The candlelight in the cramped cottage seemed to writhe, mirroring the unease that coiled in Macellion's gut. He was never comfortable visiting his aunt, but tonight, the air felt especially thick, heavy with a silent dread that clung to the back of his throat.
His aunt, a woman with eyes that always seemed to be assessing, calculating, greeted him with a cloying sweetness that did little to soothe his nerves. "Macellion, dear boy! You're here at last. I've been so looking forward to this."
He offered a stiff nod, the words catching in his throat. Her embrace was always too tight, her fingers lingering a moment too long on his skin. He could smell the sharp tang of herbs clinging to her clothes, a constant reminder of her... practices.
"Come, come," she urged, her voice a silken thread that tightened around him. "You must be famished. I've prepared a special meal for you."
He allowed himself to be led to the table, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered space. Dried plants hung from the rafters, casting grotesque shadows that danced in the flickering light. Jars filled lined in the shelves. The air hummed with a subtle energy that made his skin crawl.
As he ate, his aunt watched him with an intensity that bordered on obsession. Her eyes, usually sharp and calculating, held a strange, almost feverish gleam. "You're growing into such a beautiful young man, Macellion," she murmured, her voice a low caress. "Just like your mother."
He flinched, the mention of his mother always a raw nerve. She had been whispered about, feared, ostracized for her supposed witchcraft. He had always felt the weight of that legacy, the suspicion and unease that followed him like a shadow.
"She was a gifted woman," his aunt continued, her voice taking on a reverent tone. "A true daughter of the earth. You have her blood in your veins, Macellion. You have her... gifts."
He swallowed hard, the food turning to lead in his stomach. He knew what she meant.
Later, as the moon climbed high in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the village, his aunt led him to the small, stifling room where he always slept.
"Rest well, dear boy," she said, her voice a husky whisper. "I'll be sure to... check on you later."
He waited until the sound of her footsteps faded into the silence before collapsing onto the bed, his body rigid with tension. He hated this room, hated this house, hated the way his aunt looked at him, touched him, treated him like some... thing.
He knew she thought he was a witch, just like his mother. She saw the strange things he could do, the way he could feel the energy of the earth, the whispers he heard in the wind. She didn't understand that it wasn't witchcraft, not really. It was something else, something darker, something far more dangerous.
He heard the soft creak of the door and his blood ran cold. He closed his eyes, feigning sleep, his senses on high alert.
He felt her presence beside him, the air growing thick with the scent of herbs and something else, something musky and unsettling. He could feel her gaze on him, probing, invasive.
"Macellion," she whispered, her voice a low, breathy caress. "Are you awake, my little boy?"
He didn't respond, his body coiled tight, ready to spring.
She reached out and gently stroked his cheek, her touch sending a shiver of revulsion through him. "I know you're awake," she murmured. "Don't play coy with me."
He opened his eyes, his gaze burning into hers. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Her smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed a little too sharp, a little too long. "You know what I want, Macellion," she said, her voice dripping with a possessive hunger.
"You always know." her hands sliding down his legs, gripping it.
He stared at her, his rage simmering beneath the surface. He was tired of her touch, her whispers, her twisted affection.
"I'm not a witch," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed fury. "I'm not like my mother."
Her smile faltered, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "Don't be ridiculous," she said, her voice losing its silken edge. "You have the gift. I've seen it. I've felt it."
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said, his voice growing louder, more forceful. "You don't know what I am."
Her eyes narrowed, her gaze becoming sharp and calculating once more. "Oh, but I do," she said, her voice laced with a hint of fear. "I know you have power. And I know how to control it."
She reached out and grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. "You belong to me, Macellion," she hissed, her voice a venomous whisper. "You always have."
"Why don't we continue? After I learned that witches can make their partner who are active much younger, I just can't get enough of you my baby." her thumb reaching Macellion's lips and slightly intruded it.
A slow smile spread across Macellion's face, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. It was a smile that seemed to twist his features, making him look almost inhuman. "Did you really think you could control me, Auntie?" he asked, his voice a low, chilling purr. "Did you think I was just some frightened little boy you could manipulate?"
The candlelight flickered, casting grotesque shadows that danced across the walls. The shadows seemed to deepen, to writhe and twist, as if they were alive. A cold draft swept through the room, raising goosebumps on his skin.
