Chapter 12: Blood in the Dirt

At dawn, the men stumbled back, buckling their pants. The wild women lay motionless, pale as ghosts.

My father remembered the ritual, slapped me: "The priest told you to mark the stone—what are you waiting for? Mess this up and I’ll kill you!"

He went to poke at the wild women, but they vanished like mist. The men panicked, searching everywhere, but found nothing—not even a hair.

"You breathe a word of this, and we’ll skin you alive!" my father hissed. They made a pact to keep quiet.

As the sun rose, I heard laughter from the grave, soft as wind chimes. The red marks on the stone pulsed like veins, and blood trickled from the men behind me, crawling into the letters.

I blinked. When I looked again, it was gone.

I sniffled, hugging the marker. I had to be seeing things—how could a stone bleed?