Clastad Horror

 

If you are old enough, there is a chance, a tiny small chance, that you remember Clastad Horror. At least that was the name local papers and gossip gave it during the story that shocked the whole country in the end.

I had just moved to my new house, my new phase in life, my retirement isolation a few kilometres away from Clastad when things happened and I suppose for all the wrong reasons I was one of the first ones to reach the village. Funny thing now, I went without sleep for the next forty-eight hours to get the story full and checked and then I could never use it.

Since then and all these years I’m often thought about it and I always knew that sooner or later the time will come to tell somebody and obviously this is your lucky day. So, this is the way it all happened that day in Clastad.

I had just finished with my last story in the capital, covering a political event and I was enjoying my morning coffee in my terrace when the message came to my then very modern mobile telephone. I was still waiting for my coffee to cool a bit before drinking while the words started forming on the tiny small screen in white colour over a dark gray background:

“...the tiny village of Clastad, in the south-east near the coast, was the scene today of an apparent mass suicide. The driver of a mail truck arriving in the village this morning, found the houses deserted and at the so called centre of the village ,next to  where the supermarket and post office are , scores of bodies were found among the gravel of a small side road.”

That was all. There was more to follow but I didn’t know where to find it that moment so instinctively I did the only thing I could think of, call the newspaper that employed my services for the last three decades. Ten minutes later and after talking with the chief editor I was in my car heading east, towards the village of Clastad, forty-five kilometres away.

It was almost six in the evening when I arrived but there were no lights in the village. The streets and houses that cluster around them were all dark and silent. It was as if the entire population of every sentient being had suddenly vanished. And in a way it had.

I saw people and cars at the small turn of the road just before the supermarket, its sign still illuminating bright red in the dark blue evening sky. The people weren’t toiling as they usually do in front of an accident or a natural disaster, they only stood at the edges of the side street looking the shadows of former alive bodies spread dead all around. I left the car on the side of the road, ignoring signs and joined them.

In the reflected glare of the a dozen headlights, the flashing lights of the police cars and the neon sign of the supermarket I saw the bodies. I couldn’t count but I was sure there must have been nearly a hundred of them; men, women and children.

My imagination played a strange game and shown me a giant hand sweeping them from their houses, their beds, their walks and gardens over the evening sky and straight the back street to their death.

 

II.

Policemen, forensic personnel, firemen and others had already started making a path among the bodies, setting lights for the long job ahead. The only thing that got to me that moment and in front this nightmarish scene was that all the bodies were somehow stretched looking upwards to the sky.

“Think any of them could be alive?” I heard myself asking to the uniformed man standing next to me. “We would have seen a sign.” The man whispered and he moved quickly towards a group of other uniformed men obviously organizing their next step and soon after an under the instructions of two men, they began moving the bodies.

First an old man with his skull visually shuttered and then a girl with her neck broken and then more and more... They carried them from the side street, past me still numb standing and laid their bodies in the opening parking lot n front the supermarket in neat rows.

Soon there were dark blood stained marks on the street and the people, in a surreal and chilling parallel of an ancient tragedy’s chorus, started counting the bodies. “Thirty-two, thirty-three...”

A policeman joined the group of officers in the edge of the square. “We’ve gone through every house in the village; there is no living thing anywhere...” he said letting the last words hanging in the chilling night air.

“The whole damn place is dead...” Somebody else added but that was not exactly true. The whole village was alive with policemen, reporters and photographers from all the area soon from all the country. And they did report. Thousands of words reached every single house the next day and much more the rest of the world all accompanied with photos and videos. Testimonies of a dead village and a lot of black and gray body bags. But none of them could answer to the question everybody asked; why?

There was no answer in the dead silence of Clastad.

A newspaper from the capital compared it to an incident from a horror film but soon they realized the error of their comparisment and they were forced to apologize and retrieve the remaining copies of the paper from distribution. Some others, more keen to conspiracy theories, wrote about some kind of a supernatural force that lured them to their death.

Still, there were no real answers.

The houses where searched for clues but nothing came out. Actually in few of them the police found food still on the tables, beds prepared for sleep, televisions on. Experts of human behaviour said that whatever happened, it happened sometime between eight and nine in the evening. No notes or messages left behind. Which also added to the questions.

III.

I was the first one to think about digging a bit into the past of the town and while a couple of trainees were researching all kind of archives back in the office, I headed for the deserted building that had ones held the town’s public services and a hall for public meetings.  I was sure I would find some records and memories of the past there and I was sure that most of them would be in print paper and I was right.

The silence of the building was odd but not because of the absence of the locals but because of the absence of everybody else including police, investigators and reporters. I was alone and where I shouldn’t .

I stood in front of a gigantic aerial photo of the town comparing the evolution of the place with some other photos I found in a book laying on the reception with the history of the town. The square was a new addition to the town and that was obvious from the first few photos of the book and I was going to find out where the square used to be and what was there before when I felt that I was not alone anymore.

I turned pointing the flash light I was holding at the core I thought I heard he noise and a small round man stepped out from the dark. “Howdy,” he said quietly.
“Who the hell are you,” I actually shouted.
“My name is not really important, but if it is important to you, you may call me Sven Arken if you wish.”
“If I wish?”
“Correct.”
“Sven Arken?”
“Correct again.” And getting closer, “and now may I ask you who you are?”

“I’m a journalist,” I managed to answer. “A newspaper journalist from the capital. I came here to cover the story.

“Oh, and you thought you might find something in the old archives of Clastad?” And without breaking for a breath, he continued, “odd thing now, the same thought also crossed my mind.”

While this exchange was unveiling, the man called Sven Arken had advance closer and now I could just start making out his features in the light of my flash. He was not exactly old and yet his face was full of all these lines that betray old age. In a very peculiar way he was a handsome man but not exactly the handsomeness that attracts the ladies.

