Ukuni

For many generations, villagers shared stories of the brick house atop the hill, overspread with blackened rose bushes, a large walnut tree that looked to have grown splendidly for years, but now withers after many hard winters, and a twisted iron gate that outlined the perimeter of an otherwise humble rectangle, fitted with two windows on either side of an equally twisted, iron door.

No one could remember its origin, only that it had always been there, seemingly unchanged and eternally ominous. Very few ever attempted to find out if any of the legends were true, as the reputation of the home far preceded it, and dissuaded anyone from going alone. Young children would often play games, daring one another to touch the rusted, iron gate that held the structure, but by the time any of those willing to brave the walk of the hill would get within a few feet, they were overcome with a dizziness and nausea, from which they could not bare to go any closer. Some would say that as they walked past the foot of the hill, scarcely surrounded by much, but the blanket of woods beneath and beyond, they would for a moment catch the smell of incense, such as those of the church calling to prayer, yet they would report no sense of comfort or presence of angels, only the unsettled feeling as if, in their own words, they were being lied to.

No one ever saw a single soul enter or exit the home, despite there being evidence of inhabitants. The amber glow of a fire through shrouded windows burned year round, plumes of blackened smoke rising from the chimney at all hours, and approximately twice a month, some would claim to hear a distant voice chanting in deepened moans from somewhere within the wood, but whether this voice came from man, woman, or animal, it was unclear, and furthermore, unproven to have any connection to the those dwelling within the house. The only sign of movement came from briefly glimpsed shadows passing by windows, but even still, nothing was ever clear. Despite the uncertainty, legends and rumors of a witch or demon circulated throughout the beliefs of the villagers, until songs and even figures of speech were formed around the house on the hill.

Naturally, the superstitious nature of the villagers took precedent and any misfortune that would befall the community was blamed directly on the presence of this house atop the hill. Food scarcity, child loss, even infidelity and the occasional murder was all branded as a bewitchment of the house and its owner. Men would often claim that their indiscretions were the result of having simply walked past the foot of the hill and upon hearing a whisper on the breeze, lose all conscious control of their following actions, as if in a blackened trance, resulting in acts of violence and lust that grew more frequent as years passed. Many grew hateful and vengeful toward that which must be living in the house, yet whenever a mob would form and set forth up the hill, a strange weather would inevitably cause them to turn back in fear. During one such event, a bolt of lightning struck only three feet from the mob’s leader and bishop of the church, effectively ending their attempt to set the place ablaze.

As the fortune of this village seemed to worsen - children falling ill and dying, the soil losing all hope to ever sprout life again - they grew more frantic and even immoral in their ideas to destroy what they believed was destroying them. At the head of those poised for vengeance, the Bishop outlined a plan that he believed would end the black curse once and for all. He proposed that on the following night, he and he alone would embark upon the house, outfitted in the white of his holiest robes, sanctified by the anointments of Christ, and holding fastened to his heart, a crucifix chiseled from the very stone said to have held Christ during his three days of death. He instructed all members of the church and of the village to gather at the foot of the hill in prayer, reciting the verses of Psalms 27 1-3: — “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? - When evildoers assail me, uttering slanders against me, my adversaries and foes, they shall stumble and fall. - Though a host encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war arise against me, yet I will be confident”.— He went on to explain the final and most important act of his righteous plan. He believed that whatever he would find within the home, should he make it past the demon’s obstacles, he could then destroy with the power of God in the form of sacrificial fire. He vowed to bind himself to the creature within the home, to douse himself and it with oil of the lamp, and to hurdle themselves into the flames of the hearth. To this, the villagers grew still, yet the wildness of their eyes deepened. They held for a moment within the implication of the plan, the proposed death of their holiest man, but after their quiet consideration passed, somewhere within the group, an animalistic uproar took hold. Any sense of apprehension that they may have had disappeared as every man and woman pierced the air with their fists, axes, and clubs, ready to destroy this monster by any means. Strengthened by their support, the bishop went to work, collecting his items for battle.

On the eve of their intended execution of the shadow atop the hill, the villagers gathered around a peculiar discovery. A single crimson rose grew from the center of the square, the place where in years past, all would gather for celebrations and holy days. The rose was in perfect color, shape, health, its thorns sharp, and petals crisp. The bishop was the first to approach the anomaly. As he placed fingers to the bloom, he leaned in to smell its aroma. What he reported, shocked the villagers. “Incense”, he said, “like that of our call to prayer”. Fear and anger spread throughout the expressions of one after the other and by the time the whole village could comprehend its meaning, a man set the rose aflame with his torch, cursing it in the name of the Devil.

At dusk, they gathered their weapons, pocketed their bibles, and lit their torches to light the way to the foot of the hill. They were headed by the Bishop, outfitted as planned, in robes of pristine white, stone crucifix, and emanating the aroma of anointment. As they reached their destination, he instructed them to hold fast and recite their prayers in unison. They cheered and roared, cursing the beast above. The Bishop bid them God’s blessing, thanked them for their merciless devotion to the Lord, and turned to make way up his path to the unknown horrors that lie ahead, hearing the uprise of Pslams behind him.

