The ritual

This night is cold, it’s lonely. The single beacon in the darkness is the cold glow of my monitor. I write this as the events happen, they happen every night. First the lights will come, then the noise with the fury. I will stay as vigilant to my writing as I possibly can.

Before this begins I’ll provide a brief introduction to what is about to happen. I live alone on this cold plain. During the dead of winter the only thing which breaks the desolate landscape is a broken tree or a dead mountain. Every night now they have found me, I’m not sure what they find me so important for, but they find me. Describing them is difficult. They carry lanterns, but the lanterns do not illuminate their carriers.

I just caught my first glimpse of the light through the crack of my curtain meeting the window. They will all join soon.

The coyotes all wake up at sundown, together to form a union of howl-song. These, things, wake up late. When the moon is bright I can make their outlines out, vaguely, against the white and purple trees outside. Terror left me somewhat over time and has since been replaced with a slow sense of dread, and fascination.

More lights, they’re all awake.

I always hesitate to pull the curtain so I can have a view of the commotion but my curiosity overcomes my instinct.

It’s nearly impossible to count their number; I don’t imagine there are more than 40 of them out there.

They’re starting it now. They circle my house. They slowly pace the parameter, I’m not sure why. I can hear their breathing, sniffing at my walls; every so often one will stop at my window and leave his breath like a territorial pissing. The thumps happen only sparsely at this point, they thump my house as if testing it. There will be more violent thumps shortly.

They’re picking up speed. They’re starting to run. Their lanterns shake in their hands as they pass. They appear to be made from animal skulls, maybe small dogs.
A beat is forming; they’re hitting the walls with rhythm, some primal ancient rhythm. Now the volume.

They’re beating against my house loudly now, it would be terrible and deafening if I hadn’t become used to it. Faster, they’re sprinting; I can’t see individual lanterns but only a steady stream of white-bluish light. Their shadows, which were dancing across my floor in unison with their silhouette, are one massive dark blob.

The roof, walls, window, my house is starting to shake. Dear God what do these things want!? I see hair, fur, snouts; they stop for less than a moment and glare in at me. The nightmare of their existence is something I never had any wish to conceive.

Their lanterns pour into my room, the light searches every corner. It penetrates every cramped space like it is searching for something.
…

Quiet…they’ve never stopped and lingered. Tonight they have….The one at my window is showing itself in the moonlight.

I don’t have a mind to write with now, my fingers speak their own accord. The thing is part man and part dog. Not a werewolf, something much more sinister. It has the head of a wolf, the eyes of a man, the arms of a man but the claws of a wolf. What is this curse? Another, behind him, has antlers. A man, thing, with a hat and a long coat is glaring at me under the shadow on his face.

What are they?





They’re tearing, they’re scratching at my window. Nails on glass. Claws, on glass. Why do I hear drums…chanting. There’s smoke….the light screams from the skulls….
Theyre coming in

Sweet lor..



I cant write
must
,,m

They're coming to get you Barbara !!!

Sorry, needed to add another line to this post, so I wrote this sentence, please don't delete.

And if by they you mean animistic native american black magic archetypes, you'd be correct.