"You don't know what you're dealing with," she whispered, her voice shaking with fear. "You have no idea what you're unleashing."
"Oh, I think I do," Macellion said, his smile widening, becoming more unsettling. "I think I know exactly what I'm unleashing."
He tilted his head, his eyes gleaming with an unholy light. He said, his voice a low, sibilant hiss. "I am something far more... interesting."
The air grew heavy, oppressive. The scent of herbs was replaced by something else, something acrid and sulfurous, something that made her gag. The shadows seemed to press in on her, to suffocate her, to whisper dark promises in her ear.
"What are you?" she gasped, her voice barely audible.
Macellion stepped closer, his smile never wavering. "I am Macellion" he whispered, his voice a chilling caress of thousands voices from all ages and gender. "I am who you called yours."
He reached out and gently touched her face, his fingers cold and clammy. "And now," he said, with a triumphant growl, "we'll be together."
Tracing her aunt's features, "Forever."
He unleashed the full force of his power, the room erupting in a cacophony of screams and shadows. The candlelight flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness.
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The aunt's ragged breath was the only sound, each inhale a struggle, each exhale a heavy, wet weight in the suffocating air. A sheen of sweat slicked her forehead, each drop a tiny testament to the oppressive dread that filled the room. The silence was a living thing, more chilling than any scream, a suffocating blanket woven from the absence of sound.
Then, even that small, desperate comfort vanished. Her screams clawed at her throat, silent, trapped. Her lungs burned, panic seizing her, breath hitching and failing, yet the air remained undisturbed. She flailed, desperate to break the spell, to shatter the oppressive quiet, but her hands met only emptiness. No crash, no thud, no echo-only the maddening, absolute silence. It was as if she had been erased, her existence muted.
A cold, viscous touch landed on her head, spreading like a living thing. It oozed down her skin, coating her arms and legs in a slick, unwelcome embrace. Blindly, she reached up, her fingers sinking into the substance. What fell into her palm was not the clear slime she expected, but a mass of dark, congealed red-a blood clot, thick and impossibly heavy, pulsing with a faint, sickening warmth.
Driven by a primal terror, she snapped her head upward. Above her, filling the space where a ceiling should be, was a maw. Not a face, not a creature, but a nightmarish orifice, a cavernous mouth ringed with rows upon rows of teeth. Thousands of teeth, each one unique, each one stained with a substance she didn't dare identify. Human faces, contorted in silent screams of their own, writhed and shifted along what might have been lips. A grotesque, fleshy tongue, thick and slick with saliva, lolled from the abyss, dripping a viscous fluid that sizzled faintly as it landed on the unseen floor.
She screamed again, a silent, desperate plea swallowed by the void. The monstrous mouth descended, engulfing her in a wave of fetid breath and the cloying stench of decay. Teeth like tombstones scraped against her skin, and the last thing she felt was the wet, agonizing pull as she was drawn into the darkness, consumed by the unsettling horror of the silent maw.
...
The morning sun, which usually brought a sense of peace to the unnamed village, instead cast a harsh light on a scene of utter chaos. The discovery of the Chief's wife's body had sent shockwaves through the community, shattering the tranquility they had always known.
Villagers huddled together in hushed whispers, their faces etched with fear and disbelief. The Chief's wife, a woman of power and influence, was dead. And the circumstances surrounding her demise were shrouded in mystery and dread.
The Chief, a man known for his strength and wisdom, stood at the center of the chaos, his face a mask of grief and confusion. He couldn't comprehend what had happened. His beloved wife, gone? It was impossible.
But the evidence was undeniable. Her body lay in the cottage, the scene a gruesome tableau of violence and despair. And the whispers pointed to one name, Macellion.
The Chief refused to believe it. Macellion, the boy he had taken care of from time to time, feeling pity for the orphaned child of a woman whispered to be a witch? It couldn't be true. Macellion was a quiet, withdrawn child, but he was not a murderer.
He pushed his way through the crowd, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to see for himself. He had to know the truth.
The sight that greeted him in the cottage was enough to shatter even his hardened resolve. The Chief's wife's body lay sprawled on the floor, of what seems to be chewed by something and some flesh are missing. The air was thick with the stench of death and something else, something acrid and unsettling that made his stomach churn.
And then he saw it: a symbol etched into the floor near her body, a symbol he recognized from ancient texts, a symbol of dark magic and forbidden power.
