Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The old red barn on the edge of Marrow Fields was avoided by locals—its roof half-collapsed, its walls covered in black ivy that bloomed only under moonlight. The land itself refused to grow crops. Livestock avoided it. Birds never perched there.

But tonight, the barn was alive with whispers.

Inside, Jasper Crane stood barefoot in a circle of chalk and bone. A crow feather in one hand, a rusted lantern in the other. Blood dripped steadily from a cut on his palm, soaking the carved symbols in the dirt.

He didn't know whose voice he'd heard in his dreams. Only that it called him here. Promised him answers. Promised to silence the dead voices clawing in his skull night after night.

The ritual had begun.

Twelve figures in red robes stood in a ring around him—hooded, faceless. Each held a blade pressed to their own wrist, their blood feeding thin rivulets into the center.

One voice led them—calm, female, inhuman.

"The blood of the willing. The tongue of the witness. The breath of the hollow."

Jasper's lantern flared, casting grotesque shadows on the rafters. One of them moved when none of the cultists did. Something watched from above—curled around the beams like a serpent made of smoke and bone.

His heart pounded.

"You called me here for peace!" he shouted, stepping back.

"We called you here for truth," the voice answered. "And truth is never quiet."

A blinding red light pulsed from the circle. The barn shook. Dust rained from the rafters. And the ground split down the middle with a thunderous crack.

From the chasm rose a shape—human once, perhaps, now cloaked in layers of blood-soaked linen, its head a twisted crown of rusted nails and thorns.

It held out a hand.

Jasper was frozen, breath caught in his throat.

"Speak your truth," the creature rasped, its voice a sound like tearing silk. "Or be devoured by your lies."

Images flashed in his mind—graves he never dug, names he never spoke aloud, faces of the dead who whispered through his dreams.

He sank to his knees.

"I buried them," he whispered. "All of them. I heard their cries and… I shut the lid. I thought if I buried them, I could bury the guilt."

The creature smiled without lips.

"Now you understand."

The cultists raised their blades in unison—and slit their own throats.

Jasper screamed.

The red glow swirled into a storm of blood and ash. The ritual reached its climax—not sacrifice, but transference.

Their voices entered him.

Twelve lives. Twelve names. Twelve burdens.

Jasper fell unconscious.

When he woke, the barn was empty.

No blood. No bodies. No cracks in the floor.

Only a single mark remained, carved into the dirt where the circle once lay:

"One voice. Twelve truths. Crimson is the price."

He stumbled into the morning light, the wind whispering their names behind his eyes.

He was not alone anymore.