It Took Billy

by Miguel Lopez de Leon

  The air in the hall began to get warmer, and quickly became very hot, while the sunlight coming in from the arched windows grew to an almost blinding brightness. All the while, the thirst in me continued to grow. I felt the sweat pouring down my face and back, and I started to feel dizzy.

  When I looked at the tree, however, it seemed to have regained its old lushness and vigor, and once again seemed thick and abundant.

  As I wiped the sweat from my face, I gasped as I saw my hands. They were withered and brittle and were almost skeletal.

  I bolted back to the pool and saw my reflection in the crystal water. I looked like a deflated corpse. A moment later, the thirst in me had taken control. Before I knew it, I had plunged my face into the water, and was gulping it down as fast as I could. After I raised my head to breathe, I heard the tree’s screams, except this time, the pitiful wailing was clear and piercing, and was echoing loudly around the hall. It sounded like the amplified shrieks of an injured dog, combined with the panicked screeching of an animal that was about to be eaten alive by a predator. The impossible cries of pain were clearly coming from a creature that had no way to defend itself.

  As I looked at the large oak tree, I saw that all the leaves had fallen from its branches. Its trunk was thin and gray, and its roots looked weak and gnarled. But as I caught my reflection in the water, I saw that I once again looked like myself—young, healthy, and strong. But my thirst grew rapidly inside me. And as the temperature in the hall became almost unbearably hot, and the sweat continued to pour down my face and back, I saw myself wither and age. Moments later, the thirst in me had quickly grown into a monstrous roar—so I drank, and drank, and drank. The screaming in the hall was deafening. It was like I was torturing innocence.

  And as I drank, I watched the once magnificent tree wither and pale. Crows started flying in from the open windows, and began landing on the tree, before using their sharp beaks to peck and rip at its weakened bark. The relentless birds continued to slowly and ruthlessly tear apart the once beautiful oak, and all the while, the tree continued to scream. It pleaded for me to stop drinking, if only for a moment. Still, I continued to swallow the sparkling water in a futile attempt to quench the monstrous thirst inside of me. And as I glanced at my young reflection in the water, the tree and the crows burst into flame. I ignored the fire and continued to drink from the pond.

  I had never felt so ashamed of myself in my entire life. I felt evil, vile, and disgusting. I didn’t deserve happiness. I was selfish and cruel.

  The Summer Room had made me hate myself.

  Then before I could react, the chalk-white man rushed up to me and pushed me into the pond. After I fell into the cool liquid, I remember offering Summer my pain and my self-loathing. I let myself sink heavily into the depths of the pond, before completely losing myself in the darkness.

  When I woke up, I was here, in the chamber, next to the fire.

  The Chamber

  I am filled with shame.

  Whenever I close my eyes, all I can picture are those merciless crows, tearing into the tree’s trunk, as it screamed helplessly into the hall.

  I will never forgive myself.

  The Spring Room

  As I stood in front of the door to the next ritual, I gazed into the chalk-white demon’s eyes. He stared back with emptiness. Not hate, not vindictiveness, but complete and utter indifference. If possible, I now fear him even more.

  As we walked through the doorway, I saw that we were in the middle of a vast clearing. There was a forest nearby, but other than a few bare branches, everything was covered in a layer of snow. The sun was rising, and the air was very cold. The untouched ground looked like a perfect white bed sheet. As I shivered and turned around to get my bearings, I realized that the pale high priest and the door that we had entered from were gone. I was standing alone in a stark wilderness, watching as my warm breath created a visible mist in the crisp air. My bare feet had already begun to feel prickly stabbing pains from being submerged in the snow.

  Suddenly, there was a guttural, explosive sound—like the boom you hear before you feel an earthquake. The smooth sheet of snow in front of me shattered, as the earth below it seemed to violently erupt. Huge, thick weeds and buds burst from the ground and continued to squirm and twist out of the hard, frozen soil.

