It couldn’t be, but seeing her face, he knew it was — his grandmother, seven years dead — on her knees and digging in the garden under a shaded moon. For a long moment, he stood frozen by the window, his breath fogging the glass.
The old woman’s scarf fluttered in the wind as her gnarled hands tore frantically at the soil, every motion jerky and rushed.
He remembered that face on her deathbed seven years ago, when she’d taken his hand and made him vow to keep the family ritual alive. After his parents’ fatal crash a year ago, he was the heir left — the chosen one to continue the tradition and pass it on when his time comes.
“This must be performed every seven years. At any cost,” her whisper had been thin but grave.
“What otherwise?” he had asked, half mocking.
“The ritual keeps it underneath. If it isn’t done… it’ll be free.”
He had laughed then. “Come on, Grandma. I’m twenty-five now and never saw or felt anything strange.”
“That’s because your father, grandfather, and ancestors never missed the ritual. I beg you — for me. Just do it. Will you?”
“It’s cruel,” he’d said. “You made me bury a lamb alive. Even after months, I can’t forget the way it kicked — that cry still echoes in my head. It’s etched in me forever.”
“That’s the sacrifice we make. Otherwise, it’ll rise — and it feeds on our blood. One by one, until none remain.”
“But why me?”
“Because the male blood must perform it. It passes from father to son — never through daughters. After your father, it’s your duty. Your aunt cannot, nor her sons. It’s curse for the male blood line, a burden to keep rest of the family safe.”
“And if there’s no male heir left?”
“Then it dies with the last of you,” she said. “But as long as one son of our line remains, the debt must be paid.”
He had rolled his eyes. “This is insane… Alright, whatever.”
“Say it, child. Will you do it?
“Yes, yes. I’ll do it. Jeez!”
That same year, his grandmother died peacefully in her sleep.
Now, seven years later, he’d returned to the ancestral house to keep that promise. His heart ached at the sight of the lamb inside the sack — its frantic movements, its muffled cries. Each sound pierced through him, pleading for mercy. After a while, the kicks had slowed, weakening into faint spasms.
The ritual had to be done at midnight. He’d been waiting in his room for an hour before he saw her — the dead grandmother — digging in the garden.
For the first time in years, he believed.
A cold certainty settled in his chest: the ritual was real. The stories, the warnings — everything felt real. And though dread wrapped around his throat, there was also a flicker of relief. He had chosen to come, chosen to keep the vow. Maybe that decision would protect the generations.
“At least I’m doing my part,” he thought. “I’ll never bring a child into this twisted world. I just hope I have the strength to keep the ritual alive until my last breath.”
He lifted the sack. The movement inside had stopped. The lamb had gone quiet, perhaps accepting its fate.
The night air was cold and heavy, thick with the acrid scent of burnt wood — the same smell that had hung in the air during his grandmother’s funeral rites. Every instinct told him to run, but duty dragged his feet forward.
As he neared the ditch, the old woman stopped digging and slowly turned. His heart hammered, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. She looked normal — almost peaceful — and that eased him slightly.
He stepped forward cautiously, raised the sack, and dropped it into the ditch.
The clock inside struck midnight. A deep, resonant toll rolled across the garden.
He closed his eyes and began to chant the incantation she’d taught him, each word metallic on his tongue. As he neared the end, the night seemed to hold its breath.
He finished and exhaled shakily — just then something shoved him hard from behind.
He stumbled and fell. The ditch was deeper than before. Far deeper.
Dazed, he looked up. His grandmother stood above him, her face drained of warmth, her voice cold and unyielding.
“The sacrifice must be alive,” she said. “I told you.”
Before he could speak, the soil around him began to slide. Loose dirt poured in, fast and heavy, filling the space like water. He clawed upward, choking on the taste of earth and panic.
“Grandma — stop!” he screamed.
But her face didn’t change. She only watched, her eyes reflecting the moon like pale glass.
The weight pressed harder, crushing his ribs. He gasped, struggling to move.
As the dirt filled his mouth, his final thought was of the faint movement beside him — the sack twitched.
The lamb wasn’t dead after all.
But the ritual was.
And the family bloodline was safe now.
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