As the sun set, falling behind the distant mountain range, the people of Ehud gathered. They trickled, a few at a time, into a pool. Throughout the busy day, all kept one eye turned to the edge of town, but no one abandoned their daily course. Curiosity did not put bread on the table. Still, the alluring sight at the edge of town captured the imagination. Each had their own idea regarding what was awaiting them. Now, the time came for them to satisfy their fascination.

The pool collected into a crescent, broken apart only by a wooden platform, the source of their intrigue. Over the last three days, they witnessed its construction, or rather, the sudden overnight changes. The platform remained the same from sunrise to sunset. No one worked on it. One would think it was abandoned. However, when the sun rose the next day, it was different. On the first day, it was no more than a large box, fifty feet on each side. It served no purpose other than taking up space. As the sun rose on the second day, they saw a large room at the back of it, with two horses hitched to it. During that day, no one tended to the horses, but they had a trough of water. With the light of the third day, with the exception of the platform jutting from it and the horses behind, they could not see anything through the light blue tent billowing over whatever was built.

All stood with their lips pursed and arms folded. They had ignored this for three days, waiting for the constructor to reveal himself. With no one forthcoming, they gathered in front of the platform, watching the tent ripple. Each exchanged a look. A common thought coursed through them. "What is this?" Another question followed it immediately. "What should we do about this?" Looking amongst themselves, no answer presented itself at first. The children in the crowd might have slipped under the tent if they were not under the ever-watchful eyes of their elders, who were cautious of what they did not know.

The people of Ehud were cautious, more than some, but they did not leap at their own shadows. They understood that the unfamiliar was something to remain wary of, but not to fear. Standing in front of the tent, their inaction came from one source: wonder. Should they leave it alone, or should they pull it back, revealing whatever lay underneath to the fading light of day?

Leon, the aging butcher and one who did not care for mysteries, prodded at the fabric with his walking stick, careful to not move around too much with his shaky legs being the only thing holding him up. "Who's in there?" he called. A mutter of approval rippled through the others. "This has gone on long enough. Whoever you are, come out where we can see you."

"Yes," Peter agreed. The cobbler was more than willing to follow Leon, a man he regarded better than his own father. One by one, the pool surged with cries of agreement, calling for what hid in the tent to reveal itself.

As if in answer, the place where Leon prodded flapped back, revealing a man dressed in a dark robe. Through a thick beard and slicked brown hair, his pale skin reflected the fading light, giving himself a reddish glow. Stepping through the opening, he took his place on the wooden stage. His dirty, bare feet stood a few feet away from the noses of the crowd, but they could not smell anything amiss. He raised his arms in the air, gesturing for silence from the masses. The sleeves of his robe fell, revealing translucent, hairless arms. Looking upon his strange appearance, they obeyed.

"Dear people," he called to them, voice gentle and reassuring. "I apologize for stirring up strife." Saying this, he turned to Leon and gave a deep bow, bending so far that the aging man felt embarrassed. "Though it may not seem like much, this wooden platform, and fabric that protects it, is my temporary temple, where I continue my studies in the privacy of my own company, hidden from the eyes of the world."

This man's speech left the crowd in a stunned silence. Not in the last half century had anyone seen a man like him before. The children looked at his pale face with astonished wonder while the women looked at his ungroomed hair and overall disgruntled appearance with disgust. Meanwhile, the men focused on one thing, and it brought each one some level of distress. They gazed upon his black robes, which rustled in the light breeze. "And what are you studying that needs such secrecy?" Giles demanded. The ruddy tiller had a way of getting to the point. With folded arms, the crowd waited for this newcomer's answer.

A smile broke out on the man's face. He chuckled as if he heard a new joke, one that would leave him laughing at inopportune times for the next few days. Cries asking what was so funny broke out. Raising a hand to his lips, he stifled his giggling. "Forgive me," he begged. "But if you stood where I was, you would understand why I laughed." Gesturing to the tent behind him, he declared, "You don't want to know what lies beneath this tent."

