"They Say My Town Is Cursed. But the Truth Is Much Worse" Creepypasta

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This creepypasta is for entertainment purposes only

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
I never thought i'd see half the town show up
to bury a man nobody actually liked. Ricky Helden wasn't
a monster or anything. He was one of those loud,
broad shouldered firemen who made every story about himself, the
kind of guy who'd tell you about a house fire
he'd put out in eight like it was Vietnam. Still,

(00:24):
he'd been part of the fabric of this place, and
in small towns, even the people you don't love feel
like pillars. But the mood at his funeral wasn't grief.
It was fear. There were no tears. Instead, people watched on, whispering,
glancing over shoulders at shadows that weren't there. To the side,

(00:49):
Missus Harlan kept repeating HiT's earlier than last time. Two
older men stood behind me near the tree line, speaking
low as the past droned on. It started again, twenty
seven years, like clockwork, thought would get more time. I

(01:11):
pretended not to hear. I grew up listening to this
kind of nonsense, stories about the black cycle, about the curse,
about how every twenty seven years someone would dine in
a way that didn't belong to the world. To me,
it was always just superstition layered over tragedy. Small towns

(01:33):
loved patterns, even if they had to invent them. But
this time, This time felt different because nobody had an
explanation for how Rick burned to death inside an empty
grain silo. There wasn't an investigation, no state fire marshal, nothing.

(01:56):
All he got was a close casket funeral and a
quick burial before anyone outside town could ask questions, and
the siloh itself. I drove past it on the way
to the service. The whole structure had been reduced to
a perfect black circle of ash on the ground, like
someone had dropped a giant branding iron on it. Rick

(02:19):
had been in the center. I was left of him anyway.
After the service, people lingered in clusters, talking like frightened cattle.
Then the whispering started. It's the vault, the vaults waking up.
That's when I knew I wouldn't sleep if I didn't

(02:42):
see the sight myself. I waited until sundown, until the
sheriff's car was gone and the road was empty, then
drove out to what was left of Holden silo. The
fields were quiet, the air unnaturally still. The ash circle
felt wrong. It didn't look charred in the way you'd expect,

(03:08):
more like the ground had melted. I crouched, brushing my
fingers across the surface. The concrete was glassy and smooth,
fused into a dark, rippled shape, and in the center,
where Rick had died, the scorch marks curved into an oval,
wide at the ends, narrow in the middle, jagged around

(03:31):
the edges, almost like teeth, a mouth an open one.
I stood slowly, feeling a cold bloom in my chest,
like recognition, though I didn't know why. I left. Before
my mind could make sense of what I'd seen that night,

(03:54):
I dreamt I was underground. I wasn't buried in dirt,
buried in bone, in a coffin made of interlocking teeth,
and above me, something massive exhaled, something waiting and hungry.

(04:17):
I didn't go to work the next day. Every time
I closed my eyes, I saw that shape burned into
the silo floor, those jagged edges, that impossible symmetry, like
a fossil of something that had taken a bite out
of the world. So instead of clocking in at my
job at the hardware store, I drove to the town museum.

(04:40):
It was like an overgrown attic, cold, dusty, full of
things nobody wanted to throw away or remember. I told
the curator I needed to do some genealogy research. Archives
are downstairs, she muttered, barely looking up. If anything bites you,
it's not our lie ability nice. The archive room smiled

(05:06):
like yellowing paper and mildew. Rows of metal, filing cabinets
containing stacks of old town ledgers and newspaper reels older
than anyone alive in town. I started with obituaries eighteen nineties,
nineteen tens, nineteen thirties, nineteen fifties. A pattern began to

(05:28):
emerge before I even wanted to admit what I saw.
Every twenty seven years, the death count spiked. An old
man wiped out in a house fire, a pastor found
hanged in his own church rafters, a child drowning in
a lake during a drought, just like the stories. Then

(05:51):
I found the nineteen ninety eight folder. It contained detailed
council minutes, and they were terrifying. There were references to
a selection committee and a recipient list. The names were
blacked out with heavy ink strokes, but the phrasing was
unmistakable when entry read, consent acquired the vault remained sealed.

