When my parents died, my world collapsed. I moved through the days like a ghost, taking time off work and wandering the streets without any purpose. I had no siblings, and I had broken up with my fiancée months earlier. I was completely alone. A week after the funeral, the numbness turned into something darker. I started thinking about revenge. Night after night I planned what I would do to the man who caused the crash. He had been drunk behind the wheel. My parents died, and he walked away without a scratch. Worse than that, he was released after just a few hours. His father was a well-known lawyer. Of course he got him out. The idea of revenge gave me something to hold on to.

Then one day it hit me that my parents would never forgive me for hurting someone, no matter what he had done. I kept walking through the city, watching people laugh, feeling like I didn’t belong in the same world anymore. That’s when I heard someone call my name. I turned around and saw Aaron, an old friend from the army. We hadn’t seen each other in years. We went for a beer right away. I told him everything. He didn’t interrupt. When I finished, he just looked at me and said I needed to leave the city. He had inherited a house in a village near Greenwood Vale. The ground floor was ready, the upper level still under construction. He said I could stay there. Fresh air, forest, quiet. Maybe it would help. I agreed because there was nothing left holding me back.

That same day he drove me there. The house stood at the edge of the village, almost touching the forest. He showed me around, lit the fireplace, and we talked for a while like we used to. Old stories, old jokes. Then he left around ten. As soon as the door closed, the silence hit me. He had a family, a life. I had nothing. I sat in the living room staring at the fire, feeling empty. Sleep wouldn’t come. I thought maybe a walk would help. I put on a jacket, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped outside into the night. I started toward the village, but the dogs went wild, barking like something was wrong. I turned back.

I decided to head into the forest instead. I told myself if I stayed on the path, I’d be fine. The trees swallowed me almost immediately. It was quiet. Too quiet. Only my footsteps breaking the silence. Then I heard it. A bell. Slow. Heavy. Not from the village. From deeper in the woods. I counted eleven strikes. Then silence again. A church out here didn’t make sense. Still, I followed the sound. The path ended at a clearing. And there it was. A small church. Lights in the windows. Voices inside.

I opened the door slowly. It creaked like something alive. The smell of incense hit me hard. I reached for holy water out of habit, but the basin was dry. Inside, people turned and stared at me. All of them. Their eyes felt wrong. Cold. Empty. Like something behind them was looking through. I wanted to leave, but two men blocked the door. One of them spoke with a rough voice, saying you don’t leave during mass. The crowd pressed in around me. They pushed me forward without touching me directly. Their faces looked twisted, like something out of a nightmare painting. At the altar stood a young woman instead of altar boys. Her clothes barely covered anything. It felt wrong in every possible way.

The priest mumbled words I couldn’t understand. The air was thick, hard to breathe. Then everyone made the sign of the cross at the same time, but something about it felt off. The priest traced a cross on the floor with his foot. Then he raised something above his head. It looked like a host, but it wasn’t. It was black. Triangular. Marked with three dots. That’s when I realized what I was seeing. The mass was being said backwards. Every word reversed. Every gesture wrong. The girl poured something into a chalice. The priest looked inside and asked if the water came from a well where an unbaptized infant had been thrown. Several voices answered yes. He smiled.

Panic hit me. I started looking for a way out. I spotted a small door on the side and rushed toward it. One of the men tried to stop me, but I hit him with the flashlight and pushed through. I ran. I didn’t look back. I just ran toward the village, hoping I was going the right way. After a few minutes I saw the house. I got inside and locked the door behind me. The next morning Aaron came by. I told him everything. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t question it. He just told me to show him the place.

We went back to the clearing. There was no church. Only burned ruins. Blackened stones. Nothing more. I looked at him, confused. He asked if this was the place. I nodded. He went quiet for a moment, then started telling me a story. Years ago, families came here from a region far away. During the journey, one of the train cars broke loose and crashed. Everyone inside died. It was said a drunk railway worker caused it. He never faced consequences. People believed his family connections protected him. The grief turned into something darker.

He told me about an old ritual. A black mass performed to kill someone. He said the villagers gathered and tried to carry it out. But during the ritual a storm hit. Lightning struck the church. It burned with everyone inside. Dozens of people died. Since then, every few years, the mass returns. The same people. The same ritual. He said he had seen it himself when he was younger. After his sister died because a drunk doctor refused to help, he came here filled with rage. He found the church. The mass. The next day that doctor died of a heart attack.

I felt something cold run through me. I asked him what he thought it meant. He looked straight at me and said the ritual doesn’t choose randomly. It follows hatred. It feeds on it. I didn’t say anything after that. I just asked him to take me home. Later that day I called to ask about the man who killed my parents. They told me the trial was stopped. He was in critical condition. Doctors didn’t know why. I stood there for a long time after the call ended. Then I got dressed and went to church. I prayed for him to live.

I didn’t want to become like them. I didn’t want to carry that kind of guilt. He survived. Went to trial. Got twelve years. Justice was done the right way. And I know one thing for sure. If he had died because of that thing in the forest, I would have never escaped it.