“Are you a writer or something?” I asked just to say something.
“No, not really. Jut an investigator. I make a hobby of investigating strange or unexplained things.”
“Where you around here when this happened?”
“I was in the area and I came as soon as I heard about it.”

IV.

"So, a seeker of knowledge in the dead of night," he said, his voice a low, gravelly whisper that sent a ripple of unease through him. “How curious.”

“Uh, yes,” I stammered, trying to shake off the chill his words somehow ignited. “I’m looking for information about the deaths ...in the parking lot. I thought the library might have something on the history of Clastad... you know...”

“Ah, the shadows that dance on the edges of consciousness,” he mused, his gaze drifting to a dusty old globe that stood in the corner. “Many come seeking answers, but few are prepared for the truths they may find.”

I sensed that he spoke in riddles. “I just need the facts. The villagers, those who are left, if any, must be terrified. I need to understand what’s going on.”

Sven Arken stepped aside, revealing a narrow staircase that led to a dimly lit second floor. “Then follow me, seeker. The truth lies in the echoes of the past. But beware, the past is not always a friend.”

Reluctantly, I followed him up the creaking stairs, the wood groaning under their weight. The upper floor was a labyrinth of shelves, packed tightly with books of all sizes, their spines worn and titles faded. A large wooden table dominated the centre of the room, littered with papers and old newspapers that seemed to have been recently disturbed.

“Here we are,” Sven Arken said, gesturing to the table. “The archives of Clastad. Within these pages are the whispers of those who came before.”

I leaned over the table, skimming through the papers. I spotted a stack of yellowed newspaper clippings, their headlines bold yet haunting. “Clastad’s Dark Past: The Cult of Shadows,” one read. Another bore the title, “Mysterious Disappearances Plague Village.”

“What can you tell me about these?” I asked, tapping the newspaper with his finger.

“Those who delve into the shadows often find themselves lost,” Sven Arken replied cryptically. “But if you must know, Clastad has always danced on the knife’s edge of madness and mystery. It is a village steeped in secrets, and those secrets often demand a price.”

I picked up one of the articles and began to read. It detailed a series of disappearances that had occurred decades earlier. Young men and women vanishing without a trace, only to have rumours surface about a cult that thrived on the fringes of the village. The piece was filled with ominous phrases like “blood sacrifices” and “rituals under the cover of darkness.”

A chill crept up my spine. “Is this what happened to the villagers? Are they...”

“They are the latest in a long line of offerings,” Sven Arken interjected, his tone grave. “The darkness is insatiable. It demands the innocent, and Clastad has long been its feast.”

V.

My heart raced as I tried to absorb his words. “You mean to say that this is not an isolated incident? That there’s something… unnatural happening here?”

“Unnatural is a label humans place upon that which they cannot comprehend,” he replied, his gaze unyielding. “What is natural for one may be abhorrent to another. The faceless ones have returned to claim what is theirs.”

“Faceless ones?” I echoed, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear creeping into my chest.

“The ancient ones, the shadows of Clastad,” she explained, her eyes gleaming with something otherworldly. “They do not belong to this realm; they are remnants of an age when darkness ruled. When the veil thins, they come, and the village must pay.”

I felt a growing sense of dread as he recalled the faceless men he had seen the night before. “But why now? Why are they returning?”

“Because the cycle has begun anew,” Sven Arken replied, a tinge of sadness in his voice. “The village has forgotten the old ways, and the price of ignorance is steep. You must leave while you still can. The library holds many secrets, but some are better left undiscovered.”

I looked around the room, feeling as if the very walls were closing in on me. “I can’t just leave. I need to understand! I need to know what happened to those people!”

Sven Arken stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “Curiosity is a dangerous companion, Sir. It can lead you down paths from which you may never return. The dead hold their own secrets, and some knowledge is a burden too heavy to bear.”

Ignoring his warning, I resumed his search, digging deeper into the archives.

I found more articles, each one more disturbing than the last. One reported on the brutal murder of a village girl during a festival, while another described the inexplicable madness that gripped the town after a violent storm.

Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from downstairs. I.e. exchanged a startled glance with Mr Arken, who seemed unfazed by the commotion. “Stay here,” he ordered, his voice taking on a sharp edge. “Do not wander into the shadows.”

Ignoring his command, I made my way down the stairs, heart pounding in my chest. As I reached the ground floor, I found the entrance door swinging wildly, banging against the wall. The library was silent except for the rhythmic creaking of the door.

“Hello?” I called out, stepping into the cool night air. “Is anyone there?”

No answer came, just the whisper of the wind that seemed to carry the faintest echo of laughter, chilling him to the bone. I stepped outside, scanning the darkened parking lot. The moon hung low in the sky, casting eerie shadows across the pavement.

Just then, the shadows seemed to shift unnaturally, and a figure emerged from the darkness. I squinted, trying to make out who it was. The figure took a step forward, revealing a gaunt man, his face drawn and haggard.

“Help me!” the man gasped, fear evident in his eyes. “You have to help me! They’re coming!”

My instincts kicked in, and I rushed toward the man. “Who’s coming? What’s happening?”

The man pointed towards the trees lining the parking lot, his hand trembling. “The faceless ones! They’ve returned! I saw them ...saw what they did!”

I felt a knot form in my stomach. “You have to tell me everything. What did you see?”

But before the man could respond, a chilling howl echoed through the night, sending a jolt of terror through my veins. The man’s eyes widened in panic, and he took a step back, glancing towards the trees.

“Run! You have to run!” he shouted, his voice breaking.

I turned to flee back to the library, but before I could reach the door, the shadows deepened, and I felt an unexplainable weight pressing down on me.

The air grew heavy, suffocating, and I gasped for breath.

VI.

