This is a little snapshot from the Prologue of New Gods of the Old Religion - the action espionage sci-fi horror novel I’ve been working on for sometime now. There is much more to come, and this is far from the final prologue, but just a little taste of some of what is to come.
Prologue: The Blackburn Cult Massacre
A dreadful fog had crept over the still town of Black Hill in the early morning of what would become the parish’s final congregation. The followers of Isaac Hughes gathered in their flocks, arriving at the chapel which creaked with every additional pair of feet that lined the aisles and benches. The place was almost full this day, bursting with devout passion after the sacrificial display that Isaac had graced them with the Sunday prior. Subjects, suspended in air, propelled skyward with unyielding force. Hex granted ascension. This had become the cult’s weekly ritual, where a chosen few could become aligned with the divine purpose of their leader, their prophet. He whose Hex allowed him to bless those most devout with the sanctity of purpose.
On that day of sacrifice, the followers of the Blackburn Cult had gathered atop the rise that overlooked an expanse of Appalachia. Isaac watched over the vastness of the valley, and spoke to those who had congregated. He assured them, like he always did, that under his guidance they would be bathed in clarity. That the divine purpose that was delivered to him in the form of a Hex could be dispersed amongst them all. He turned and walked through the crowd, surveying each of them. The devout, the courageous, the hesitant, the timid. One by one, he would take the hands of those he deemed worthy of ascension, and walked them to the edge of the rise. Prayers could be heard murmured beneath breaths, others winced in overwhelming anticipation. He first chose an elder who joined him willfully. Next, a carpenter who swallowed his conviction, and a teacher who took a moment of pause before moving onward. Finally, he met eyes with the newlywed, whose hand he took gently, guiding her from her husband. Yet she froze, turning back to her husband, feeling uncertainty consume her will.
“Now now,” Isaac Hughes murmured softly like a parent to a child. She looked back towards him. “Don’t deny your right to a true fate,” he slinked sideways, guiding her past him towards the edge of the rise. “Can’t you see it? The chosen path laid out for us?” Feeling the weight of the congregation’s glares move her forward, the newlywed joined the others along the edge of the rise, exchanging one last look deep into her husband’s eyes who was swallowed amongst the crowd. From amidst the congregation, he searched desperately in her eyes for clarity, for an assurance of faith. But a single tear drop swelled, and with that, her body was viscerally ejected into the sky with the three others. Screams drowned out by wind.
The chapel was growing restless as they waited for those who had yet to arrive on account of the fog. The woods that surrounded the community of Black Hill were as dense as the roads winding, and so patience was exercised as the unexpected gloom slowed the journeys of many. Isaac waited by the altar, watching over his lambs, eyeing those who he might choose for that week’s sacrifice. He could feel his Hex growing in power with each victim ascended, and as the weeks sprawled into months his mouth watered at the thought of the power he could amass through the abuse of the town’s blind faith. The congregation continued to expand as the hour reached noon, though the fog thickened with each passing moment. Murmurs became chatter as people filled the chapel, and once the fog had settled, they could begin sermon. Yet the fog never did settle, and instead grew thick even within the walls of the chapel. The place became dense with the grey gloom, and soon it became difficult to see, inciting worry throughout. They lit candles to glare through the fog to no avail, as the inside of the sanctum soon became as dark as the wood it was made from.
“Remain calm,” Isaac voiced out to the crowd. “This fog is a peculiarity, yet do not mistake it for an ill omen.” His words heeded no use however, as worry began to fester amidst the aisles. It had become difficult to breathe, and with unrest brewing, this soon worsened. Isaac demanded his hands to disperse amongst the crowd and settle the disorder, but they soon became lost within the fog.
The clambering of the wooden entrance sounded out. “It’s locked!” A voice called out in worry. “I can’t get it open!” Restlessness became chaos, and the obscured congregation began to flood out of the aisles, toppling over one another, swarming at the entrance, their shouts hurrying out over one another. The fog grew thicker.