(06:20):
What vault? What consent? I flipped page after page, hands
sweating until I found a single note clip to the
inside cover. If the list is incomplete, notify the elders.
No cycle can begin without unanimous selection. That was the

(06:42):
first moment I felt something twist in my gut. Something
had gone wrong this year. I pulled an old town
survey map, spread it across the table and started comparing
landmarks mentioned in the minutes. A creek that dried up
in the sixties, the road was re rooted in the forties,
an old settlement boundary. Then I found it, a place

(07:08):
marked only once in tiny faded letters, vault Mouth. It
was deep in the woods, far beyond the main trails,
so remote it wasn't on modern GPS, A place nobody
talked about, a place meant to be forgotten and, judging

(07:30):
by the council minutes, deliberately avoided. I was stuffing the
documents back into the folder when a chart slipped out,
A folded piece of thick, brittle paper looked like it
hadn't been touched in decades. On it was a family
tree of the original settlers of the town, with dozens

(07:52):
of names and dozens of branches, most of them were
crossed out with red pencil, and when I saw my
own last name, my stomach dropped. My family's branch wasn't
crossed out. It was circled hard, several times, deep enough

(08:13):
to bring up the fibers of the paper, and next
to it written in the same red pencil, next to
seal the mouth. The room felt suddenly smaller, The air
grew colder than the hairs of my arms, studd at attention,
sending chills down my spine. I stood there, staring at

(08:38):
that circle, that message, feeling like a hand had reached
out of the past and grabbed the back of my neck.
Whatever was happening now, my family hadn't just been a
part of it. We were at the center of it.
There were only two elders in town who had lived

(09:00):
through the nineteen seventy one cycle, and one of them
didn't talk anymore. The other was Delorous Kint. She lived
on a faded yellow house on Birch Lane, the kind
of place that looked like it should have caved in
years ago, but by miracle stayed standing. Had seen her
at the grocery store, sometimes pushing an empty cart, mumbling

(09:23):
to herself. Some said she had dementia, but I also
heard she watched her entire family die through a single October.
I figured both could be true. I knocked on a door,
but there was no answer. I was just about to
leave when a shadow moved behind the curtains and the

(09:45):
locks clicked one, two, three, four. She opened the door,
just wide enough for one eye. Y're the more craft boy,
she said. I didn't correct her. I wasn't sure if
she meant my father or me. Her living room smell

(10:08):
like dust, medicine, an old, damp carpet. She shuffled around
in slippers, muttering tea, tea, Do I make tea? When
I told her I had questions about the past, she
stopped moving, just stopped. Her back stiffened, and she turned

(10:31):
her head in a way that made my saliva taste
like despair. When I swallowed, What year is it? She asked,
twenty twenty five? She sucked in a sharp breath that
soon she whispered. She wondered to a recliner and sat down, hard,

(10:53):
hands trembling. I pulled a chair across from her, dolorous,
I said, quietly, I need to ask about nineteen seventy one,
about your family, about the deaths. She didn't react until
I said the word vault mouth. Her eyes snapped to mine,

(11:20):
clear as crystal, like the fog lifted all at once.
You shouldn't know that name, she exclaimed. Only the chosen
and the choosers know that name. I've found documents, I said,
council notes from nineteen ninety eight mentions of a selection committee.
She let out a shaky laugh. No one chooses any more,

(11:44):
she said, That's why it's angry. Then her voice dropped
or a rasp. It doesn't want a person, It wants
the choice. That's the pact, I swallowed. What happens if
there's no choice? She leaned forward, gripping the edge of

(12:07):
her chair with white knuckled fingers. If the town does
not give, it takes, and it will keep taking until
the mouth is full. Her eyes suddenly darted to the window,
like she expected something to be peering in. Then her
expression changed went blank. Fog rolled back in. She looked lost.

