“The Sacrifice”

The town I grew up in was an unusual place. It’s only when looking back years later that I fully appreciate the bizarre practices and brutal nature of our small mountain community. A therapist or social worker would probably tell me I was raised in a cult, conditioned from childhood to believe in a shared delusion promoted by our town’s elders—a corrupt elite committed to controlling the population through fear and lies.

Things weren’t that simple, however. It seems crazy to say so, but my hometown really was an idyllic place to grow up in. Our community was isolated and far from the hustle and bustle of big city life, but this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

Our little slice of heaven had it all—beautiful pine forests, majestic snow-capped mountains, crystal-clear streams, and clean, fresh air. Our community was tight-knit, peaceful, prosperous, and crime-free. This sounds like a cliché, but ours was a town where everyone watched out for one another, and you could leave your doors unlocked at night.

Sounds perfect, right? But of course, there was a catch…a damn big one as it goes. The summer solstice was the most important date in our town’s calendar because it was the night of the sacrifice. One night of bloodshed…that’s what it took to protect our little town…to keep us safe, healthy, and prosperous. And all we had to do was offer up one victim for the beast to devour.

It’s strange to grow up with this dark secret hanging over the town—one that no one wanted to discuss or even acknowledge. I was an only child, but the kids in our community felt like my brothers and sisters, and we all grew up together.

For us kids, summer was always the best time of year; winter’s cold winds and heavy snows were replaced by hot, sunny days, and we could play down by the creek and in the woods. At the time, I didn’t understand why my parents and the other adults became so uneasy during the summer months, why they insisted that we didn’t venture into the forest after dark, or why all the town folk were banned from entering the forbidden zone under any circumstances, except of course on the night of the annual ritual.

I was fifteen before I learned the terrible truth. My parents let me enjoy my birthday with my friends before my father sat me down and told me about our town’s sordid history. I guess that was the day my childhood ended. Gone were the teenage high jinks, the immature tantrums, and the fleeting romances I had once enjoyed. From that day forth, the blinkers were off, and I was forced to confront the harsh reality of our situation.

It seems ridiculous when I recount my father’s words, but I saw the seriousness in his eyes as he spoke and realized this was no joke. From the time of our town’s foundation, we had been under the dominion of the beast—the monster that lurks deep below the ground, emerging from its cave just once a year to feed.

No one is entirely sure what the beast is—perhaps a demon or an ancient one from the world that came before ours. Maybe there are others like it scattered across the globe. Perhaps there are other communities like the one I grew up in, small settlements tied to feeding these unexplainable entities, serving up blood sacrifices in their own secret Faustian bargains.

I can’t say for sure whether our experience is unique, but my town made a deal with the Devil in return for our survival, and I was a part of it. You see, the revelation on my fifteenth birthday was just the beginning of my induction into this life of terror.

Fifteen is when they tell you the truth, and sixteen is when the boys participate in the ritual for the first time. That was the summer when I got blood on my hands.

I’ll never forget the day of the hunt. In many ways, the horrors that came after were far worse—burning a black mark in my memory, which I’ll never be able to erase. But it’s the hunt that haunts me the most, as I can never forgive myself for the part I played in the murder of an innocent man.

It was a pleasant July morning when our party assembled in the old hunting lodge on the western side of the town, on the edge of the forest. The sun shone down upon us as we sat out in the open for our final briefing. There were a dozen men and boys in total, ranging in age from grandfathers to teenage first-timers, like me.

All were clad in hunting gear and hiking boots. We were armed, but only with non-lethal weapons—tranquilizer rifles, cattle prods, and nets. We needed to take our target alive, after all. The mood that morning was somber. I remember a few of the younger guys trying to crack jokes, but they were soon put in their place.

The hunt master was our town’s sheriff, a grizzled thirty-year veteran named Troy. I think we were all a bit scared of him, my father included. Honestly, I remember very little about Sheriff Troy’s stern briefing on the morning of our expedition. Truth be told, he wasn’t much of an orator—his speeches were dry, methodical, and to the point.

But the hunts were run with military precision. Our target that summer day was a homeless drifter who had wandered into our locality and was apparently living rough in an old, abandoned cabin deep in the forest.