“Eliot!” Mr Arken’s voice cut through the haze, pulling me back to reality. I turned to see him standing at the entrance of the library, his face pale and determined. “Get inside! Now!”

I hesitated for a moment, torn between the man’s terrified pleas and Mr Arken’s unwavering command. But as another howl echoed, sharp and mournful, I sprinted towards him, the instinct for survival overriding his curiosity.

Once inside, Sven Arken slammed the door shut and locked it with a heavy thud. “They are here,” he said, his voice trembling slightly. “The veil has been breached.”

“What do we do?” I demanded. “How do we stop them?”

“The only way to protect yourself is to understand their nature,” Sven Arken replied, urgency creeping into his tone. “The library holds the key. We must find the records of the cult, the rituals they performed.”

I nodded, adrenaline coursing through me as we headed back to the archives. We searched frantically, rifling through the pages, until we stumbled upon a dusty old tome that seemed to pulse with a dark energy. Its title read, The Feast of Shadows.

“Here!” I called out, holding the book aloft. “What does it say?”

Sven Arken rushed over, his eyes widening as he took in the cover. “This is dangerous,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “But we may have no choice.”

As I opened the book, the pages fluttered wildly, as if caught in an unseen wind. I felt the temperature in the room drop, and the lights flickered ominously.

I read aloud the opening passage:

“From the depths of darkness, we summon the shadows. For those who have forgotten, the blood must flow, the offering must be made. In return, we seek what is lost.”

A cold wind swept through the library, snuffing out the lights one by one until they were plunged into darkness. My heart raced as he fought the rising panic.

“Read more!” Sven Arken urged, his voice barely a whisper now. “We must understand their demands.”

I turned the pages hastily, revealing horrifying illustrations of rituals, figures draped in black, faces obscured, performing unspeakable acts under a blood-red moon.

Suddenly, there was a loud bang at the door, followed by a low, guttural growl that sent shivers down my spine. The shadows outside seemed to shift and swirl, taking on shapes that were both human and monstrous.

“They’re trying to get in!” I shouted, slamming the book shut.

Sven Arken gripped my arm tightly. “We must prepare! If we cannot banish them, we must at least protect ourselves!”

“Protect ourselves how?” I asked, panic rising in his throat.

“The library holds more than just records,” he replied, his voice steady despite the chaos. “There are wards and sigils hidden among the texts. We can create a barrier.”

VII.

Together, we gathered materials from the library, candles, salt, and other items Sven Arken claimed would strengthen our defences. As we worked, the atmosphere grew heavier, and I could feel the darkness pressing in around them.

“Focus!” he commanded as I struggled to concentrate amid the mounting terror. “We must work quickly.”

With trembling hands, we began to arrange the items on the floor in a circle, chanting words from the tome that felt ancient and powerful. The growls outside grew louder, mingling with the sound of pounding fists against the door.

“Please, let this work!” I breathed, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on me.

Finally, they completed the circle, and Sven Arken stood at the centre, raising her hands as if to summon a protective force. “By the light of knowledge and the shadows of truth, I bind you, faceless ones! You shall not pass!”

As the last word left his lips, a blinding light erupted from the circle, illuminating the library and pushing back the encroaching darkness. The growls outside faded to distant whimpers, and I felt a sense of hope begin to bloom.

But just as quickly, the light flickered, and shadows crept back, this time carrying whispers that echoed in my mind. “Your offering… is needed…”

My heart sank as I realized the truth: they were not gone. The faceless ones were merely biding their time, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“No!” I cried out, but the light dimmed, leaving me in an oppressive darkness once more.

“Stay close!” Sven Arken shouted, his voice firm despite the terror. “We must remain vigilant. The night is far from over.”

As we stood together, the whispers grew louder, wrapping around us like tendrils of smoke. My breath quickened, and I felt the urge to flee, to escape the suffocating grasp of the library and the sinister secrets it held.

But as I looked at Mr Arken, his determined expression igniting a flicker of hope within me, I realized I couldn’t leave. Not now. I was in too deep, and Clastad needed me to uncover the truth. How ironic though!

I gripped the tome tightly, feeling my pulse against my chest. Whatever darkness lay ahead, I would face it. Together with Mr Arken, we would confront the faceless men, unravel the secrets of Clastad, and perhaps, just perhaps, put an end to the nightmare that had descended upon the village.

With a steely resolve, I turned back to the tome, ready to uncover the ancient secrets that might save them all, determined to fight against the shadows that loomed ever closer. The library’s secrets would be revealed, and I would learn the truth behind the faceless ones and their insatiable hunger for the village.

But as the whispers wrapped around me once more, a chilling thought struck me, what if the knowledge I sought was far worse than the darkness I just faced?

VIII.

I felt the weight of dread settle over me like a heavy cloak as he stood in the dimly lit library, the flickering candles casting eerie shadows that danced across the walls. The air was thick with tension, each breath he took a reminder of the chaos that had erupted outside, the screams and terror of the village still ringing in his ears. Mr Arken, his face pale, stood nearby, his expression a mix of fear and determination.

“What was that?” I asked, trying to shake off the unease. I glanced around, half-expecting the faceless men to reappear at any moment.

Mr Arken was busy checking the locks on the library doors, his movements swift and practiced. “I don’t know, but we need to prepare ourselves. This place… it has its own secrets, and we’ve unwittingly stirred something.”

“Those men… they were different. They felt… wrong.” I swallowed hard, my throat dry. “What do they want?”

“I can’t say for sure, but legends speak of beings that exist in the threshold between our world and the next ...entities that thrive on fear, confusion, and despair.” Mr Arken’s voice trembled slightly. “We may have unwittingly invited them in.”

I felt a chill crawl up my spine. “How do we get rid of them?”

“There are methods,” he replied, his eyes scanning the room. “But we must first understand what they want. We cannot banish them without knowing their purpose.”