(12:35):
What were we talking about? She murmured, Do I know you?
I staid to leave, but before I could make it
two steps, her hands shot out and grabbed my wrist hard.
Her voice was clear again, sharp, urgent. Say it out

(12:56):
loud and name with intent. It listens, And then like
a switch flipped, her grip loosened and she sank back
into the recliner, staring at the far wall. Her mouth
moved silently, like she was praying to something that wasn't God.

(13:16):
I left the house, trembling as I stepped onto the walkway.
The sound of screeching tore down the street, then a horn,
followed by a sickening, metallic crack. About fifty yards away,
a car had slammed into a telephone pole. The front
end was crumpled like an aluminium can. Steam billowed from

(13:38):
the engine. But what shocked me wasn't the crash. It
was the open driver's side door swinging gently. No one
was inside. There was in a trail leading away, no
blood or body from the impact. A shiver crawled up
my spine. This wasn't the first death. This was the

(14:03):
beginning of something feeding. The map said it was called
Vaultmouth for the land around it had no name, no roads,
just a thinning tree line off Route nineteen and a
path that felt like it hadn't been walked in decades.

(14:25):
I parked where the road turned to gravel and followed
the rest on foot, shouldering through brush, slipping down embankments,
boots snagging on hidden roots. The air got heavier the
deeper I went. Eventually I found the fence, or what
was left of it, Rotting woodposts spaced unevenly around a clearing,

(14:49):
warped with crumbling barbed wire and rusted iron nails, half
driven in, half bent outward. Faded signs dangled by one hinge,
words long gone but symbols still visible, circles, spirals, her
mouth full of triangles, latin etched into the boards, almost

(15:11):
burned in non ellegamous carnem carnem elegant noss. We do
not choose the flesh, The flesh chooses us. It wasn't
just creepy. It felt deliberate, like a warning whispered by
dead hands. I stepped over the boundary. The trees stopped,

(15:35):
all life absent, The soil turned ashen. The center of
the clearing was perfectly flat, ringed with pale stones, half
sunk into the earth, and in the middle was a hole.
At first glance, I thought it was a well, but

(15:56):
on closer inspection it was a smooth, vertical shaft, wide
enough to drop a body into without folding it. The
inside was black, no bottom inside and around the rim
the stone had been carved in a tight spiral, grooves
that curved downward like something of dread claws around the
edge a thousand times just clean, dry stone, and the

(16:22):
faint hum of pressure like the air was breathing in
and out. I picked up a pebble, held it for
a second, then dropped it in nothing, no click or bounce,
just gone, like the earth swallowed it before it hit

(16:44):
the bottom. Near the lip of the shaft. Embedded in
the ground was a slab of metal iron gon orange
with age, bolted down with thick rivets. Names etched across
the surface in uneven hand carved rose, dozens of them.
I ran my fingers across the grooves, reading aloud. Many

(17:07):
I didn't recognize. Then near the bottom one I did.
Walter Moorecroft, my father, the last name on the list.
My breath caught in my throat. He'd never mentioned this place,
never said a word, but somehow he was part of it,

(17:31):
he knew. I left the clearing as fast as I
could without running, liked tying my back on that hole
too quickly might give it permission to reach for me.
The sun was starting to set by the time I
got home. I opened the door to my trailer, and
there he was, sitting in my kitchen. No call or warning,

(17:56):
just there. His eyes were sunken, shirt still half buttoned,
knees jittering. His voice came out flat and shaking. You
shouldn't have gone there. I hadn't seen him in months.
We weren't as strange exactly. We just moved around each other,

(18:19):
like planets on a different orbit. He's only ever showed
up when something has gone wrong, and something had gone very,
very wrong. He looked older than I remembered, drained. His
shirt was unbuttoned and crooked, hand shaking, eyes bloodshot with tiredness,
like he'd been waiting for something. Sit down, he said,

(18:44):
I did, because the tone wasn't optional. He lowered himself
into the chair across from me, elbows on his knees,
breathing slow and heavy, like he had to convince his
lungs to keep working. I know what you've been looking into,
he said. The archives dolorous skinned the vault. Hearing him