  One of the buds was as large as I was, and I heard myself gasp as it started to bloom. At first, a magnitude of bright, colorful blossoms and petals fell out of the huge bud and poured onto the ground. Then, the shapeless mass of color and flowers quickly formed itself into the figure of a young woman. She had no eyes, or actual body parts, she was just a concentration of petals and flowers that took on a humanoid form. At first, I thought I was witnessing Spring herself, but then I remembered the vision that I had of the sisters. Spring had looked human, and only her hair was made of blossoms. I also immediately felt that the creature in front of me was vastly different from the immortal season and was not radiating even a fraction of her astonishing power.

  The blossom-woman began to step toward me, and the contrast between her bright, multicolored form and the bleak, desolate landscape was startling. As she moved closer to me, I began to smell an amazing scent emanating from her. I don’t know how else to describe it, other than it was intoxicating and somehow reminded me of youth and hope. As she stepped toward me, I could not help but inhale her sweet scent, as happy childhood memories flooded my mind.

  With every breath, the enchanted fragrances coming from the blossom-woman took control of me. I felt safe, secure, and blissful.

  She took my hand in her own, and I followed her as she led me forward. As we walked, I noticed that wherever she stepped, the snow immediately melted, and jagged brown weeds squirmed and broke through the frozen earth. The weeds continued to grow through the cracked soil at an incredible rate. I was in such a mesmerized state that I didn’t even care when my cold, bare feet were periodically ensnared in the jagged weeds. As I jerked my feet away, the weeds would dig in and cut into my flesh. It wasn’t long before my feet and calves were covered in deep cuts and my own dark blood. I could feel the slicing pain that the weeds were causing, but I didn’t care. I simply held the hand of the colorful flower-creature and continued to inhale her wholly intoxicating scent.

  After a while, I looked up from my trancelike state and noticed that we were walking through the forest. As we moved by the gray, bare trees, their branches immediately began to grow leaves and fruit. And as we walked by a newly revived cluster of bushes, the flower-woman plucked berries from it, and popped them into my mouth. I eagerly swallowed the offering and didn’t even care when the poisoned morsels produced sharp pains in my stomach and chest.

  We continued walking for a very long time. When I looked down, my blackened, bloody feet looked deeply infected. But despite this—and the stabbing pains in my chest—I continued to eagerly breathe in the enchanted scent of the creature leading me forward. I was completely aware that I was dying, and although waves of pain, fear, and panic would occasionally wash over me, they were quickly dispelled every time I inhaled.

  Eventually, the alluring creature led me to a small clearing in the middle of the forest, and gestured for me to sprawl out, with my back to the ground. And as the thick, squirming weeds broke through the soil underneath me, I saw the land all around us fill with thick grass and a vast array of multicolored flowers. The temperature suddenly became warm and heavy, and I felt my eyes and nose violently react to the explosion of thick pollen in the air.

  Still flat against the ground, I watched as the blossom-woman gently stroked my cheek with her hand. I did not even care as the jagged, squirming weeds continued to burrow into my back and limbs, slowly tearing through my skin. I yelled out in pain several times, but then submitted, as her magnificent scent filled my poisoned lungs.

  And as I took one last glimpse at the lush and vibrant oasis that had erupted around us, the blossom-woman leaned in and kissed me on the lips.

 
My entire being was filled with her thick perfume, and I immediately started to suffocate. I tried to raise my hands to my throat, but the weeds that were entangling me held them firmly in place. I had no choice but to uselessly gasp for breath and continue to feel the life slowly leave my body. Right before I blacked out, I felt as the weeds started drilling into my eyes and mouth, as the blossom-woman once again caressed my cheek.

  I gasped loudly as I sat bolt upright in the chamber, next to the fire. The chalk-white man was standing near me, laughing. It took me several moments to catch my breath, and when I could finally breathe normally, I kept nervously running my hands over my face, back, and limbs. I had no marks on my body, but I could still feel the merciless weeds tearing into me.