“Shouldn’t we leave?” I suggested, glancing toward the door. The growls outside had quieted, but the silence felt more oppressive than before. “We need to warn the village...”

“The villagers are not safe, not with those things out there,” Mr Arken interrupted, his voice sharper now. “Trust me; we are safer in here, at least for the moment.”

“Safer? How can you say that? We’re surrounded by shadows and whispers, and we just saw three faceless men! How is that safer?”

“Because they don’t know we’re aware of them yet,” he replied, his expression turning grave. “We have the element of surprise. For now, we can use this knowledge to our advantage.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. I could feel the weight of the tome still clutched in my hands, a tangible reminder of the darkness we were facing. “So what do we do now?”

“We read,” Mr Arken said decisively. “We find out what those men are, what they want, and how to stop them.”

As she gathered the candles and placed them in a circle on the floor, I felt a flicker of hope. There was a sense of purpose now, a shared mission that he hadn’t felt since entering the village. I carefully set the tome down on the table, and we began flipping through its pages, searching for clues about the faceless men.

Hours passed as we scoured the ancient text, the library growing darker around us as the candles slowly burned down. My eyes ached from the strain, and I could feel fatigue tugging at my limbs, but I pushed through the weariness, driven by the need for answers.

“There!” Mr Arken exclaimed, pointing to an illustration. “Look at this passage.”

I leaned closer, squinting at the faded script. The illustration depicted figures shrouded in shadow, their features indistinct, with a red moon hanging ominously in the background. “The faceless ones… It says here that they are drawn to locations where despair festers, feeding on the fear of those who dwell there.”

“Despair?” I echoed, recalling the haunting faces of the villagers, the dread that had settled over Clastad. “That’s exactly what’s happening here.”

“Yes, but it gets worse,” Mr Arken said, his voice tight with anxiety. “It states that they are not just observers; they can control the emotions of those nearby, amplifying feelings of fear and hopelessness to create chaos.”

I felt a knot form in my stomach. “So they want to drive us mad.”

“Exactly,” he affirmed, flipping the page to reveal more illustrations. “If we don’t act quickly, they could plunge the entire village into madness.”

“What can we do?” I asked, desperation creeping into his tone.

IX.

Look, there are rituals mentioned here,” he said, his finger tracing the text. “We can perform a binding spell, but it requires a sacrifice...”

“A sacrifice?” I interrupted, my heart racing. “What kind of sacrifice?”

“Not a life,” he clarified hastily. “But we must give up something of great personal value. It’s a binding contract of sorts, a way to gain their attention and force them to reveal their purpose.”

“Personal value…” I murmured, contemplating what I had that mattered enough. The truth was, I always felt detached from my belongings, nothing felt like a part of me him anymore, nothing except for my grandmother’s locket, a cherished keepsake that had travelled with me since childhood. It held memories, warmth, love, but could I really part with it?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Mr Arken said softly, sensing my internal struggle. “But if we don’t do this, we risk losing everything. We need to confront them, to show them we’re not afraid.”

I nodded slowly, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on me. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, concern etched on his features. “Once you give it up, there’s no getting it back.”

“Yes,” I said firmly, steeling myself. “I need to know the truth behind all this. The village needs answers. Whatever it takes.”

As I reached for the locket around my neck, a sudden chill swept through the library, causing the candles to flicker violently. Shadows twisted in the corners of the room, and I could hear the low growls creeping back into the air, vibrating through the very walls.

“Quickly!” Mr Arken urged, his eyes wide with fear. “We don’t have much time!”

With a swift motion, I unclasped the locket, feeling a pang of loss but steeling my resolve. I held it tightly, breathing deeply. “I offer this as my sacrifice,” I declared, my voice echoing in the dimness.

As I placed the locket in the center of the candle circle, the air crackled with energy. The shadows coiled around the locket, pulsing with a dark life of their own. I felt the temperature drop further, the very essence of despair wrapping around me like a suffocating blanket.

“Now, we recite the binding spell,” Mr Arken instructed, his voice steady despite the chaos enveloping us. “It’s essential that we speak it with conviction.”

“Right,” I replied, my voice shaking. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. “Let’s do this.”

We began to chant, the words flowing from Mr Arken’s lips like a haunting melody, each syllable resonating in the darkened space. I joined in, the incantation rolling off my tongue as if it had been there all along, buried deep within me, waiting to be unleashed.

The shadows surged, twisting and writhing around the locket, and I felt a rush of energy course through me. The growling morphed into whispers, a cacophony of voices that filled the library, taunting and mocking.

“Your offering is not enough,” the voices echoed, a dissonant chorus of despair. “What is lost cannot be found.”

I gritted his teeth, pushing through the fear that threatened to overwhelm me. “We will not back down! We demand answers!” I shouted, my voice rising above the din.

At that moment, the faceless men emerged from the shadows, their presence suffocating. They stepped forward, their heads swivelling to face Mr Arken and me, the air growing heavier as they advanced. I felt an urge to flee, but I stood firm, defiance fuelling my resolve.

X.

“Why are you here?” I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady. “What do you want from us?”

One of the faceless figures stepped closer, the darkness around it shifting and writhing as if alive. Its body seemed to absorb the light, drawing the very essence of hope from the air. My heart raced, but I forced himself to remain calm.

“Fear is your greatest ally,” the figure whispered, its voice a chilling rasp that echoed in my mind. “And yet, it is your greatest weakness.”

I swallowed hard, glancing at Mr Arken, who nodded slightly, urging me to continue. “You thrive on despair. But we will not give in to fear.”

The faceless men paused, the atmosphere thick with tension. “You speak bravely, little man,” another voice echoed, deeper and more resonant. “But bravery is not enough. Your sacrifice is noted, but it will not appease us.”