(19:08):
say it out loud felt like ice water. Poured down
my spine. Dad, What is it? What's in the vault?
He looked away, jaw clenching. Then he said the words
that would ruin everything I thought I knew about this place.
The town isn't cursed. It made a deal. He rubbed

(19:33):
his face with both hands. Back in eighteen ninety, he said,
the founders struck a pact with whatever lies under the ground.
They call it the mouth, the deep, the listener. It
doesn't matter what name you use. He swallowed hard. We

(19:54):
promised it a life every twenty seven years, just one
chosen willingly through the vote, and in return and left
the rest of us alone. Something horrible was happening to
the settlers, something so horrendous it wasn't even recorded. The
deal was the only way to survive. My stomach twisted.

(20:19):
You're telling me that this town has been sacrificing people.
He didn't flinch. Willingly, Yes, always with consent, always someone
who accepted it. A quiet death, a clean one, and
the vaulte stayed sealed. I must have made a face,

(20:41):
because he added, you think they wanted to make a deal,
that they didn't try a leaving. He shook his head slowly.
People did leave. In the early years, whole families packed
up wagons and tried to outrun. It didn't matter wherever
they went, something followed. Things would start to happen. The

(21:04):
crops would rot, the ground would go dry, children would
get sick. And then he held up one trembling finger,
one death, always one, something final like the mouth, needed
to remind them you can't cheat hunger, you can only

(21:27):
feed it. He leaned back, jaw tight. That's why they
settled it in eighteen ninety, not to keep people in,
but to keep something from following them out. I shot
to my feet and shock. I know what it sounds like,

(21:47):
he snapped. I know, but you weren't here for the
years when the vote didn't happen, when people doubted, when
they resisted. His eyes had gone distant. Those years were hell.
I paced the room, trying to process it all. So

(22:08):
what happened this time? I demanded? Why did the firemen die?
Why are people disappearing? What changed? My dad leaned back
and stared at the ceiling as if the answer was
written there. This year, he said quietly. Nobody could agree.

(22:31):
I stopped moving. The council argued for months. Half the
elders died off. The younger generation doesn't believe. They think
it's all folk tales. He let out a bitter laugh.
Turns out belief doesn't matter, responsibility does. Then softly, there

(22:55):
was no vote, no selection, no name offer. I found
my mouth go dry. So the fireman was taken. Dad said,
but it doesn't count. It wasn't a willing offering. He
leaned forward, eyes burning. It has to be chosen, not

(23:21):
just to death. The words sank into me like hoks,
because suddenly the pattern made sense. The rendom vanishings, the crash,
the way the air felt charged and wrong. The fact
had been broken. The vault was hungry, and there was

(23:41):
no offering to stop it. I sat back down slowly.
He watched me something unreadable in his gaze. Okay, I whispered,
So what now if the sacrifice wasn't made, what does
the vault do? For a long moment, he didn't speak.

(24:06):
Then he inhaled, sharply like the next part heard to say,
then it's up to the collector. I frowned, What does
that mean? He didn't let me finish? He looked at
me with an expression I had never seen on his
face before. Terror, grief, and something like an apology. The

(24:33):
collector isn't a person, he said, It's a roll passed
down a bloodline. Every generation has one. His voice cracked,
and if the town won't choose the sacrifice, the collector
must A cold precious settled behind my ribs. No, I said, no,

(25:00):
you're not saying. He closed his eyes, and then he
said it, voice barely above a whisper, the words I
didn't want to hear, it's you. After my father left,

(25:22):
I didn't sleep. I sat at the kitchen table thinking
about the name etched into that rusted iron plate, Walter Morecraft,
my father, the previous collector now passed on to me,
And I couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd looked
at me, like I was something he was sorry for,

(25:45):
not something he loved. I knew he hadn't told me everything,
not even close. So I broke into the locked foot
locker he kept under the guest bed. He always kept
it bolted, shot, like he thought someone would try to
steal his old hunting gear. But I knew the combination,

