Photo by Brandon
Griggs on Unsplash
SACRIFICE
“There it is.” Jimmy
pointed toward the stone building—a massive, weathered mausoleum with barred
windows and a heavy wooden door crowned by a cross. Angels crouched at the
steps, but it was the gargoyles glaring down from the roof that made me shiver.
We stopped several
yards away.
“Let’s set up here.”
Jimmy adjusted his tripod and camera. He took the wand from me and handed me a
humming device, its lights blinking like a pulse.
“Turn in a slow
circle,” he said. “Stop when you’re facing the mausoleum. This will pick up any
activity.”
“This is ghost
hunting?” I tried to laugh, but the sound caught in my throat.
“Nothing scary. Almost
boring.” He flashed me his killer smile.
I obeyed. The device
thrummed louder, and the vibration climbed up my arm. Then I saw
them—shapes—dozens of them. Pale faces emerged from the dark, circling,
watching us, laughing until they realized I could see them.
“Jimmy,” I whispered,
“they’re coming toward us.”
“Who?”
“Them.” My finger
trembled as I pointed. He followed my gaze but saw nothing.
“You can see ghosts?”
he asked, snapping photos frantically, his light flashing across empty air.
“They’re closing
in—except the mausoleum. It’s clear.”
Jimmy grabbed his
equipment and bolted for the crypt. “Come on!”
He shoved the door
open easily—too easily. It swung wide without a groan, as though it had been
used recently. We stumbled inside. I was crying and terrified, but he wrapped
me in his arms, kissed me, and calmed me.
“I won’t let anything
happen to you,” he murmured.
The room smelled
faintly of roses, wax, and dust overlaying something older—death. Yet it was
spotless, gleaming marble, polished floors, fresh roses in vases. An angel
statue loomed, and in the center, a stone sarcophagus with a robed effigy
carved atop it. I saw no ghosts and felt a fleeting relief.
Until a voice came
from the shadows.
“I wouldn’t recommend
leaving.”
I nearly screamed.
Jimmy spun, putting himself between me and the sound.
A man stepped into
view. Red eyes, crooked grin, his face twisted into something that reminded me
of a jack-o’-lantern. “I’m the caretaker. Dug three graves today. I spend
Halloween nights here, keeping pranksters away. But you? You saw them.”
I nodded.
“They don’t like being
seen,” he said, lighting a cigarette. Smoke curled around his grin. “The last
ones who did? Missing.”
Jimmy drew me deeper
into the room. The caretaker handed us a blanket. “Stay till daylight. They
won’t enter here. This is holy ground.”
I wanted to run, but
Jimmy pressed close, soothing me, offering wine. I pretended to sip, dumping
mine in a vase when he wasn’t looking. Soon, exhaustion dragged me under.
When I woke, hushed
voices drifted through the dark: Jimmy and the caretaker.
“She’s out,” Jimmy
said. “Should be till midnight.”
“You’re sure she’s a
virgin?” the caretaker asked.
“Positive. It was hard
to keep my distance. She’s special.”
Ice filled my veins.
“Good,” the caretaker
said. “We’ll prepare the room. Then we’ll dress her for the sacrifice.”
Sacrifice.
I didn’t wait. I
forced the heavy door—lighter than air this time—and ran.
© Yolanda Renée 2025
586 Words
Photo by Allison Saeng on Unsplash
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