Ritual

Leaves trickled onto the soaked moss and freshly upturned dirt, squelching under his boot as he stepped forward. Let us call him Dagon. For Dagon had his task in the forest, and ducked under the limbs of trees that reached gently out to caress his thin form. 

The great oaks blockaded the sky above, but the rustling wind allowed drops of rain to fall through, beating against the earth like a drum. Dagon tightened the strings of his hood. Passing a jutted rock marked with black graffiti, he turned sharply left. From there, he moved into the deepest parts of the forest. The darkness extended itself in welcome. 

And he embraced it. Allowed himself to be engulfed. Rain sprinkled from leaves onto his coat. The ground was melting. His foot sank into the mud, deep, and he struggled to pull it out. After some time, the mud released its grasp, and Dagon continued into the forest. 

For he had a task, and he was sure not to fail it. 

He made his way to the Resting Place, where all things go to die. The graveyard of decaying bone decorated the ground dirt, bits of white and rotted yellow erupting from the earth. His foot sunk keep into a rabbit’s skull and he heard the snapping of bone underneath him. His face contorted into something of a smile, and he stepped again, shattering under him years of death preserved in the woodland. 

A stump, as if placed methodically by God, sat in the midst of the carnage. Carved upon it were ciphers of a long-forgotten language. Dagon knew them, for we told him in whispers. He approached, each step breaking open the souls of the dead. Once upon the stump, he paused and looked over the rustling tree line. The wind howled out a cry, and the trees quaked in fear. 

From the shadows, a demon emerged. It was large, with a black robe and a white collar. Large ears. Larger eyes. It watched Dagon from a distance, and we carried in the wind whispers that alerted Dagon of the demon’s presence. He looked to his right. Their eyes connected. And so they stood, frozen in time. The trees shook again, and a shower of leaves rained down on them. 

The demon then, careful to avoid breaking any bones, inched closer to Dagon. As he did so, he opened his mouth and spoke in his hideous tongue. “Good evening.” Dagon did not reply, but instead removed his backpack and placed it delicately on the rattling bones. The demon hissed in a breath, suckling the air. “I do not wish to harm you.” 

The rain now fell in droves. Dagon reached his hand to the skyline, holding up his palm. He caught the rainfall, put it to his mouth, and drank. Quenched of his thirst, he answered. “You lie.” 

The demon held out its hands, as if expecting a warm embrace. Closer. It moved closer. “Why would I harm you? You are an innocent man, ensnared by evil. A puppet, merely.” 

Dagon rummaged through his pack, removing two obsidian stones, an amulet, and a deep, black candle. He then plucked a skull from the carnage. He set these items on the stump. The demon eagerly watched. Dagon then spoke. “You are evil.” 

“You are a man of little words.” The demon reeked like an acrid corpse. His foul stench wafted to Dagon. “I enjoy that. Little to say, little to think.” Dagon ignored it. It continued. “Tell me, why here? On sacred grounds, no less? What did they tell you?” 

Dagon lit the candle. The flame quivered. In the darkness, the fire grew, and shadows twisted around the trunks. Dagon sighed. “Leave me be.” 

“And leave you to damage the land of God? To do what you desire, and watch as the world crumbles before us? I don’t think so, demon!” It lied. For it was a demon, and it was in a demon’s nature to lie. But the demon frightened us, for it had great power. Dagon faced the demon. It dripped sweat, dabbed a damp cloth to its forehead.  

Dagon then said, “I do what is right. This will be right.” 

“This is wrong. I’ll have no choice but to stop you.” 

“Then stop me.” 

The demon drew in a heavy breath and held, silently, watching. Dagon kept his eyes upon the demon and lowered himself to his knees. He prayed to us, and the demon recoiled at the sight of our almighty power, and withdrew a symbol of evil, and began chanting in ancient tongues. 

The power overwhelmed us. It grew and expanded over the forest, a wave of strength like no other. A birght light burned into us like fire, hellfire, and it stung our skin and we screamed. How we screamed.

We withdrew, leaving Dagon’s spirit to fight alone. The rain ceased, sunlight pouring through the drenched leaves. Dagon did not feel any warmer. He was cold now. Empty.  

He raged at the demon, for it had succeeded in foiling his task. The demon smirked, retracting its symbol of evil. Dagon charged. Spilling over bone, he ran towards the demon, who raised its hands in defense, but could not evade the impact of Dagon. 

They collided together, entangling into one body of many limbs, falling onto the mossy floor. Dagon swung at it, and it took each hit with a grin on its face. Dagon hit, and hit, until he could no longer breath, and he collapsed beside the demon, who chuckled, and said, “Was that all?” 

But it did not move. For it was weak. Very weak. And Dagon then sat and looked upon the demon, who spat blood and pus, and he left it there to wither back into the ground. Collected his things. Left without us.  

But hear us demon, for we speak. We shall reign, as it is said in ancient texts, and we shall live again through our guide, through Dagon. We shall not be foiled. Dagon as our guide, we shall not be foiled. 

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Priest Found in Critical Condition 

Local priest, Father David Nathaniel, was found in the Briskby Woods on October 12th, 2020, near the Huntsman’s Boneyard. He was attacked by an unknown assailant. Now in critical condition, Nathaniel’s family prays that he will return to full health swiftly. Hear more on what they have to say on page 4.