  After the monster left the chamber, it took me four attempts to begin writing this entry. Even now, my hands are still trembling.

  The Chamber

  More memories keep bombarding my already clouded and weakened mind. The combined force of them leaves me feeling like I’m in the middle of an anxiety attack—which I probably am.

  I have purposely tried to block out thoughts of my father and his well-being. If the monster hurt him in the cabin, then there’s nothing I can do about it. And if he’s safe, then there’s no point worrying. Either way, the demon is not about to give me any information about him. All I can do is try to survive this twisted game.

  But try as I might, moments of panic keep popping up. I know that my dad must be sick with worry. Once again, I push those thoughts away. My sole focus has to be on surviving. That’s it. No matter what, just survive.

  Although some thoughts about my father that pop into my mind are comforting. Like a brief escape from everything that’s been happening. I remember when I was little and my dad would be writing behind his big wooden desk. At that age, I don’t think I comprehended what work was, but I knew it was important. I remember that after a whole afternoon of sitting behind that desk, my father would stretch, and let out a big yawn, and he would have the most relaxed smile on his face. Those moments, after he had just finished his day’s work, are what I keep remembering. Not only did he seem more relieved, and somehow more at peace with the day, he seemed proud of himself. Although I couldn’t put into words what I was observing at the time, I now know that he felt he had done something that he believed in. He not only worked to provide for us, but he had also fulfilled a need to contribute something to others. I loved seeing him like that.

  Mom went to her own job and provided for us as well, but since she didn’t work from home, I guess I never saw these types of moments with her.

  But yeah—Dad and his work. Even as a child, it meant so much to me to see him happy and content.

  I guess that’s all I want. I just want to see him happy, even if it’s just in a memory.

  I’m probably never going to see him again.

  Dad, if somehow you end up reading this, I just want you to know that I’m thinking about you. I miss you. And I love you.

  The Autumn Room

  By the time the demon and I walked through the door to the Autumn room, I had tried to numb myself to whatever new atrocity was waiting for me. It didn’t work.

  As soon as we entered the pleasant room, which I somehow knew was for the Autumn ritual, I found myself surrounded by heavy wooden walls, and a large window facing a beautiful, sunny meadow.

  In front of the window was a large table, with four comfortable looking chairs surrounding it. Seated on three of the chairs were three young men, about my age, all talking and laughing loudly. Although I didn’t recognize any of them, they were all familiar to me, and I instantly felt like I had known them my entire life.

  One of the men saw me and gestured for me to come sit on the vacant chair. As I approached, all three of them stood up and hugged me, exchanging loud greetings and expressing true joy at my arrival. They were all at once my best friends, cousins, uncles, father, and brothers combined.

  As I sat at the table with them, I saw that they were eating small golden apples from a large bowl at the center of the table. When one of them offered me one, I gratefully accepted and bit into it without question. It was sweet and crisp, and made me feel stronger than I had in a long time.

  As the young men continued speaking and laughing, I flinched back as a little kitten hopped onto the table. It had brown fur and big green eyes. It sat next to me and was just as intrigued as I was by the other men at the table.

  I bit into my small apple and listened as the young men spoke of the great adventures they would have and the amazing experiences that were waiting for them. They had so much eager hope and expectation.

  As they continued speaking, however, the golden apples became silver, and as the men ate, I noticed that they had grown bigger and leaner. Although they were still energetic, their lively tales were now more about finding love and about the great empires they would create. Each passing moment seemed like months, and the more I sat at that table, the more I felt like these men were my family. I wanted to tell them to stop eating the apples, but I knew that it was impossible not to. The apples were part of the journey.

  Soon, they were all eating the now brass apples from the same bowl, and as I stared at them, I noticed that while still young, fine lines had begun to show on their faces, and dark circles had appeared under their eyes. My lively friends were now speaking of the children they were raising, and how instead of building empires, they were more content on building their families.