I felt very uneasy about the whole enterprise, even as we trekked into the woods in pursuit of our prey. I stuck close to my dad during our long hike, the sweat dripping off my brow as I whispered in his ear.

“I don’t understand, Dad. Why does it have to be this guy?” I asked. “He’s just some homeless out-of-towner. What did he ever do to us?”

My father shot me a stern look before uttering his reply.

“Keep your voice down, junior.” He nodded to the path before us, where Sheriff Troy led the line of hunters under the tall trees.

We deliberately lagged behind the rest so my father could speak to me more freely and out of earshot.

“I told you, son—it has to be this way. It’s not personal. The target hasn’t done us any harm, that’s true. Sacrificing this man is not something we should treat lightly. It’s a terrible thing indeed, but better than the alternative…”

“You sure about that?” I shot back defiantly.

“I am,” my father answered firmly while staring me down. “Have you forgotten our history? Remember what I taught you, son.”

I paused for a moment, thinking, as we continued our walk.

“The summer of ’68,” I said thoughtfully.

“Sure,” my father answered solemnly. “Before my time, but your grandfather suffered through it. That was the year they elected a new council who pledged to stop the ritual. No sacrifice was made that year. And what happened? The church hall burnt to the ground, taking the lives of twenty innocent souls. The worst disaster in our town’s history, all because we didn’t follow the rules. Well, let me tell you, son, we started the ritual up again the next summer and haven’t missed a year since. But there’s a correct way of doing things, and the beast doesn’t take kindly to deviations.”

“The summer of ’97,” I muttered, remembering my history lessons all too well.

“Correct,” my dad confirmed with a nod. “That was the year we failed to find a suitable sacrifice in time, although not for lack of trying. Well, the entire town was on the verge of panic. Nobody knew what to do, but then we got a volunteer.

Old man Larson—88 years of age, widowed and diagnosed with terminal bowel cancer. The old-timer knew he was on his way out and agreed to sacrifice himself for the good of the community. He showed a lot of bravery and got us out of a tough jam, but no one was happy about sacrificing one of our own. We asked the doctor to sedate Larson before the ritual. Didn’t want him to suffer, you see. Well, the beast could tell the difference. They say he likes his prey to be healthy and conscious, with some fight left in them.

Anyway, our town suffered in the months that followed. There wasn’t a major disaster like in ’68, but we were punished in other ways—the most brutal winter in decades, a poor harvest for our farmers, and a string of miscarriages in the community. There’s always a cost, son, you understand? We don’t have a choice.”

I nodded my head but kept my mouth shut as we continued our solemn trek through the woods, picking up the pace as we caught up with our companions. I’d heard these arguments before and had no honest answer to them. But still, the whole idea of a human sacrifice made me feel sick to my stomach.

I didn’t know how I would act when it came to the grisly deed, but I didn’t want to let my father and the others down, so I kept my mouth shut and walked on.

We didn’t find the drifter in the old cabin. There were signs he’d been staying there recently, but no trace of the man himself. We spent the rest of the day searching for him in the vicinity—hours of trekking through the dense woods to no avail.

We brought in hunting dogs that afternoon to assist in the search, but Sheriff Troy and his men were becoming increasingly desperate. No one could understand how the drifter was evading us for so long. My father reckoned he must have had military training, which was later confirmed. But our target could only get so far on foot, and he couldn’t hide forever.

It was nearly dusk by the time my father and I stumbled upon the poor unfortunate. I remember being hungry, exhausted, and thoroughly pissed off by this point, having spent an entire day on what seemed like a futile enterprise.

A part of me hoped that the drifter would escape our net and the sacrifice would be canceled, but I didn’t dare voice this hope to my father. I did, of course, fear what would happen to our town if we failed to deliver.

The two of us were marching along the creek bank in the fading light when we heard the dogs’ frantic barking, as Sheriff Troy’s group closed in on the target. We saw the figure darting between the trees about a hundred yards ahead of us, my father pointing and shouting excitedly as he loaded his rifle and took up the chase. I followed in his footsteps, darting past the tall trees as we quickly closed the gap.

