Karla Thorne has been writing since she was old enough to hold a pen. Three decades later it’s been a lifelong love affair. A common theme she’ll never get tired of exploring is the darker side of human behavior. 

She currently lives in the deep south with her husband, three children, and their rescue pup while she works on her debut horror novel, Still Dark Places. 

Stalk her on her substack right HERE. 

THE RITUAL

by

Karla Thorne

“How much further?” He whines for the hundredth time. I turn to find him still several feet behind me, his feet trudging lazily through the snow covered foliage. He pulls air into his lungs as if he may run out of it at any moment. 

“You do know it’s an honor to bring the witch her offerings, right?” I say. I hear him scoff in response.

“Well can you at least help me carry this? It’s getting heavy.” 

“You know I can’t. You have to carry it yourself. I’m only supposed to guide you.”

“Come on! It’s not like anyone will know! Just—” 

“She will know!” I say swinging around and closing the distance between us. “This isn’t a game, Kid! People’s lives are at stake! I would expect someone given the honor you have to know that!” 

There’s a moment of silence between us. He looks up at me as if I may strike him and for a moment my hand tingles with longing to. Then I remember that his leisurely pace has already put us well behind schedule. 

“I’m —I’m sorry.” He says struggling to shift the pack to his other shoulder. I’m sure it’s difficult to carry. It’s filled with some of the most precious items the people in our town own. One offering from each home. 

“I don’t want an apology. I want you to take this seriously.” 

“I am. I promise. I just—I don’t know why she chose me.” 

“Neither do I. Trust me. There were two others born on the anniversary of the day it happened that turn twelve this year. Both far more worthy than you.” He winces at my comment. Sometimes words are the only weapon one needs. I take a calming breath. “But we’re not here to question her. We’re only here to atone.”

We continue walking in silence. It’s a welcome one after the near constant complaining I’ve had to endure for the first half of the hike up the mountain. I almost feel bad for the kid. By the time we reach the top, his face is red as the evening sun and beads of sweat glimmer on every surface of his skin in spite of the frozen air surrounding us. 

“You okay?” I ask as he drops to his knees, the pack falling with him. There’s a clamor of metal and glass as the objects inside crash into each other from the impact. He holds a thumb up when he can’t gather enough breath to form words. “Good. We’re here.”

“This…is...it?” He manages through gasps. 

“Yeah.” 

“It’s not…” 

“Not what you expected?” I chuckle. He nods and I continue.  

“All the children I’ve had the honor of guiding here see the charred ruins of that cabin, barely visible above the snow, and you all say the same thing. Like it’s not enough. Stories have a way of doing that. You get so caught up in the thrill of the thing that you forget that they start with a shred of truth.” I drop my own pack and start sorting through it’s contents. 

“What’s the truth?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard it as many times as I have.” 

“I want to hear it from you.” 

“That story started with a witch, a woman, brutally attacked by a mob of townspeople in her own home. To cover up the evidence they burn it to the ground not knowing she had her little boy hiding in the floor. Not that it would have made a difference. I suppose if they had known he was there they would have done way worse than burn him alive.” 

“What’s worse than being burned alive?” There’s a shake in his voice as he stares at the blackened planks sticking out of the snow like tombstones. 

“People are capable of some pretty terrible things when they’re angry. Or afraid.” 

There’s a heavy silence that follows but I can tell there’s something he wants to say.

“Out with it. We don’t have much time.” 

“My grandpa talked about the story a lot growing up. Said our ancestor was part of the mob that did it. He said—”

“Go on.” 

“He said she put a curse on our town as she was burning up. That’s why we have to bring the offerings. He said it’s why I was bound to be born on the day it happened. It’s how it’s supposed to be.” 

“There’s some truth to that, I suppose.” I say. “Empty your bag. It’s time to get on with it.”

He opens his pack without argument, arranging the various trinkets in a semicircle in the snow with the same gentleness one would have with an infant. The air is always heaviest in a place like this. Squeezes the fight right out of you. I glance at my watch. It’s almost midnight. Energy practically crackles in the air around us as I make my way over to where the chosen one is crouched in the snow. 

“Your grandpa ever tell you what the curse was?” 

He pauses for a moment and then continues. “No. Just that a chosen one born on the anniversary of it gets to bring the offerings to her to atone for it.” 

“I guess it’s best he kept that to himself.” 

“What do you mea—” he says turning to face me. When he sees the blade held high above my head he falls back into the snow among the offerings.

“Don’t be afraid now. It’ll be over quick. I promise.” A stray tear slides down my cheek as the boy looks up at me. He suddenly seems so much smaller than 12. 

“I want to go home! Please! Let me go home!” His plea is followed by a scream but my blade comes down, silencing it before it can disturb the gentle sound of the falling snow.

Her child was murdered. There’s only one kind of offering that can balance that kind of evil.

A sacrifice.