His blood ran cold. Could it be true? Could Macellion be involved in something so... sinister?
He turned to the villagers, his voice trembling with a mixture of grief and disbelief. "This... this is a mistake," he stammered. "Macellion would never do something like this."
But the villagers were not convinced. They had always been wary of Macellion, of his quiet nature and his strange abilities. They had whispered about his mother, about the rumors of witchcraft and dark dealings. And now, with the Chief's wife's death, their fears had been confirmed.
"He's a monster, Chief," one of the villagers cried out. "He's just like his mother."
"We have to stop him," another added. "Before he hurts anyone else."
The Chief's heart sank. He knew he couldn't ignore the evidence, couldn't deny the truth any longer. Macellion was involved in the his wife's death. And he had to be held accountable.
But as he looked at the faces of the villagers, their eyes filled with fear and hatred, he realized that he couldn't let them get to Macellion. They would tear him apart, judge him without mercy.
He had to talk to Macellion, had to understand what had happened. He had to find a way to save him.
He ordered the villagers to stay put and set out to find Macellion, his heart heavy with dread. He found him at the edge of the forest, his back turned to the village, his gaze fixed on the horizon.
"Macellion," the Chief said, his voice barely a whisper.
Macellion turned, his face expressionless. "Chief," he said, his voice cold and distant far from the bubbly tone of an innocent child.
The Chief's heart ached. This wasn't the Macellion he knew, the boy he had occasionally cared for out of pity. This was someone else, someone dark and dangerous.
"What happened, Macellion?" he asked, his voice trembling. "What happened to my wife?"
Macellion's eyes flickered with a hint of something - regret, perhaps, or maybe just indifference. "She got what she deserved," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.
The Chief's world shattered. It was true. Macellion had killed the Chief's wife. But why?
"Why, Macellion?" he pleaded. "Why did you do it?"
Macellion didn't answer, his gaze hardening.
The Chief's mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. And then, fragments of memories surfaced, little hints he had dismissed or ignored at the time. Macellion's subtle flinches when his wife touched him, the way he always seemed to avoid her gaze. He remembered her possessiveness, the way she would always keep Macellion close, as if he were a prized possession. He recalled the subtle barbs she would direct at him, the veiled threats that hinted at a deeper, darker game.
Could it be? Could the Chief's wife have pushed Macellion too far? Could she have driven him to this?
He looked at Macellion, his eyes searching for any sign of remorse, any hint of humanity. But there was nothing there, just a cold, empty void.
"What did she do to you, Macellion?" he asked, his voice filled with anguish. "What did she do to make you do this?"
Macellion remained silent for a long moment, his face a mask of indifference. And then, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper. "She threatened to reveal my true nature, Chief. She knew what I was. And she tried it with me."
The Chief's blood ran cold. He didn't understand what Macellion meant at first, but he slowly realized what was it.
His heart broke.
He looked at Macellion, he had failed her. He wasn't able to protect him, from HIS WIFE. The thought of his own wife violating the young child while he was kept in the shadow not having a clue.
Every time they meet, the child always smiles at him, embrace him, this was the final straw. The thought of it disgust him to the core.
'How many times did he try to show me the signs?'
'How many times did he beg for my wife to stop?'
'How many times have I delivered him straight to the hell?'
Thinking that he's safe with my wife.
He had failed to protect him .
"I'm so sorry, Macellion," he said, his voice breaking. "I should have protected you. I should have seen what was happening."
Macellion's lips curled into a cruel smile. "It's too late for apologies, Chief," he said. "I am who I am. And nothing can change that."
He turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the forest, leaving the Chief alone with his grief and his guilt.
The Chief watched him go, his heart breaking. He knew he would never see Macellion again. He had lost him forever. The weight of his failure pressed down on him, the realization that he had been blind to the suffering of the boy he had sworn to protect.
Macellion walked deeper into the forest, his heart filled with a sense of liberation. He had severed all ties to his past life, to the village that had never truly accepted him. He was free to embrace his true nature, to unleash the darkness that had been simmering within him for so long.
He didn't know where he was going, but he didn't care. He was a wanderer, a creature of the night, destined to walk the earth alone.
And as he disappeared into the shadows, a sense of foreboding settled over the land, a promise of the chaos and destruction that was yet to come. The world would soon learn the true meaning of Macellion's name.