The drifter was caught out in the open—frantic, exhausted, and disheveled, but seemingly still filled with defiance. I saw his ripped and soiled clothes, his unkempt beard, and wild eyes—now focused upon my father. Dad hesitated momentarily before lifting his rifle to his shoulder and squeezing the trigger.

The tranquilizer dart tore through the air, but my father’s aim was off, and he missed his target by inches. Dad was panicking now, struggling to load a fresh dart into the gun and swearing while his hands shook. I expected the drifter to flee, but I guess he’d had his fill of running.

Instead, something lit up in his dark eyes—a fiery rage born out of prolonged mistreatment and being hunted down like a dog.

“You lousy son of a bitch!” the drifter swore, directing his anger towards my struggling father. “I’ll kill you!”

With that, the desperate drifter charged across the forest floor, screaming bloody murder as he set upon my father. Dad didn’t have time to reload before his attacker was upon him, knocking him to the ground. I watched in horror as the attacker pinned my father down with surprising strength and wrapped his enormous hands around his throat, slowly throttling him with murderous intent.

I was terrified but knew I couldn’t simply stand back and watch my father being murdered. And so, I rushed forward—striking the drifter with my cattle prod and unleashing a surge of electricity into his vulnerable body. The drifter released his grip on my father’s throat, his body convulsing as he collapsed in a heap on the forest floor.

I heard the dogs barking and men shouting, so I reckoned the sheriff’s party was close. But my priority was my father, as I ran to his side and helped him up to his feet. Dad coughed and spluttered but was able to talk hoarsely through his damaged throat.

He looked me in the eye as he did so, tears forming as he became emotional.

“Well done, my boy. You did me proud,” he spluttered.

I didn’t have time to process his words before the cavalry arrived, the hounds barking maniacally as the sheriff and his men charged in to secure their target. The drifter had been captured, and now the sacrifice could begin.

Our victim fought, struggled, and swore all the way to the caves, making so much trouble that we had to securely bind and gag him before dragging his prone body up the mountainside.

All the preparations for the ritual had been made, with almost the entire adult population of the town being in attendance—hundreds of our friends and neighbors standing out in the open on that warm summer’s night, with the clearing at the base of the mountain lit up by burning torches.

The mood was somber, but there was also a strange energy in the crowd—something akin to excitement or a twisted bloodlust. I didn’t like the atmosphere that night and didn’t feel like I knew these people anymore. I knew this wasn’t right, but did nothing to stop the ritual, as I lacked the courage to do so.

The women folk were present, too. Although they didn’t traditionally take part in the hunt, they always attended the ceremony. That was a shared responsibility.

My mother came to our side, her pale face filled with worry and concern. She was horrified upon hearing how close her husband had come to death, but Mom proclaimed how proud she was of me for saving the day. I remember how she hugged me tightly under the stars and the moon, but her embrace felt cold to me.

The ritual commenced shortly before midnight, as a hushed shudder came over the crowd. In the minutes that followed, the only sound was the muffled whimpering of our victim, who lay hogtied on the grass—still struggling with all his strength against the tight ropes.

But, other than the desperate grunts of the bound and gagged captive, there was not a sound to be heard. Even the crickets had stopped chirping. I guess they knew what was coming better than I did. And then the chanting began—hundreds of town folk speaking in unison, little more than a whisper at first but soon rising to a crescendo.

I was nearly deafened by their repeated words, wanting more than anything to flee from the scene…but there was nowhere to run. It was as if my family, friends, and neighbors were all under a trance, controlled by an unseen presence and transformed into something…monstrous.

I’ll never forget the chilling words of their wicked chant: “We speak to the god in the mountain. The beast which dwells beneath our feet. We offer this sacrifice in fear and humility to ensure your continued slumber and our town’s good fortune. Take this gift, our unholy one. Devour his flesh and leave us in peace.”

I felt my body shaking as I watched the horrific scene unfold before me. The bound drifter was around fifty yards from the entrance to the dark cave that cut into the mountain’s base. I didn’t know what exactly dwelt within that dark crevice, but I sensed it was evil.

As for the victim, he somehow managed to loosen his gag, calling out in a frantic panic as he faced the coming nightmare.