“Then what will?” I shouted, frustration boiling over. “What do you want?”

“To know what lies within your heart,” the faceless men replied in unison, their voices blending into a dissonant harmony. “We seek the darkness hidden behind your bravado, the truth buried beneath your courage.”

I felt his resolve waver. “You want my fear? My guilt? My past?”

“Everything,” the first figure hissed, its head tilting in a grotesque manner. “You will give it to us willingly or through pain. Your choice.”

“Leave him alone!” Mr Arken shouted, stepping forward, his voice a thin veil of courage over the growing dread. “He’s done enough. He’s sacrificed what he held dear!”

The faceless men turned their attention to him, their featureless heads almost cocking as if in curiosity. “You are not the one we seek, librarian. Your time will come, but now we focus on the one who carries the weight of his past.”

I felt the shadows encroaching on my mind, swirling around me like tendrils, threatening to drag me down into the depths of despair. The memories rushed back, vivid and painful, the faces of those I had lost, the regrets that haunted me, the moments I had chosen wrong.

“No!” I cried out, forcing the darkness back. “I won’t let you in! I refuse to be your puppet!”

The faceless men paused, the shadows quivering in response to my defiance. “So be it,” they intoned, their voices a low rumble that shook the very foundation of the library. “You may resist for now, but remember this: darkness is patient. It will always find a way.”

With that, the faceless figures began to dissolve into the shadows, their forms flickering like candle flames in the wind. I felt a rush of cold air as they vanished, leaving behind an oppressive silence that threatened to suffocate me.

Breathing heavily, I looked to Mr Arken, who had fallen to his knees, his face pale and drawn. “What… what just happened?” I gasped, my heart still racing.

“We faced them, but we did not win,” he murmured, his eyes glazed over. “They have planted their seeds of despair within you. We must act quickly before they take root.”

“What do we do now?”

“We must gather more information, strengthen our resolve. We can’t let them win.” Mr Arken slowly rose to his feet, determination rekindling in his eyes. “We will fight back.”

“Fight back?” I echoed, disbelief colouring my tone. “How? They know our fears; they know us better than we know ourselves!”

“Then we must become stronger,” he replied, his voice resolute. “We can turn their power against them. We’ll gather allies, resources ...anything we can find.”

I nodded slowly. “All right. Let’s find a way to turn the tide.”

Together, we began to sift through the ancient texts, searching for more knowledge, more tools to confront the faceless intruders. The library was silent, but I could still feel the lingering presence of the shadows, the whispers echoing in my mind.

XI.

I staggered back to my hotel room, the weight of the evening’s events pressing heavily on my shoulders. Each step felt laborious as though the very air was thick with dread. The encounter with the faceless men replayed in my mind, their featureless forms and haunting voices echoing through my thoughts like a malevolent chant. As I entered the room, the oppressive silence greeted me, wrapping around me like a shroud. I flipped the light switch, but the dim bulb flickered, adding to the unsettling ambiance.

Collapsing onto the edge of the bed, I buried my face in my hands, trying to dispel the remnants of their taunts. “Darkness is patient,” their voices had rumbled. I could feel the shadows they had cast over my mind, probing at my insecurities and fears, digging into the deepest corners of my soul. Every regret I had ever buried began to resurface, faces of lost friends, decisions that had led to sorrow and pain.

Sleep tugged at me, but it was a sleep fraught with terror. As soon as I closed my eyes, visions erupted in my mind. I was back in the parking lot of the supermarket, surrounded by the corpses of the villagers, their lifeless eyes staring up at me in accusation. The faceless men stood amongst them, their shadows stretching out like fingers, beckoning me to join them. I tried to scream, but no sound emerged. The ground beneath me trembled, splitting apart, revealing a chasm of darkness that threatened to swallow me whole.

I jolted awake, drenched in sweat, heart racing. The room was still, the only sound my ragged breathing. I glanced at the clock, it was 3:03 AM. The nightmare lingered, the chilling images refusing to fade, and I knew I needed to act. Ignoring the heaviness in my limbs, I threw off the sheets and grabbed my jacket. The village still held secrets, and I could not afford to let fear chain me in this room.

As I stepped outside, the cool night air greeted me, sharp and invigorating. I made his way through the quiet streets of Clastad, the moon casting an eerie glow on the cobblestone paths. My destination was the local tavern, a place where the villagers gathered, a hub of gossip and stories and with all the police around I was sure it would be still open. Maybe there, I could uncover more about the sinister happenings that had gripped the town.

The tavern, a modest wooden building with a flickering neon sign that read “The Old Crow,” was just ahead. As I pushed open the heavy door, the musty scent of old wood and stale beer washed over me. The room was dimly lit, filled with the murmur of hushed conversations and the clinking of glasses. A few weary patrons, some policemen in uniform looking very tired, glanced his way but quickly returned to their drinks, their expressions wary.

I approached the bar, where a burly man with a scraggly beard stood polishing a glass. “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked, his tone flat.

“Just a coffee, please,” I replied, trying to project an air of normalcy despite the knot of tension tightening in his stomach. As the bartender poured, I scanned the room, looking for anyone who seemed open to conversation.

After a few moments, I noticed an older woman sitting alone at a corner table, her gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. She had the look of someone who had seen much in her years—a weathered face etched with lines of experience. I decided to approach her.

“Excuse me,” I said, taking a seat across from her. “Mind if I join you?”

XII.

The woman studied me for a moment before nodding. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“No, I’m a ...reporter,” I explained. “I’m investigating the recent events in the village ...the deaths in the parking lot.”

Her eyes flickered with a mixture of fear and recognition. “Ah, the dead. It’s a dark business we’re in now, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” I leaned in, sensing a story simmering beneath the surface.