(26:05):
same one he used for everything inside, not weapons or tools,
just journals, stacks of them, weather walked and yellowing. Page
after page and my father's tight, careful handwriting. Most of

(26:25):
it was nonsense at first, where the reports council meeting
notes obituaries with names underlined and circled. He'd been tracking
every cycle since I was born. But then the language changed.
He stopped writing like a man and started writing like

(26:45):
a witness. One page read it speaks in symbols, now dreams.
The hum in the trees isn't the wind, It's waiting
for its name to be spoken. Another. When the collector
is called, the chosen cannot offer themselves. The collector must choose.

(27:09):
This is the fact, the old way, and by death,
by right. The words collector and vault mouth appeared again
and again, sometimes capitalized, sometimes underlined in red, and next
to them crude diagrams of the vault, the shaft, the spiral,

(27:32):
the concentric rings of trees around it, marked with strange glyffs.
Some look like runds, others like teeth. One diagram showed
a person standing at the edge of the vault with
arrows pointing inward, as if their presence activated something open.
Something Then came a section I hadn't expected, returning back

(27:57):
to the style of a journal detailing day beats of
a tense time in the town. It spoke of apocalyptic symptoms,
the lake changing color, the sky casting strange shoes, and
the wildlife losing their minds. People disappeared and families were
torn apart, all because Walter, my father, could not choose.

(28:23):
It mimicked the current time, the council not choosing, and
the decision falling to the collector, an impossible choice of
life and death. One to die for many to live.
That night, the vault came to me again in dreams,
but this time I wasn't inside it. I wasn't falling.

(28:46):
I was standing above it, at the edge, looking out
at a crowd of people, kneeling, hands clasped, heads bowed,
whispering something I couldn't hear. I was speaking, my mouth moved,
my voice was not my own, and the vault opened.

(29:15):
It started with the birds. Every morning, my poor trailing
used to be dotted with crows, the smart, spiteful rascals
that lined every wire in the town like little black judges.
Then one morning they were all just gone. That same day,

(29:35):
a field of cows in the west end of town
was found standing in perfect formation, heads lowered toward the ground. Unmoving,
every single one of them, dead, bloodless organs, folded inside
out like paper crafts. Two nights later, I heard something boil,

(29:56):
but not from the kitchen, from outside. I looked out
and saw it was the lake, an entire body of
water roiling like a pot left on too long wakes pond,
the old reservoir where used the swim where we were kids,
steamed for ten hours straight. The water turned thick and red.

(30:18):
Fish floated to the surface, split open. The air changed
after that smelled wrong, sweet but spoiled, like rotted peaches
or burnt teeth. Something was opening, and I wasn't the
only one who noticed. The few remaining town elders, the

(30:39):
one who still remembered how this thing worked, called a
secret vote. They held it in the old stone house
outside Mill Creek, the kind of place built with no
insulation and too many locks. Only six of them showed up.
They tried to vote, They tried to choose a name,
but the vault didn't care anymore. It had waited, being ignored,

(31:04):
denied it's due. Now He wanted me, not as a meal,
as a mouthpiece. I didn't hear this second hand. One
of the elders, a retired judge named Hulvessa came to
my door at dawn. His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles scraped,

(31:24):
like he'd punted something harder than he expected. He sat
on my port, swing hands trembling as he lit a cigarette.
We failed it, he said. I didn't speak. You're the
last stop, you understand. I just stared. He flicked ash

(31:45):
onto the ground. The collector exists for a reason, in
case of breakdown, when the people can't choose, the blood must.
You're not a sacrifice. You're the priest. Just be. You
can name with intent. That's all you have to do.
If you need suggestions, I can. I told him to

(32:07):
get off my property, told him I wasn't killing anyone
for a town too cowdly to face its own history.
You're offering that's different. I slammed the door, but the
ground kept humming. That night, it got worse. The sky