“Let me go, you damn freaks!” he screamed. “You people are all nuts!”

Nobody responded to his cries or made any effort to assist him, and in the moments that followed, several things happened at once. Firstly, a sudden burst of hot air emanated from inside the cave, bringing with it a foul stench like rotting flesh. The warm wind blew out all of our torches, and even our electric devices failed as the entire site was plunged into darkness, with the only dim light coming from the stars and crescent moon above.

And then came the roar—a guttural, predatory growl which chilled my bones. The terrified victim finally managed to undo his binds, screaming as he struggled to escape. But the beast already had his scent, and it was fast.

The colossal creature thundered up the tunnel and soon reached the cave’s entrance. I couldn’t see the monster clearly in the darkness, and perhaps that was the point. But what I could see was terrifying—a large animal that ran on all fours—with huge, glowing red eyes and a long snout filled with rows of shark-like teeth. I can’t say precisely how big the monster was, but I’d guess it was at least as large as a rhinoceros.

And it was fast. The drifter screamed again, louder this time. He desperately attempted to remove the remaining ropes and flee from the coming attack, but the monster had him in its sights.

Instinctively, I wanted to run to the man’s aid. I knew this wasn’t right, and I couldn’t stand by and let it happen. But, as I tried to move forward, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder, stopping me. Turning in anger, I saw my father was the one holding me back, shaking his head in the negative.

I might have fought him, but it was already too late. The beast unleashed another blood-curdling roar and then charged, the ground shaking under its heavy hooves as it descended upon its prey. The drifter ran but didn’t get far, as the beast knocked him down and dug its sharp claws into his back. The victim cried out in agony as his blood spilled onto the grass.

Even then, he didn’t give up, attempting to crawl away from the salivating predator. But the beast showed no mercy, opening its huge maw and biting deep into his torso. The poor bastard was nearly bitten in two, and yet somehow, he still clung to life, whimpering and pleading weakly as the monster carried his limp body in its jaws.

“Please…please God. Someone help me.”

But no one did. Not a single soul lifted a finger or even uttered a word. Hundreds of townsfolk just stood there in the clearing, watching as the monster dragged its still-living prey back into the cave. Before long, both had disappeared into the darkness, but we could still hear the awful sounds of the doomed man’s dying cries, closely followed by the sickening noise of teeth biting into flesh and bones snapping under the beast’s powerful jaws.

This horror continued for a few more moments before the beast dragged its prey deeper into the cave, where it could devour him at its leisure.

Shockingly, the crowd seemed unaffected by the atrocity we’d just witnessed. A few soft murmurs were audible before Sheriff Troy took charge and shouted out to address the crowd.

“Alright people. That’s it done for another year. You all need to go home now. Go home and have a peaceful night.”

And that was it. All the townsfolk quickly dispersed, calmly walking away from the murder scene without a second thought, acting like they were simply leaving a concert or football game. It was only then that the sheer horror of the situation hit home, and I felt acidic bile rising in my throat. I bent over, vomiting on the grass.

I sensed my parents’ presence by my side. My mother rubbed me gently on my back as my father whispered “comforting” words into my ear.

“It’s okay, son. The first time’s always the worst. But it gets easier, really it does.”

But I didn’t want it to get easier. I never wanted to participate in that hellish ritual again. One week after the sacrifice, I ran away from home—taking a bus to the other side of the country and never coming back.

I know I hurt my parents by leaving. Despite their faults, I’m sure they love me. But I couldn’t be a part of that…not again. I write to my parents once a year on my birthday just to let them know I’m still alive.

It’s been a decade since I fled my hometown, and this is the first time I’ve ever spoken about what happened. My community is still very much in existence. I haven’t returned and never will, but I keep tabs on them and follow the local news. There have been no major disasters or losses of life in the past ten years. This can only mean one thing—that the annual ritual is still occurring, and fresh sacrifices are being offered up to the beast every summer.

I know what they’re doing back home is very wrong…evil even. But I’ve never gone to the authorities with what I know, and I’ll never name my hometown or reveal its exact location. Despite everything, I still care about the people there and love my parents. And so, for better or for worse, I will take this secret to my grave.