“Clastad has always had shadows,” she said, her voice low. “For as long as I can remember, there have been whispers about ...them, a group that worshipped something dark, something that was never meant to be spoken of.”

“Is this “them” connected to the faceless men?” I pressed, feeling a sense of urgency building within me.

“Do you know?” I nodded.

She looked at me her expression grave. “They were said to have called forth beings from the shadows, figures that would come to claim what was owed. It was a warning to us all. We thought the stories were just that, tales to frighten children. But now…” Her voice trailed off as she glanced around the tavern, ensuring no one was listening.

“What happened to them?” I asked, heart pounding with intrigue.

“Those who were part of the cult disappeared one by one, leaving only traces behind. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, afraid to acknowledge what had transpired. Some say the faceless men are the remnants of that darkness, shadows of their past. You know, “them” past”

“What could they want?” I wondered aloud.

“They take what they’re owed,” she replied cryptically. “But the price is steep. They feed on despair, on regret. Those who invoke them often pay with their sanity.”

I felt a chill creep down my spine. “So, what do I do? How do I stop them?”

The woman’s gaze softened, and she leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. “You must confront the past. Whatever ties you have to this place, you must sever them. Gather the stories of those who have suffered, those who have lost. They hold the key to what you seek.”

Before I could respond, the door to the tavern swung open, and a gust of cold air swept through the room. In walked a group of villagers, their faces drawn and anxious. They scanned the room until their eyes landed on me, and a palpable tension filled the air.

“Who’s this?” one of them sneered, a tall man with a heavy brow. “Another nosy outsider?”

I felt their hostility wash over him. “I’m just trying to understand what’s happening here,” I said, trying to sound non-confrontational.

“Understanding won’t save you,” another villager hissed, a woman with wild hair and a look of desperation. “You should leave while you still can.”

“What are you afraid of?” I challenged, the fire in my belly igniting. “Are you afraid of the truth?”

“Truth?” the tall man laughed harshly. “You don’t know the half of it! The shadows don’t want truth; they want despair. And they’ll take it from you in ways you can’t even imagine.”

The old woman at the table remained quiet, her eyes darting between me and the intruders, her hands trembling slightly. I stood my ground, determination flooding my veins. “I’m not leaving until I find out what happened to the villagers. I won’t let fear silence me!”

The villagers exchanged glances, and for a moment, it seemed like the air in the tavern thickened with an unspoken understanding. But then, the tall man stepped forward, looming over me, his presence imposing. “You think you’re a hero? You think you can save them? The faceless men will come for you too. You’ll join the dead before dawn.”

With that, he turned on his heel, the others following suit, leaving me alone with the old woman once more. She regarded me with a mixture of sympathy and resignation. “You must be careful, young man. The darkness doesn’t play fair.”

XIII.

The night air felt charged as I stepped outside the tavern, the lingering dread of the villagers’ warnings echoing in my mind. I needed to return to the library and each step toward the building I had my first encounter with the faceless men was a dive into the darkness, a chilling embrace that made me shiver.

When I arrived back to the library, I found it still illuminated, the warm glow spilling from the windows like a beacon. I hesitated for a moment, the sense of foreboding wrapping tighter around me, but he pushed through the door, determined to confront whatever waited inside.

The library was eerily quiet, the only sound the soft rustle of pages being turned. Mr Arken was seated at his desk, his eyes widening slightly as I approached. “Back so soon?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his voice, though her eyes betrayed concern.

“I need to know about them,” I said. “The villagers say there is a link between “them” and the faceless men.”

His expression shifted, growing grave. “You shouldn’t dig too deep, Eliot. Some truths are better left buried.”

“I can’t leave it alone!” I insisted. “People are dead, and if there’s a way to stop this, I have to try!”

Mr Arken sighed, his shoulders sagging. “Very well. Follow me.” He stood and led me through the stacks, the dim light casting long shadows across the floor. We entered a small room at the back of the library, filled with dusty tomes and old manuscripts.

“Here,” he said, pulling a heavy volume from the shelf and placing it on the table. “This chronicles the history of Clastad, including the ...”them”. But be careful what you read. The words hold power.”

I opened the book, my heart pounding with anticipation. The pages were filled with accounts of strange rituals and gatherings in the woods surrounding the village, sacrifices made under the cloak of night to appease dark entities. I read about the faceless men, descriptions that matched the figures Mr Arken and I had encountered, along with warnings of their malevolent intent.

“Every generation,” Mr Arken said softly, “the “them” rises again, seeking to reclaim what was lost. They thrive on fear and chaos. You must stop them before they gain strength.”

I flipped through the pages frantically, my mind racing. “Is there a way to break the curse? To stop them?”

He hesitated, his gaze drifting to the shadows creeping in from the corners of the room. “You must confront them. You’ll need to go to the site of their last ritual, a grove in the woods. The truth lies there.”

“Then that’s where I’ll go.”

“Remember, ” He warned, his voice barely above a whisper. “They can sense your fears. They will try to turn you against yourself. Stay strong.”

As I left the library, the night enveloped me once more. The weight of the revelations pressed down on me, but my resolve only hardened. I would confront the faceless men. I would uncover the truth behind the deaths in Clastad.

Little did I know, the faceless men were already watching, their shadowy forms lurking just beyond the trees, waiting for the moment to strike.

XIV.

The morning sun barely broke through the thick cloud cover as I stepped into the library once again. Pushing open the heavy wooden door to the archives, i was greeted by the dim light filtering through the small windows, illuminating dust motes swirling in the air. Shelves lined with old tomes towered above him, creating an almost claustrophobic space filled with secrets waiting to be uncovered. I moved with purpose, scanning the spines of the books until he found what he was looking for: a worn leather volume embossed with a faded symbol that resembled an eye surrounded by thorns.

