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The 13th Sect

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October 1st, 1313 I’ve set out to find my Uncle’s cabin. The stories, no, legends, he told me as a child cannot be true. Lack of evidence to The 13th Sect’s existence does not equal to a lack of their existence. “The 13th Sect”, was the fuel of my childhood nightmares. My Uncle told of blood, death, and unspeakable practices. “Who is The 13th Sect?”, “What is their purpose?”, “Where can I find them?”, “Why didn’t I believe those I’ve loved?” ......  I’ve reached my Uncle’s cabin. Traveling by foot is the only way to access the front door. Upon entering, I see several candles are lit. Wax drips on the seat of a desk chair and runs over onto the floor, covered in scrolls, papers, and hand-scratched ravings, clearly of a man gone mad. The walls are lined with the same. Hand-Drawn illustrations, pages of horrifying lines from an ancient textbook, blood-splattered notes, and earthly filth. A sudden gust of wind blows out the light from my lantern. Fear hits me as
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Rain

She is staring out the window, her day ruined by the storm.  A gloomy, dreary, and soaked skyline meets with the landscape. Who would dare go outside in this kind of weather, she thinks to herself. Thankfully, the power hasn't gone out. She can still find some solace in her room. The storm is making her feel tired, as it always does. She lays down on her bed listening to the sounds of the storm. Small drops of rain plinking against the window. The wind slowly blowing by with leaves in tow. The rustling leaves in the wind give them away. A slight rumble of thunder. Nothing to disturb a nap can be heard outside. A darkness is rolling in to take over the light, as she drifts off to sleep her eyelids slowly close shut. She hears a noise outside her window. As she gets up, she realizes the storm has gotten stronger. A flash of lightning makes a confirmation to this, as she steps closer to the window. A now pitch black sky has brought heavy drops of rain. The street below min
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The Ritual

An old ivory white basin. Paint cracked and peeling, the rust exposed. The now brown-orange hue metal smells rotten. Hundreds of teeth. Some false sets, most are not. White, beige, yellow, brown, and gray. The core chunks of mouth flesh torn out, still decaying on them. Red dry stained into the ivory white paint underneath. A toy doll. Blonde curly dirt caked hair, black jagged lines on its skin, black empty eyeless sockets, a torn fancy Sunday's best dress, one shoe unstrapped. Six seasoned witches gathered 'round. Stringy, dirty hair. Sunken eyes, almost black. Wrinkled skin, around wry smiles. Narrow teeth, when present. Flickering flames revealing dark hooded robes. Their bony jagged fingers reaching to the clouds. Six torches burning. Crackling embers, ascending reds, oranges. The ritual begins. Together the witches hiss, "Feast, famine, friend, foe, bring us a Daughter to end terrible woe." "Deep, shallow, far, near, deliver her to us sometime
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