As if taking that statement as a challenge, Leon stamped his walking stick, demanding, "Show us."

"No," the man replied, his tone flat and stern. "What is hidden under this fabric is not meant for the eyes of the benighted."

"Show us!" wizen Deborah called from the back, resting against her grandson. As an elder of the village, all respected her opinion, even Leon, who would not challenge her under any circumstance. "Don't be all day about it."

The man looked at the crowd, seeing their growing frustration, then back at the tent, his eyes widened. "Please," he implored. "I know that this might seem suspicious, but I promise you, if you leave now, I will be gone by the morning."

"He's hiding something," Giles cried.

"I say we pull back the fabric and see for ourselves," someone cried. It sounded like a woman, but no one knew for sure.

"This is our village," another voice agreed, maybe a man. "No one can do as they please without our say so." Some might say that they were growing rash. Perhaps they were. Going against the caution valued, but by this point, their actions all were in the name of caution. Whoever this man was, and whatever he had, could not remain so close to their village unopposed. They stood, ready to claim the truth with their own hands.

"Yes," Mary said, bursting from the crowd. Of the townspeople, she was the troublemaker. No mischievous boy or town drunk could compare to the trouble that she caused. She was not a thief, nor a harlot, nor killed her guests in their sleep. This small woman was something far worse when it came to the community. She loved strife. It followed wherever she went.

Every action she took, for good or ill, had a terrible effect on those around her, bringing out the worst in them. It manifested in different ways, but today, she was the spearhead of the attack. The sea of people burst over the wooden shore, crashing toward the man. Their waving hands grasped at the fabric. A terrified scream burst from the man's lips as they surged forward. He spun around, revealing a long ponytail running down his neck, and raised his arms high above his head.

At once, the crowd stopped running. A long silence held everyone's breath hostage, but released it within a moment, or an eternity. It felt the same for the people of Ehud. That was when their screaming began. Men, women, and children groped for one another, cries of horror erupting from their very souls as they saw the most terrifying sight of their lives. Just as they wished, the pulled back fabric revealed what lay beneath the tent; yet they could not look upon it. Their eyes stared at the fabric, which was not pulled back by human hands. It moved on its own.

Starting from the top, it raised in the air at an angle, the base of it lifted off the ground, and it floated through the air, disappearing behind the large wooden room, sitting at the back of the large platform. "What?" Leon cried. All stood in horrified wonder at this sudden occurrence. No breeze blew nor could any remember having a wind strong enough to lift such a large piece of fabric into the air. In answer, the man turned, facing them. Giles stood with his mouth agape, being one of the few who noticed the true horror of this impossible feat. The rise and fall of the tent was in perfect synchronization with this stranger's hand movements.

"That's impossible," he muttered, taking a tentative step back.

"Look what you made me do," the man cried, his voice thick with anger and grief. On every single plank of wood, someone had drawn intricate symbols and written strange woods across them. On one side stood a table, with strange objects strewn across it, some glistening in the fading light. Across from it rested a group of numerous sharp spikes. Strange, tall unlit torches formed a circle encompassing the both table and spikes. In the center of it all, resting on a pedestal, laid an open book. The binding was old and worn, almost to the point of falling apart. In the presence of this spectacle, a gasp rose from those that managed to overcome their initial shock. Most stood in stunned silence.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

The man raced across the platform and threw himself over the book, as if protecting it from the vanishing sun. "None of this is meant to see the light of day," he cried. As the sun slipped further beneath the horizon, his face grew whiter. Those who rushed the man raced off the platform, trembling on the earth below. Terror swelled in their hearts as this man yelled, his teeth gnashing. "Oh, how this insolence hurts my very soul." His voice rose to a shrill shriek.

