Chapter 286

Father Eamon McLeod had always prided himself on his ability to help others. The call of God had led him to many places, but none as remote as Glendun, a village tucked deep in the hills of Ireland. The letters had been brief, begging for someone to come and lift the curse that had fallen on them. "A simple task," the bishop had said. "Just visit, and if need be, perform the rites."

The journey took two days, and by the time he arrived, the village had already fallen into dusk. The few houses along the narrow dirt roads seemed abandoned, their windows dark, their doors tight shut. As he stepped out of the carriage, the chill of the evening air bit at his neck. He adjusted his collar and surveyed the area.

The air was still, too still. The hills around him loomed like silent sentinels, watching his every move. Eamon made his way to the small stone church at the edge of the village, the only structure that appeared maintained. The wood of the doors creaked as he opened them and stepped inside, the scent of mildew clinging to the damp stone walls.

The interior was as bare as the exterior, save for a small altar at the front. There, an elderly woman sat in a pew, her eyes fixed on the floor.

"You must be Father McLeod," she said, her voice weak and shaky.

Eamon nodded, his stomach tightening. "I am. And you are…?"

"Maeve," she said. "I've been waiting for you."

The words hung in the air. There was no warmth in her gaze, no relief, only a kind of hollow resignation.

"Tell me about this curse," Eamon said, his voice steady but low, as if the walls of the church might absorb the truth before it could leave his lips.

Maeve stood slowly, her hands shaking. She crossed the room to the altar, where a candle flickered weakly in the dim light. She pressed her fingers to the flame, and for a moment, Eamon thought she might set herself on fire. But she didn't. She only stared at it, lost in thought.

"It's been years now," Maeve whispered, her eyes still locked on the flickering flame. "Years since the first child disappeared."

Eamon felt his heart drop. He had heard of such things in the past, stories of children being taken by forces beyond human comprehension. But this was different. He had come to stop a curse, not to unravel the mysteries of the afterlife.

Maeve continued. "It started small. Animals vanished. Then the crops failed. But the children... they were the worst."

Eamon stepped closer, trying to keep the sympathy from his voice. "What happened to them?"

Maeve's head snapped toward him, her face contorting with a grimace. "They were taken. And no one has seen them since." She closed her eyes, as if shutting out the memory. "But we hear them. Every night. Calling."

A cold shiver ran down Eamon's spine. He had heard of hauntings, of souls trapped in the in-between, but something about the way Maeve said it, as if she had long accepted it, unsettled him.

"How long?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Five years," Maeve answered, her voice cracking. "Five years of listening to them scream."

Eamon didn't know what to say. What was there to say? How could anyone fight against something that took children and left only empty echoes in the night?

Maeve's eyes moved back to the altar, and her voice dropped lower. "There's more. There's something else. Not just the cries. But the shadows... they come to the village every night. They don't come for the living, though. They come for the ones who try to help."

Eamon's throat went dry. "What do you mean?"

"The priest before you," Maeve said, her eyes darkening. "Father Declan. He tried to end it. He failed. And they... they took him."

Eamon felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. "What happened to him?"

"Not even his body remained," she whispered. "They took it. Left nothing but bones, and they were... twisted. Bent in ways no human should bend."

A cold silence filled the room. Eamon didn't know if Maeve was telling him the truth, but something about her demeanor told him she was. And worse, he was starting to believe her.

"I'll help," Eamon said, his voice tight. "I'll perform the rites. The exorcism."

Maeve looked at him for a long time. Then, finally, she nodded.

"You may think it's simple," she said, her voice hoarse. "But it's not. You'll have to face it yourself. And if you're not careful, it will take you too."

Eamon swallowed hard. The weight of her words hung in the air like a thick fog, choking the life out of the room. But he was a man of faith, and he believed in the power of God. He had to.

The church doors creaked open, and Eamon stepped outside, his footsteps crunching on the dirt path. The village was eerily quiet. The houses stood like rotting shells, their windows staring back at him, empty and watchful. As he made his way to the edge of the village, a cold wind blew across the hills, rattling the dead branches of trees.

He stood there for a moment, staring out into the darkness. He had been trained to face evil, to confront the unseen, but there was something about this place that made his skin crawl. The wind whispered through the trees, and for a fleeting moment, Eamon thought he heard something—just on the edge of his hearing—something faint, like a child's laugh, but distant.

He shook it off. It was nothing.

Eamon spent the night inside the church, gathering his courage and preparing himself for the ritual he had planned. As the hours passed, the cold seeped deeper into his bones. The night stretched on, and the village outside remained silent. Too silent. He could feel something in the air, something heavy and malevolent, waiting.

By the time the moon hung high in the sky, Eamon was ready. He knelt before the altar, reciting the prayers that had become second nature to him. The words left his mouth with mechanical precision, but something inside him was starting to doubt. Doubt in the ritual, doubt in his faith, doubt in himself.

The ground beneath him trembled. Eamon froze, his eyes snapping up to the door. The shadows outside seemed to grow, stretching and twisting, as if they had a life of their own. He could hear it now—the faint sound of children laughing, high-pitched and distant. And then... the crying. The anguished cries of the missing children.

A figure appeared in the doorway. Eamon's breath caught in his throat. It was a child, standing there, too still, too silent. Its eyes were hollow, black pits that seemed to swallow all light. The figure took a step forward, and then another. Each movement was unnatural, jerking like a puppet on strings.

And then, Eamon saw it—the thing that stood behind the child, hidden in the darkness. A mass of shadows, writhing and undulating like something alive. He could feel its eyes on him, pressing against his very soul. The child's smile stretched wide, too wide, its face contorted in a way no human face should.

Father Eamon tried to speak, to call on God's protection, but his voice faltered, caught in his throat. The shadows were closing in, wrapping around him, tightening like a noose.

The child's mouth opened wide, its teeth sharp, jagged, too many to count.

And then, as if on cue, the shadows moved.

They swept over him, cold and suffocating. He couldn't move, couldn't scream. His body went numb as the darkness wrapped around his limbs, pulling him into the abyss.

He felt the bone-crushing weight of something heavy, pressing down on him. The last thing he heard before his mind shattered was the sound of a child's laugh, and the sickening crack of his own bones breaking.

The morning came too late for Father Eamon. The village remained silent. The doors of the church stood open, but no one entered. No one left. Only the wind moved through the trees, and the echoes of the past whispered in the distance.

Father Eamon's bones were found in the church later that week, twisted beyond recognition. No one spoke of the curse again, but the villagers knew. The shadows had claimed him, just as they had claimed all the others.

And now, the silence of Glendun was complete.