(32:29):
turned the color of old bruises. The clouds spiraled low
and fast, like water being sucked down a drain. My
neighbors trees bled sap that smelt like iron. Dogs stopped barking,
In fact, dogs stopped moving. A low bell began to
ring from nowhere. No visible sauce, just there, vibrating through

(32:51):
the soles of your feet. Something was uncoiling. The vault
wasn't sealed anymore, not fully. At three twenty one a
m my phone lit up with a message from an
unknown number, just one line choose. By morning, Dolorous Kint

(33:15):
was dead. She had been found in her bed, peaceful,
no wounds, no trauma, but her face was smiling, hands
folded like in a church pew, and between her palms
a yellowing card had written, addressed to me, name the chosen.

(33:43):
I knew where they kept the records. It wasn't a secret.
The room was beneath the old town Hall, not in
the modern wing, but in the original limestone foundation, with
a smell of mildew soaked into your tongue, and a
light bust like an insect was trapped behind your eyes.
It was still unlocked. They hadn't even tried to hide it.

(34:07):
Maybe they wanted me to find it. The Selection Ledger
was a thick cloth bound book that looked like it
belonged in a court house or a church, heavy frayed,
smelling of dust and smoke and human oil. Inside, names
page after page, each handwritten in loop incursive, some dated

(34:32):
over a century ago. I flipped forward to the most
recent year, this year. The first few pages for normal
just names, birthdays, occupations, handwritten summaries of each candidate's community standing,
financial status, and family size. Then I started seeing the

(34:54):
red circles, suggestions for choice, a short list for them
to vote. Alongside them were stern judgments marked with phrases
like approaching end of life or minimal surviving kin or
historically low civic contribution. And then added on were notes

(35:17):
not from the elders. No, their handwriting was farmer, direct
be younger handwriting, softer language, correctional. Even Marlene Gillard eighty four,
she still tutors at the library. Her great granddaughter just
got accepted to college. She brings hope to the family.

(35:40):
This would destroy them. Thomas Harvey, fifty eight, disabled VET
still teachers would working mentors troubled kids as PTSD wouldn't
be ethical. Alicia Norris forty one, chronic illness started the
Grief Circle after the ninety nine death. Still manages the

(36:02):
town website would send the wrong message to others with
chronic conditions. George Amblin seventy one, ex convict, he served
his time runs the food pantry. His death would confirm
every stereotype the town's trying to grow past. Every single
name was paired with a counterpoint. Every sacrifice was dismantled

(36:26):
by empathy. The deeper I read the angry I felt,
not at them, but how familiar it was, How easy
it is to rationalize in action when action feels monstrous.
This wasn't corruption, It wasn't blood lust. It was compassion.

(36:46):
They had tried to be better, but better didn't stop
the vault from waking. Better didn't boil the lake. Better
didn't spare dolorous? Or was it ignorance? A new of
leaders who wrote off tradition as ignorance, something to move past.
The final page wasn't even finished, just a handful of

(37:09):
names with redd inks scratched through, like someone had grown
furious and thrown the pen across the room. In the margin,
one line of newer handwriting, there are no perfect deaths,
another in pencil. Then maybe we stop pretending it's worth choosing,
and under that scrawled in dark pen pressure piercing through

(37:33):
the paper, then we die together. I closed the book.
The Vaults was right, This wasn't a sacrifice. Anymore. It
was a failure. That night, I dreamed of the spiral again,
only this time I descended. No ladder, no rope, no footing.

(37:58):
I just fell chen, as if the air below me
had turned to water. The stone walls pulled away as
I went, becoming ribs, then roots, then rows of open mouths,
all breathing together in rhythm. And at the bottom, where
sounds should have vanished into nothing, there was light, soft, living,

(38:23):
like a heartbeat under skin. I didn't hear anything, but
I felt it behind my eyes, in my gums, in
the marrow of every bone. The town agreed to the cost,
it said. I turned, and around me were reflections, other towns,

(38:44):
other timelines. Each one was different, and in all of
them the vault had gone unsealed. One showed sparrows of
fire coiling up into the sky, turning birds inside out
in flight, and a town square full of kneeling people,
mouth sown shut with golden thread, trees grown backwards through

(39:07):
their skulls. In one, the vault was gone, not sealed,
but absorbed, as if it had eaten the land around
it and kept growing. They were all worse than anything
I could imagine, and every one of them had something
in common. No choice was made. I woke up with

(39:31):
my pillows soaked in sweat and my tongue heavy in
my mouth, like it had been speaking without me. Despite
all I had seen, in what I could call more
a vision than a dream, I still couldn't pick one name.