He cut his voice short, hanging his head low. "Why?" he asked, whispering. "Why could you not leave well enough alone?" The few that fought through their petrifying fear saw that everything would take a turn for the worst as slow, creeping darkness fell on the world. "You have no idea what you have done." The man's face tensed. His hand laid heavy on his heart. "Please," he begged, drops of sweat rolling down his forehead. "You have to run. Now."

At once, he froze. His eyes went blank, mouth hanging slack. In a low, haunting wail, he lamented, "I'm sorry. It's too late for that."

"How dare you disturb my servant within the hallowedness of my temple," a booming voice shouted. It came from the depths, where all terrors are born. The horses screamed. Children cried. Women fainted, reaching for a hand that could not take theirs. Men cowered on the ground, praying to be spared. The few that could still stand in the face of this new terror said nothing. "Curs," the invisible voice spat. "As mangy dogs, I will teach you a harsh lesson. My servant, arise."

At the voice's bidding, the man stood up straight and abandoned the book as darkness covered it. He strode over to the table and grabbed a small round ball. With a quick clenching of his fist, he revealed a pile of dust in his hand. Tossing it above his head, he cried, "I am the servant of mistress Hecate and the great god Veles. I, Grigori, serve as their mouthpiece and protector of their tome of deep magic." He snapped his fingers. The torches lit.

"I was once as you," he declared, pointing at the unwilling audience. They longed to flee from him, but found their feet rooted in place. "There was a time when I laughed at the spirits, unwilling to mind the sacredness of their holy hills. Once, I urinated on a god's shrine and threw a disease-ridden dog's corpse into a goddess' temple; but oh how we change once we meet the face of the divine."

"Allow me to show you the true wonder of my masters," he said. Walking over to the table, he grabbed a piece of wood, no bigger than walnut. He tossed it at the ground. An explosion erupted. A cry arose from those watching. "Oh," Grigori said. "Perhaps, we should not allow so many of you to miss what is coming next." He reached back to the table and scooped up entire handfuls of the nut-shaped wood. Running around his stage, he threw them about. They exploded on the platform, on the grass, and in the crowd. The noise was so loud that those that passed out awoke to the display before them. "Nice of you to rejoin us," he welcomed, a cruel smile on his face.

"Please turn your attention to the other side of the stage," he continued, while everyone watched in silence. He approached the wooden spikes, each ending at jagged point. Without a second's hesitation, he stepped onto them. Elizabeth shrieked, covering her eyes. "Do not scream so loud," Grigori chastised. "If you break my concentration, they'll skewer and break off in my feet. It will take days to make more."

Everyone stood in awe and horror as he stood on the spikes. Not a trickle of blood ran down them. Laughing, he sprung off of the fine points, landing on the stage again. His giggling cut short as he raised a foot from the floor. As the sole of his foot lifted from the boards, a sharp sword followed it, being a mere inch from piercing him. He laughed again. "It would seem a demon wishes to skewer me, but he cannot break through the charms that protect me."

His foot lowered to the floor, the sword descending along with it. The steel did not touch him. As he walked across the stage, swords kept rising and falling with his footsteps. Grigori shook his head and walked into the center of the stage, placing his hand on the book. "Begone," he roared and the torches flared up. When he began walking again, the swords did not pursue him.

"Enough of these parlor tricks," he declared, dropping to the floor. He placed his hands together, holding them against the boards, against a specific, ragged symbol. "Life," he cried. At his bidding, a black crow poked its head out from betwixt his fingers. Raising up, he held it for all to see. The black bird sprung from his outstretched fingers, taking to the sky. No one noticed that the symbol on the floor had disappeared. The crow cawed down on the crowd. Its mournful screeches sent chills down the spines of those presence. "Behold, the divine messenger of the gods. Through it, the spirits speak to me," Grigori said. The bird swooped down, landing on his shoulder.

