Story 1123: A Ritual in Crimson

The old red barn on the edge of Marrow Fields was avoided by locals—its roof half-collapsed, its walls covered in black ivy that bloomed only under moonlight. The land itself refused to grow crops. Livestock avoided it. Birds never perched there.

But tonight, the barn was alive with whispers.

Inside, Jasper Crane stood barefoot in a circle of chalk and bone. A crow feather in one hand, a rusted lantern in the other. Blood dripped steadily from a cut on his palm, soaking the carved symbols in the dirt.

He didn’t know whose voice he’d heard in his dreams. Only that it called him here. Promised him answers. Promised to silence the dead voices clawing in his skull night after night.

The ritual had begun.

Twelve figures in red robes stood in a ring around him—hooded, faceless. Each held a blade pressed to their own wrist, their blood feeding thin rivulets into the center.

One voice led them—calm, female, inhuman.