Your phone dies.
The town is empty.
Something is walking toward you.

What do you do?

Occulta Daemonia

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Every seven years, the village chooses a Witness.

A neutral eye. An outsider.

Someone who will swear nothing happened.

I signed the ledger in the chapel basement.

The ink did not dry.

At midnight, they opened the stone beneath the altar.

Something breathed out.

The next morning, the villagers asked what I saw.

I told them the truth.

“Nothing.”

They smiled.

That is when I understood what the Witness is for.

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They welcomed me with bread and salt.

The bread was warm. The salt tasted metallic.

At dusk, they crowned me with woven reeds and led me into the field.

I thought it was theater.

Until the scarecrows began to kneel.

By morning, the crops were taller.

So was I.

They do not call me by my name anymore.

They call me Harvest.

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We were told never to look into the wicker effigy.

Some of us did.

We are inside it now.

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The God in the field does not speak.

It ripens.

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The antlers are not decoration.

They are a reminder of what watches during the offering.

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They nailed charms above every doorway.

The thing in the attic was born here.

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We do not pray for rain.

We pray to deserve it.

Last summer, three of us were not worthy.

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There is a path in the woods that does not exist in winter.

It opens only when the ground is soft enough to remember.

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