As all past attempts to conquer the hill had resulted in illness or near fatality, the Bishop was uneasy at how effortless it now seemed as he travelled closer and closer to the house. The wind blew steadily, even silently, save for the rustling of trees in the surrounding wood. He questioned if another sudden bolt of lightning might strike him down at any given moment, but he saw no sign of supernatural weather, nor did he feel the overwhelm of dizzied sickness that usually accompanied the approaching iron gate. When he reached the house, there was no sign of the ever-burning flame within. No smoke rose from the chimney. The house was like a hollow shell, even more lifeless than it had seemed before. The Bishop felt sick, not due to some preternatural force, but at his own confusion that begged the question of his sanity. It looked as if the house had been abandoned for centuries. He entered through the gate, a barrier no being alive or in legend had ever crossed. Upon closer inspection, the blackened rose bushes growing within the yard had completely devoured the grounds. As he passed through, toward the iron door, he stepped over years of twisted vines and blackened thorns, some piercing his shoes, many tattering the hem of his white robes. The brick face of the house seemed ancient and fragile, its windows brittle, and the drapes within looked moth eaten and more like cobwebs, of which there were many, layered for years in every corner and surface overhead. He extended his hand toward the iron door, still apprehensive as to why he’d been allowed this far, with so little, if any, obstruction. In the distance, he heard them like banshees, screaming into the night, “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?!”, as he entered through the doorway.

When he stepped foot into the house, he saw nothing but darkness, raising his torch a little higher, his eyes adjusted, and he began to make out his surroundings. The air was thick, like that of a crypt opened after centuries, but in the most subtle reaches of his senses, he thought he’d caught the scent of church incense, but its impression lingered like a memory and he could not define whether or not it was truly present. The entry room was reminiscent of a primitive wash chamber, in that a single hole, approximately thirty-five centimeters in diameter, lay centered in the stone floor, about three feet from the doorway. The Bishop looked inside the hole to make sense of its purpose and strange placement in the home, but saw only earth, coated in a dry, black substance. He continued to survey the rooms to the left and right of him. It seemed that the ashen stone floors were at a slant from either end of the house, leading to the entry room at the most subtle angle. He could see no furniture, no sign of human habitation, only a blackened fireplace in the right hand room, whose contents were reduced to ash and clearly the source of the blackened floors throughout the house. In the left room, was pure darkness and emptiness. As he turned to make way into the room with the fireplace, he thought he’d heard something from the other room shift behind him, but as he looked in, it appeared that only the ashen floor had stirred, perhaps from a subtle breeze through the cracks of the window. He resolved to return to the room of the hearth, but as he turned to leave, he felt a cold, disembodied breath near his ear and from the wall behind him, he heard a voice.

He froze in fear and listened to the development of sound behind him. A sort of ominous chant rising from the silence, growing deeper, stronger, and louder by the moment. He could not decipher the source of the sound, what figure or entity it may be. He gathered his courage and in a swift movement, attempting to lay eyes on the source, he turned quickly and raised his torch, but in the same instance, his flame died and he was consumed by darkness. The moon was black this night, offering him no relief through the single window of the room. He stood paralyzed as the chanting grew louder and all encompassing, until the Bishop could no longer tell if the sound was coming from outside of him or within. He felt the vibration of this voice throughout his whole body, ringing in his head, and before long, moving through his own vocal chords until he too was chanting this ominous tone. It was unstoppable. It was everywhere, consuming his senses.  He did not know if the villagers at the foot of the hill could hear him or the chant, as there was no break of rescue or interruption by the mob, but he could not imagine how a single being on Earth could not hear the sound that was uncontrollably shaking every cell in his body.

The sound persisted, yet somewhere from within, he heard another voice speak to him, as if from his own mind, he heard the words, “whom shall you fear?” To which he responded, “what is happening?”, the voice spoke again, “when evildoers assail me, uttering slanders against me, my adversaries and foes, they shall stumble and fall.” The Bishop responded, still entranced in chant, “it is you that we fear, oh devil, you that has brought so much evil upon us” - “And though a host encamp against me, though war rise against me, will you be confident? Where is your stronghold in the darkness? Those that cast flame upon life, sacrifice for the invisible to satiate thirst, I ask you, whom shall you be afraid, if not of yourselves?” - “what are you?” - “I am the other side of your reflection in the glass. I am the Ash that awaits all Form. I am the Womb of the Light. I am the Unseen. The Nothing that precedes All. Whom shall you Fear?” - “I don’t understand. Where is the Light of my God?” - “I am the Darkness of your God, without whom, there can be no Light” - “Who are you?” - “

As the last syllable sharpened in the Bishop’s mind, all sound, all vibration, all chanting within and without ceased. The Bishop collapsed to the floor, his white robes blackened with ash. He lay motionless, as if in need of no breath, in between sleep and wakefulness. He listened to the surrounding sounds. From the center of the entry, he heard what sounded like water dripping in a cave, somehow he knew it was related to the blackened substance coating the Earthen hole. He heard a light breeze rapping on the windowpanes and rustling the trees beyond. From the villagers below, he no longer heard the Pslams, but a roar of anger and animalistic fury. In his mind, he saw like a dream, the scene that lay below, that matched the sounds of chaos echoing up the hill. The village burned to the ground at the hands of the frenzied villagers, one by one, each of them throwing themselves into the pyres, driven and consumed by the power of sacrificial fire.