As I pulled the book from the shelf, I felt a tremor run through me, an inexplicable sense of dread. The title read The Cult of Shadows: A Chronicle of Dark Rituals and Ancient Beliefs. It was thicker than the others, its pages yellowed with age, the ink faded but still legible. I set it down on the table and opened it, my heart racing in anticipation.

The pages detailed the cult's origins, tracing its roots back to the founding of Clastad. It spoke of a time when the village had prospered, a golden age that had ended abruptly with a series of devastating events, crop failures, strange illnesses, and an unsettling number of disappearances. The villagers, desperate to regain their fortune, had turned to dark practices, invoking ancient entities in a bid to restore their blessings.

My breath caught as I read about the “Feast of Shadows,” an annual event that marked the height of the cult’s power. It was said to occur on the night of the new moon, a time when the veil between worlds was thinnest. The cultists would gather in the woods, adorned in dark robes, to perform rituals that summoned faceless entities, beings that claimed to grant prosperity in exchange for souls.

“Souls,” the gravity of the word coming out of my mouth suddenly hanged heavy in the air. I could feel the pieces of the puzzle beginning to fit together. The recent deaths in the village, the whispers of the faceless men, and now this. The cult hadn’t just faded into myth; they had evolved, feeding off the despair of Clastad as they had done centuries ago.

The next few pages contained chilling accounts of the last known Feast of Shadows, held decades before. According to the text, the event had been interrupted by a local militia seeking to rid the village of its dark practices. In the chaos that ensued, many cult members were captured, and the remaining were said to have vanished into the woods, leaving behind nothing but whispers and fear.

I felt a knot tighten in his stomach. What if the cult had returned? What if the faceless men were remnants of that dark legacy, still seeking souls in exchange for the prosperity of their followers? I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning for anything that could help me piece together the current situation.

Then I found it. A passage described a prophecy foretold by an ancient seer, a warning of a time when the village would be plunged into darkness once more, and a stranger would arrive to face the shadows. My pulse quickened. It was a chilling reflection of my own arrival. Was I destined to confront this darkness? Was I the stranger the prophecy spoke of?

A shiver ran down my spine as I started considering the implications. I needed to act quickly. The death toll was rising, and if I couldn’t find a way to stop whatever was happening, I could become the next victim. I needed to gather information, find the location of the next Feast of Shadows, and put an end to it before it was too late.

Suddenly, I felt it again, the sensation of being watched. I checked over my shoulder, half-expecting to see the faceless men lurking in the shadows of the library. But there was nothing. The room was silent, the only sound the rustling of pages as I turned back to the book, desperately searching for clues.

XV.

A few moments later, a sound broke the stillness. The door creaked open, and I looked up to see Mr Arken standing in the doorway, his expression a mixture of concern and curiosity.

“You’re digging deep, aren’t you?” He said softly, stepping into the room.

I nodded, unable to hide the urgency in his voice. “I need to know about the next Feast of Shadows. When is it? Where do they hold it?”

His eyes widened, and he shook his head slowly. “You don’t understand what you’re asking. The cult is not something to be trifled with. They have eyes everywhere.”

“I can’t just stand by while more people die,” I insisted. “This is bigger than me. I have to confront it, to stop it.”

Mr Arken looked away, his expression torn. “The next Feast is near. It occurs on the night of the new moon, which is just a few days away. They gather in the grove beyond the old mill, deep in the woods.”

“Then I need to go there, I need to find a way to put an end to this.”

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded, his voice trembling. “You must not go alone. The shadows will consume you. You need help, allies who know the forest and its secrets.”

“Who? The villagers won’t even speak to me. They’re too afraid!”

“I know a few who still remember,” he said, his tone softening. “They may be willing to help you if you approach them carefully. But you must be cautious. Fear runs deep in Clastad, and some would rather cling to it than face the truth.”

“Then let’s gather them. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Meet me at the tavern tonight,” he instructed, glancing nervously at the door. “I’ll bring whoever I can. But remember, trust is scarce in this place.”

As he turned to leave my thoughts raced. I had to act quickly, and with allies by my side, I might stand a chance against the darkness. I spent the rest of the day preparing, gathering supplies and ensuring I had everything I needed for the confrontation that lay ahead.

When night fell, I made my way back to the Old Crow, a sense of trepidation mixing with determination. The tavern was bustling, filled with the sounds of conversation and glasses with an underlying tension in the air, a feeling that the villagers were on edge.

I spotted Mr Arken seated at a table in the corner, his hands wrapped around a steaming cup. As I approached, I noticed two others sitting with him, a burly man with a thick beard and a woman with long hair, tied back in a loose braid. Their expressions were wary, but there was a shared understanding in their eyes as they turned to me.

“These are my friends, Harland and Elara,” Mr Arken introduced. “They’re willing to help.”

Harland nodded, his brow furrowed. “We’ve heard what’s been happening in the village. The deaths… they’re not normal. It’s ...them.”

Elara leaned forward, her voice low. “We’re here because we believe you might be our last chance. They returned, and if they’re not stopped, Clastad will face a reckoning.”

“Then we need a plan,” I said, feeling a surge of determination. “Mr Arken told me where the Feast will take place. We have to get there before they start the ritual.”

“Going into the woods will be dangerous,” Harland warned. “The cultists know the terrain better than we do. They could ambush us.”

“We’ll go at night when they least expect it,” I countered. “We have to catch them off guard. If we can disrupt the ritual, we might be able to save those they intend to sacrifice.”

There was silence for a few moments but finally, Elara spoke up, her voice steady. “We’ll do it. But we have to prepare ourselves for what we might encounter. The faceless men are not mere legends. They’re real, and they will try to stop us.”

“Then we face them together,” I declared, feeling a sense of camaraderie blossom amongst them. “Whatever happens, we do this as one.”