He nodded. "Yes," he whispered, then spoke in a louder voice, "the gods demand a tribute." He walked over to one of the torches and placed his hands on both sides of the flame. To the surprise of no one, he did not scream in pain. Instead, he held the flame in his hand. "You are hard-working, righteous people. They do not wish to destroy you. They wish to teach you. Fear the spirits and honor those that go in their name." He stared them down at them. "They seem merciful today. How will you repay them?"

At first, everyone stood with their mouths gaping open, unable to say a single word. "Have my necklace," Deborah cried, bursting from the crowd. Fear made her feeble frame move faster than anyone half her age. She ripped a glistening necklace from her neck, vesting it on the stage. Following her lead, everyone presented whatever they had. They formed a frenzied line, hurling their immediate belongings into a pile at Grigori's feet. Rings, bracelets, earrings, coin purses, fruit, the shirt off their backs, and a glass eye.

He inspected the pile, looking at the crow from time to time. At last, he nodded. "It is good," he declared. Everyone exhaled a sigh of relief, the only one they had since this began. One of his hands left the flame, placing it on his lips. Opening his palm, he whistled a light breeze and a puff of smoke arose from the ground. It snaked around him, circling the pile at his feet. Grigori blew again and it vanished, the pile of treasures along with it. Nodding in satisfaction, he declared, "The gods thank..."

"What is this?" the voice from before bellowed. "These paltry trinkets are not enough to balance the scales of their sins."

"My lord," Grigori argued in clear distress. Sweat poured down his face, reflecting the fire against his pale face.

"No," the voice boomed, silencing him. "If they wish to stay my hand, which clenches the sword of judgement, they need to bring more. If they wish their lives to be spared."

Needing no more reason, the crowd dispersed, running in different directions, back to their abodes. They searched the town in a frenzy. In a matter of minutes, they came running back with garments, gold coins, jewelry far better than what they gave before, jars of ale, incense. Once the last child laid their favorite doll on the far larger pile, the voice crooned, "Yes. That is good."

A much larger puff of smoke exploded, one that made Grigori himself shrink back, the flame still burning in his hands. Everything disappeared in the explosion, but the voice remained. "You are a disappointment, my servant."

"No," Grigori cried in horror. "Do not be angry with me, lord."

"We granted you great power and you cannot even do as we wish. For your insolence, you must be disciplined." As the last word echoed, the torches flared up again, and the poles beneath them fell. Where they fell, the boards caught on fire, and it spread quick. Cries burst from the crowd. Grigori spun around; his face twisted into the realized despair of doom. He released the flame in his hands, which dissipated at once. Dropping to his knees, he held his hands out to control the flames, hoping to save his temple.

At first, they obeyed, staying away from him, but they were controlled by the god. A mortal cannot overwhelm the divine. The flames broke from his grip, consuming the stage, burning everything to a black crisp. The horses rose on their back hooves, pulling on their harnesses, desperate to flee. Grigori's temple was lost, but he could not leave. He looked behind him, at the book sitting on the pedestal. It could not save itself. With a cry of anguish, he stopped trying to save himself and jumped up, snatching the book in his hands.

"You would burn up your own tome?" Grigori cried out to his god as the flames enclosed around him. In answer, the voice laughed. It was cruel and enjoyed watching its servant struggling against the flames. Grigori looked for an escape, but found none as the flames bore down on him. The hungry jaws of the fire leapt up to swallow him. They succeeded. He disappeared beneath them, screaming.

It was chaos. The horses broke from the stage, pulling a shoddy coach behind them. The crowd of hostages broke from their trance. They ran in all directions. Some hid in their homes while others dived into the fields. Women clasped their children and men their women. The elders begged the gods to spare them. Children cried for their parents to protect them. All the while, the god's laughter and Grigori's cries echoed in the night.

The pyre burned until daybreak, leaving the ashes to smolder for days. Almost a month later, the people of Ehud would regain their courage and approach the pile of ash, if for no other reason than to bury all of it, so that they might forget that night of horror. They could not bear seeing it another day. To their surprise, they could not find any bones, not even a finger. It was as if no one burned at all.