  As I listened to them, I felt a deep longing in the pit of my stomach. Not because I didn’t want them to continue living their lives, but because I could not relate to them. I had not found love yet, or tried to build an empire, or had children. I was simply watching as my friends lived out their lives to the fullest, while I was left behind. The feeble cat sitting on the table next to me curled up into a ball. A moment later, it was dead.

  Soon the apples that the men were eating were gray and shriveled. I looked out the window in front of us and noticed that the bright, sunny meadow was now faded and dull. Dark clouds had settled in the sky, and everything looked cold and bleak.

  When I looked back at my friends, they were much less lively and loud. They had wrinkles on their faces, and their hair had turned white. They were speaking with quiet contentment and were commenting on their grandchildren.

  As I stared at their softly smiling faces, a profound sense of loss washed over me. I could see from my own wrinkled hands that I too was growing old with them, but I hadn’t experienced anything that they had been talking about. I never had kids or had anything like that to reflect on. I was simply growing physically old, without the memories of a life well lived. I was empty and full of regret, and as I stared at my gnarled hand holding onto the black, shriveled apple, I felt bitter and lost. I wanted to be young again! I wanted to be full of life and hope!

  But my friends did not feel the same way I did. They quietly looked at each other, and reminisced about their glory days and the adventures that they had.

  I started pounding on the table as hard as I could, screaming that I wasn’t done yet—that I hadn’t even really started to live my life. But now my friends could not see or hear me. I watched them as they reached for more apples, but the large bowl in the middle of the table was empty.

  I suddenly felt weak and dizzy, and even sitting up became a challenge. My entire body hurt, and my mind was hazy. I looked around the table in horror, as one by one, my friends collapsed and fell off their chairs onto the floor.

  I tried to scream, “I’m still young! I haven’t lived my life yet!” but I was too tired and depleted. I had wasted my life, and now it was over. The once bright, boisterous, sunny room was now dull and silent. The air around me smelled of death. And as I slumped onto the table, next to the skeleton of the long dead cat, I knew that I would never feel the peace or the sense of fulfillment that my dead friends had felt at the end of their lives. I never did anything that they did as adults, and now I would never agai
n have the chance.

  I woke up on the floor of the chamber, once again young and whole, but I felt like I had just witnessed the death of my own family. Suddenly, the feelings I had felt as a child, at the death of my mother, came flooding back to me. The anger, the resentment, and finally the grim acceptance—but none of the peace.

  I slowly crawled back next to the eternal fire and passed out next to its flickering warmth.

  Even as I write this, I still do not feel like myself.

  The Chamber

  The sense of loss that the Autumn room experience left in me is not going away. I feel enraged, yet somehow, numb.

  More than anything, I want to enter that room again and see the three young men sitting there. I want to see the hope in them. I want to experience the beginning of their stories, where anything was possible.

  But I know that the profound sense of loss I feel is exactly what the ritual was supposed to bring about. It was part of its designed cruelty.

  I’m only fifteen years old. I know I’m still at the beginning of my story—but it doesn’t feel like that anymore. My youth is irrelevant to the chalk-white monster…the high priest. All he wants from me is my pain, so it can be offered up to the five sisters. It doesn’t matter what I want from this life.

  My story is no longer my own.

  The Chamber

  I have one more ritual to go—Lenaru.

  I fear this ritual—more than I can express in words. But at the same time, I need to see this through. The tainted bread, and the cruel mental conditioning, is making it impossible for me not to need to know more.

  Will the final ritual lead to my death? It would, after all, be the ultimate sacrifice. Like the frenzied cultists in the vision the chalk-white man showed me. Maybe I too will end up ramming my head into the stone base of a statue.

  I know I have no choice about whatever happens. I’m just trying desperately not to panic.

  All I want, at this point, is for it to happen already. The waiting and the wondering, in many ways, is the worse part.