(39:53):
I didn't call a meeting, but there came anyway. One
by one, the eldest file into my living room. Some
looked resigned, some looked angry, some looked like they hadn't
slept in days. And behind them, the younger council members
slunk in with a sting of guilt on their faces.

(40:15):
No greetings or small talk, just expectation. Judge Vesser was
the first to speak. It has to be now, he said,
we've run out of time. Another miller ran a hand
through a hair shaking. You've studied the list, You've seen

(40:35):
the sky. You know what happens if we don't. My
throat tightened. I'm not choosing, I said, not one, not
any of them. A long silence. Then something changed in
the room. The faces of the younger members, those who
had written all the gentle notes in the margins, all

(40:58):
the reasons why each circod names shouldn't be chosen shifted,
the sympathy drained, the humanity dimmed. A man named Devlyn
stepped forward, jabbing a finger at the ledger on my
coffee table. Just pick someone from the marked list, he snapped.
Anyone Marlene is old, nor is it sick. Elroy's basically retired.

(41:22):
It doesn't matter, Just choose. These were the same people
who had written She's a pillar of her family. He
volunteers more than anyone. She gives hope to the community.
Now they spoke like a countance balancing a ledger. It's
between them or us, Develin said, don't act like it's complicated.

(41:48):
Something inside me curdled. I shoved the ledger away, sending
it skidding across the floor. If you want a name
so bad, I said, through my teeth, pick one yourselves.
We can't versa whispered he won't listen to us any more.
It only listens to the collector. Well, then you're all screwed,

(42:11):
I said, because I'm not playing priest for a monster.
The idea of getting blood on my hands to save
these people, ready to condemn another with the responsibility I
didn't ask for, was too much. The room went dead quiet.
Everyone stared at me like I'd just set the house

(42:32):
on fire. But nobody said a thing. Nobody argued or moved.
They just stood there, waiting, hoping fear would make me fold.
And then the door exploded inward. My father stormed in

(42:53):
with the force of a man who had been running
for miles, eyes wide, hair slicked with sweat. His voice
hid the room before he did. You stupid boy, he roared.
You think this is a joke. You think you get
a refuse. I thought he was just going to yell,

(43:14):
maybe shove me, maybe tried to scare me into it.
I did not think he would tackle me to the floor.
My head hid the hard woods so hard stars burst
behind my eyes. Before I could breathe, his hands were
on my collar, dragging me up and slamming me back
down again. Say a name, he barked, Just say the

(43:37):
goddamn name. At first I thought he was bluffing, losing
control and panic, for the weight of my chest didn't
lift and his fists didn't stop. My vision blurred white
at the edges, my teeth rattled with each blow. Behind him,

(43:58):
the elder stood frozen, not intervening, not helping, watching things
play out, not knowing which side to take, Some horrified,
some relieved, watching action they must have dreamt of doing,
but didn't have the guts. My father leaned close, breath

(44:19):
hot on my cheek. You're supposed to keep it sealed.
You're supposed to be better than this, he snarled. I
had to do this too, Just do it another blow.
My skull screamed, No wonder your mother left, no wonder
I left. You were always weak, always a disappointment, Just

(44:42):
like now. He wasn't trying to scare me any more.
He was trying to kill me. My ears rang, blood
filled the back of my throat. The world tilted sideways.
I felt myself slipping, Consciousness slipping, dissolving, like the vaults
was already tugging at me. And in my delirium, one

(45:06):
thought surfaced. I didn't have to choose from the list.
I could choose the one trying to kill me. My
lips moved before I fully realized what I was saying,
I whispered my father's name, barely audible, cracked, broken but true.