“Enough!” Isaac’s voice bellowed, but it was not enough. Like every other voice, it had become drowned out in the blind madness. Seizing a lantern, he stormed from the altar and towards the convergence of followers. “Cease this ridiculous carry on!” Isaac choked on fog. “Enough of this!” A figure fell out from the fog and knocked the lantern from Isaac’s hand, shattering it across the ground. “You half witted burden!” Isaac reached his hand forward, seizing the air before raising it upward, sending the figure roaring and barrelling towards the ceiling. His roars incited more, and soon the chapel had divulged into pandemonium. Isaac stood behind the obscured gathering of followers who had piled toward the door and watched in disgust. How easily they were invoked in terror. They were entirely beneath him, seeking desperately for an assurance of hope in the power the universe had granted him alone. Behind the mask of fog, he secretly smiled at how they wormed at the entrance, clawing over one another. Then a glint of orange reflected from his eyes, and his smile ceased. Flames suddenly billowed from the entrance, enveloping those who were pressed against the door at once - their screams becoming violent and horrific as their bodies seized in tumult. The crowd diverged away from one another, lunging over bodies and benches away from the burning entrance. Then, glass shattered, as through a stained glass window did a burning rag trace across the sky tucked into a bottle which upon impact, became a combustion that made the fog glow orange. Now, Isaac could feel the dread. The visceral, stomach turning dread that the fog itself was instilling in those weak willed. He turned, tearing his hand through the air side to side launching those who stood in his way skyward, their screams and eventually crashes into the wooden ceiling only outmatched by the further shattering of glass. Fog intermingled with smoke, and coughs tore through the vacuum of flames and smog. Isaac moved low, cupping his arm around his mouth and feeling blindly out for the altar, collapsing onto all fours beneath the crash of another molotov and desperately crawling to the back of the chapel where he knew there was a cellar, and a hatch to the outside.
He tumbled downward into the cellar where wine, incense and other ritualistic inventory was stored. The smoke was billowing in from above, but wasn’t near as bad as what the chapel had become engulfed in. He closed the entrance behind him, locking it, not giving a moment’s thought to the souls who clawed desperately about. He in part, wished to feel malice in the wake of his collapsing following - yet was engulfed by unnerve, the otherworldly dread that the fog had forced inside him. He hurried over to a cabinet draped in holy sigils and cloths, and reaching for the key which hung from his neck, seized it open and pocketed what valuables he could. Finally, beneath his arm he stored a tarnished tome, and ensuring not a page was missing or left loose in the drawer, turned and made for the rear hatch.
Pluming flames rose above the cracking of collapsing wood as Isaac threw open the hatch of the cellar. The fog persisted outside the chapel, but he could finally breathe the fresh outside air into his lungs. This euphoria only lasted an instant, as the air was forcefully revoked from him upon feeling the violent collapse of a shovel colliding directly into his stomach. He fell to the ground, dropping the tome for which he reached out desperately towards. The steady sifting of gravel sounded out as footsteps closed calmly from behind. Isaac felt the dread surge within him, almost summoning him to vomit. Before he could turn, a mud hardened boot rattled the back of his cranium, and the world became dark. He could hear his body being dragged away in those faint moments before losing consciousness, utterly hopeless as a force worse than dread itself violated him. Despite the entire volume of his will forcing himself to move, desperately seizing at his consciousness, his entire body became an uncontrollable numbness, and went dark.
When he awoke, he was looking outward toward the desolate sprawl of Appalachia, swallowed by fog. Silent, except for the wind which grazed across the top of the rise. In coming to consciousness, that lagging terror caught up, and he seized his body only to be met with the resistance of his legs, arms and chest which were tightly bound to a chair - barely allowing him the ability to breathe. Panic consumed him. He wriggled and squirmed, wincing like a frightened animal. He shifted, but was so close to the edge of the rise that he dared not risk falling forward. Then he could hear those footsteps once again, the calm, steady sifting of gravel beneath mud hardened boots.
“What do you want!?” Isaac cried. The footsteps prevailed. Even in rhythm. Isaac desperately tried to turn his head to see, but couldn’t find the figure in his peripherals. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, and flexing his hands outward, attempted to send the figure into ascension despite his constraints. The footsteps prevailed, and Isaac could then feel the cold, phantom sensation of emptiness where his hands used to be. His winces became animalistic, and he began to despairingly howl through the violent sobs and shakes. An unhuman grip latched at the back of his neck, convulsing his whole body forward, and a cold, still breath hung by Isaac’s ear.
“Now now.”
Isaac lunged his body side to side but the figure’s grip clenched tightly around his neck, violently digging their fingers into either side of Isaac’s throat. “Please,” Isaac choked. A freezing cold barrel of steel pressed into the back of his head. The fog thickened, and a gunshot echoed across the eerily silent valley of Appalachia, lagging, frozen in time for a moment. Then, it was quiet again.
“I thought you could see it? Could you not? The chosen path.” The words hung loose for no ears to hear, as the mass of corpses of the congregation of the Blackburn Cult began to ascend through the fog, silently disappearing into the sky, where they could spectate the beginning of the final ascension.