The evening wore on as we strategized, sharing ideas and experiences. We would meet again at dusk before the new moon to set out for the grove, ready to confront the darkness that had taken hold of Clastad.

When I returned to my hotel room that night, I felt a mix of fear and anticipation. As I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, a storm that would shake the very foundations of Clastad. The chilling thought that I might not survive the night lingered in my mind, but I pushed it aside. The darkness would not claim me without a fight.

XVI.

As dusk descended on Clastad, the shadows stretched long and deep, cloaking the forest in an unsettling gloom. I met Mr. Arken, Harland, and Elara at the edge of the woods, each of us carrying lanterns and whatever we could use to protect ourselves—a silver knife from Mr. Arken’s collection, a blessed flask of salt water that Elara swore would keep spirits at bay, and Harland's iron-cast cudgel. We exchanged determined glances, steeling ourselves for what lay ahead.

The forest was silent, as if holding its breath, and every step forward felt heavier than the last. The trees loomed overhead, twisting together to form a canopy that shut out the remaining light, immersing us in a chilling darkness. Our breaths came in visible puffs, hanging in the air like spectres themselves. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched, that every shadow held eyes, waiting, lurking.

After what felt like an eternity, we reached the grove near the old mill. The clearing was bathed in an unnatural, sickly green glow, emanating from candles arranged in a circle around a stone altar. Figures in dark robes stood silent and unmoving around the stone, their hoods pulled low, obscuring their faces. My heart pounded as I realized these were the faceless men of Clastad’s old legends, and their mere presence seemed to leech the warmth from my bones.

Mr. Arken motioned for us to remain hidden. We crouched among the twisted roots of a gnarled tree, watching as the robed figures began chanting in a low, resonant hum. Their voices mingled with the rustling of leaves and the distant call of a night bird, creating an eerie melody that seemed to echo from deep within the earth.

Suddenly, one of the figures stepped forward, carrying a small bundle wrapped in black cloth. I recognized it as the young girl who had gone missing days earlier. My stomach turned as I realized we were witnessing a ritual sacrifice. We had to act quickly, but the faceless men’s numbers were far greater than we’d expected.

“We can’t wait any longer,” I whispered to the others, adrenaline surging through my veins. “If we don’t stop them now, she’ll die.”

Harland clenched his cudgel. “Then let’s go. We’ll have to make it quick.”

Before I could second-guess myself, we charged into the clearing. Harland’s shout cut through the night as he swung his cudgel, scattering the faceless men like startled crows. Mr. Arken followed, throwing salt water from his flask, and the liquid sizzled as it touched the robed figures, causing them to recoil with pained, inhuman wails. Elara and I moved toward the altar, desperate to save the girl.

But then, one of the figures caught me by the arm, its grip ice-cold, and pulled me close enough that I could see beneath the hood, an empty void stared back at me, hollow and infinite. My mind threatened to spiral into madness as I gazed into the faceless man’s darkness. Just as my knees began to buckle, Elara threw salt over my shoulder, breaking its hold and snapping me back to reality.

“Go!” she screamed, pushing me toward the altar.

I stumbled forward and reached the young girl, quickly unwrapping her from the cloth as she stirred, weak but alive. She whimpered, and I whispered reassurances to her, promising she’d be safe. I scooped her up, but as I turned, I saw Elara, her face ashen, locked in a struggle with another faceless man. She cried out as his icy hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her into the shadows.

“Run!” Lara’s voice echoed, filled with terror and finality. But I couldn’t leave her.

Mr. Arken appeared beside me, his face grim. “There’s nothing we can do for her now,” he said, though his voice cracked. “We have to get the girl out of here before it’s too late.”

Reluctantly, I followed him, Harland bringing up the rear as we made our way back toward the forest’s edge. Behind us, the chanting grew louder, and a thick, unnatural fog rolled in, twisting through the trees and disorienting us. The faceless men were relentless, moving silently through the mist, shadows among shadows.

We stumbled through the forest, but our pace slowed as the fog thickened. Suddenly, one of the faceless men lunged at Harland, dragging him into the mist with a blood-curdling scream. We heard the sickening sound of a struggle, then silence.

Mr. Arken and I pushed forward, desperation fuelling us, but just as we thought we might escape, a figure blocked our path. It was the cult’s leader, his face shrouded in shadow, but his voice was cold and clear.

“You cannot stop what has been set in motion,” he intoned, raising his hand. “The Feast of Shadows demands a sacrifice, and you have taken what belongs to us.”

Mr. Arken stepped forward, defiant even as his hand shook. “We won’t let you harm her. This ends now.”

The leader laughed, a hollow, soulless sound. “Very well, if you wish to take her place.”

With a flick of his wrist, the fog coiled around Mr. Arken, pulling him back into the shadows. I tried to reach him, but the fog was like a living thing, holding me back, forcing me to watch as he disappeared, his final scream lingering in the night air.

Heart pounding, I turned and ran, clutching the girl tightly. My legs ached, my lungs burned, but I didn’t stop until I broke free of the forest and stumbled into the clearing near the village. Behind me, the mist hovered at the forest's edge, as if daring me to return.

The girl clung to me, trembling, as we made our way back to the village. I told her we were safe now, though I wasn't sure if I believed it myself. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadows of Clastad weren’t done with me yet.

The villagers looked on with wary eyes as I returned, the girl in my arms, but no one dared speak. They seemed to know, somehow, what had happened in the forest, and their expressions were a mix of fear and resignation. In their eyes, I saw not relief but dread, as if the darkness that had taken root in Clastad was beyond anything we could understand or fight.

That night, as I lay in my bed, I realized I had lost more than just friends in that forest. The shadows had taken a piece of my soul, a part of me that would remain forever in the fog-laden woods of Clastad, a part that could never return.

The Feast of Shadows was over, but its curse would linger, haunting me and this village, forever.

THE END