the day sifting through dusted books and chasing shadows in the archives, searching for a clue to unravel.

“I found these today,” I say, setting them between us like an offering. “And something about them…feels as though they hold more than we understand. I’ll read.”

June 1980, Zakraion

The witch killed them

Behind the woods, the Oracles of Gryclusm massacred her family.

No Date / Archived 7801

The members were never caught, but their sigma, a snake wrapped around a demon Krampus mask, was left on the burned bodies, and a letter that stated:

Each full moon, a body will be found,

Lying cold beneath the cruel, unblinking sky.

Every full moon, a life must be offered,

A sacrifice to the archaic gods that spoke in the dark.

Every full moon, blood shall stain the earth,

A crimson tide to wash away forgotten sins.

Every full moon, the ritual shall unfold,

Shadows stretching as the air grows thick with dread.

He shall come, as inevitable as the tide,

A creature of fury, wrapped in moonlight’s curse.

He shall slaughter, a requiem sung in the language of death,

For the sins of the many, the price to be paid.

For the greater good, they say,

But the truth is a thing lost to time,

A twisted belief forged in blood and torment,

Where guilt and sacrifice are indistinguishable.

As the moon rises high and the winds howl low,

The ritual will be done,

And the world will quiver,

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