(45:31):
The second the consonants left my mouth, the weight vanished, gone.
My father wasn't sprawled over me anymore. A soft death,
like a heart attack or stroke. He wasn't in the room,
he wasn't anywhere. A moment ago, he was beating me
into the floor. Now there was only air and silence.

(45:57):
A few of the elders gasped. One crossed himself. Another
woman looked away, trembling. No one said a word, because
they knew what I had done, and worse, they knew
what it meant. The room emptied a minute. No goodbyes,

(46:18):
no reprimands, no condolences, just fear. They fled like they
expected the house to collapse. The second they crossed the threshold.
I was left lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling,
my heart beat hammering in my teeth. Eventually I stood,

(46:40):
walked to the window. The sky was clearing, the clouds unraveling,
colors returning, the hum in the earth finally quiet. It
was over, Just like that. My father was the sacrifice.
The town was safe for now. The town healed fast.

(47:10):
That was the strangest part. In the weeks that followed.
Life returned to a rhythm. Not the same rhythm, maybe,
but something close enough to pass for normal. The sky
lost this bruised hue. The tree stopped leaning in the
power lines stopped whispering, People got up and went to work.

(47:31):
The butcher reopened, the school held a bake sale. The
lake was still red, but no one talked about that.
The selection committee resumed their meetings quieter, now, fewer members
and fewer words spoken. When they left those rooms. Once
I used to see them as elders, guardians, wise men

(47:54):
and women holding ancient truths. Now they looked like exhausted
survivor was scared of what might come next. I never
went back to their meetings. They never asked me to.
But there was one thing left to do. One door
I hadn't opened. My father's house sat just off the

(48:19):
main square, tucked between two identical ranch style homes. I'd
driven past it a hundred times without thinking. I don't
know what I expected, but when I stepped inside, it
was exactly what I'd feared. Sparse furniture, a sink full
of old dishes frozen in a stack like bricks in

(48:42):
the freezer. A recliner with an ass groof too deep
to undo, facing a TV tuned permanently to the sports channel.
It was a life half lived, lonely, mechanical gray. I
stood in that room for a long time. It smelled

(49:02):
like dust, coffee and a man who didn't know what
to do with silence. And then I saw it, A
folded piece of paper sitting on the coffee table. My
name was written on the front in my father's blockie,
stubborn handwriting. I opened it. If you're reading this, then

(49:28):
I went through with it. I'm sorry you had to
see it. Sorry you had to be a part of it.
I didn't want that for you, not ever. That's why
I left, but I had to make sure you'd do it.
I couldn't risk you freezing up the way the others did.
I know you, I raised you. You were always the

(49:51):
good one. Even when you were little. You gave away
your Halloween candy to the kids who were too scared
to trick a treat, used to cry when you saw roadkill.
That's the kind of heart you have, big, honest kind.
But a heart like that won't save this town. It

(50:11):
never has. I said things I didn't mean, did things
I never wanted to do. You have to know that
I needed to make myself into the enemy. I needed
to give you someone worth condemning. If you hated me
enough to speak my name with weight, the NW to survive,

(50:33):
and the town ward too. That was always the deal.
One name spoken with intent. That's how the mouth knows
the offering is real. It had to be me. I
was already half way gone anyway. I've been watching the
sky for years now. I could feel it, the teeth

(50:56):
behind the clouds, the pressure in my bones. It was coming,
and you were going to be the one it turned to.
So I gave you something to aim at me. I'm
proud of you, not because he did what I wanted,

(51:16):
but because even after everything, I think you hesitated. Don't
let this town break you. You're not like the rest
of them. Keep being the kind one, even if it hurts.
Oh my love, Dad. I sat down in his chair.

(51:43):
He didn't feel right, didn't fit me, but I sat
there anyway, and I cried harder than I had in years.
Not because he was gone or because of what he did,
but because I understood, and I hated that I understood