The Night the Sky Turned Red - Part 3

When They Come Back

“Daniel” confided in me with an unsettling calmness, asserting that he was no longer my brother—not in the way I once knew him. He spoke of himself as “a vessel,” an unsettling hybrid of flesh and thought, harbouring fragments of my brother’s essence while being puppeteered by an ominous force from another realm.

He elaborated on the nature of these entities—Harvesters. Their presence was palpable, a chill that brushed against the nape of my neck, but it was the markings engraved on our wrists that truly terrified me. They were not merely scars; they were gateways—intricate keys embedded within our very beings that the Harvesters could manipulate at will. Once enough of these marks were activated, the ominous fissure they created would seal our fate irrevocably.

In a chilling revelation, he warned me I had until the first light of dawn to dismantle the gateway. Once the sun broke the horizon, the Harvesters would flood into our world, insatiable and unchecked.

Yet, as I ventured closer to the dilapidated mill—the rumoured site of their summoning—an insidious transformation began to unfold within me. My thoughts were no longer my own; they morphed into a cacophony of whispers that slithered through my mind. “Stop fighting,” they murmured, with a persuasive tenderness, urging me to “come home.” Though my logical mind screamed for escape, my body betrayed me, propelling me toward the gathering of shadows as if drawn by an invisible tether. Each step I took echoed the fear within me, yet something deeper yearned for surrender.

Inside the mill, the fissure pulsed above like a wounded sun. The marked stood in perfect rows beneath it, heads tilted back, eyes glowing faintly red.

I spotted a rusted fuel tank in the corner and did the only thing I could: I lit it.

The explosion ripped through the mill, sending a column of fire and light into the sky. The fissure shrieked—yes, shrieked—as it tore apart. The market collapsed. My brother’s vessel dissolved into ash.

As dawn broke, painting the horizon with soft shades of pink and gold, I noticed that the mark on my wrist had vanished without a trace. Millstone Valley lay before me, appearing eerily serene, as if the events of the previous night were merely a figment of my imagination, lost in the veil of twilight.

That morning, I made the decision to leave the valley behind. As I drove along the winding roads, their familiar turns now feeling strangely foreign, I cast a final glance in the rearview mirror.

Behind me, the sky was streaked with a faint line of crimson, a ghostly reminder of the turmoil that had unfolded. It lingered like a memory, weaving through the clouds as if reluctant to fade.

The gateway stands closed… but not locked, leaving an unspoken promise hanging in the air, a whisper of possibilities that echoed in the stillness of the morning..

That morning, I made the decision to leave the valley behind. As I drove along the winding roads, their familiar turns now feeling strangely foreign, I cast a final glance in the rearview mirror.

Behind me, the sky was streaked with a faint line of crimson, a ghostly reminder of the turmoil that had unfolded. It lingered like a memory, weaving through the clouds as if reluctant to fade.

The gateway stands closed… but not locked, leaving an unspoken promise hanging in the air, a whisper of possibilities that echoed in the stillness of the morning.