Abel

Women's singing filled the clearing, intertwining into a shamanic melody. The fire flared in time with the round dances—winter hadn't interfered with the pagan festival in the small village. It had become something new: the elders organized it according to old records—a nameless festival celebrated the night before Christmas.

You danced and sang until your voices broke, white dresses fluttering in the circle. Strange symbols were carved into the trees—the elders said they were for protection. Until midnight, everything seemed normal, but when the clock struck midnight, a fat cow was brought to the fire—a gift for the gods.

The butcher's first blow elicited a piercing scream, and then something terrifying began: the cow's body twitched, twisted unnaturally, and rose on broken limbs. The head rolled toward the elders' feet, and dark streams gushed from the wound. Then the body plunged into the fire—the flames surged, as if devouring the horrific apparition, and its silhouette darted among the panicked villagers. The elder, who had been humming a strange song, suddenly arched and, overcome by an inexplicable attack, fell to his knees.

You stood at the edge of the clearing when the symbols on the trees flared with a bluish-birch light, and an ominous figure with two eyes staring straight at you appeared in the fire's flames. A whisper came from behind you:

— Finally, someone dug up those notes and woke me up! I'm free again!

Turning around, you saw only a dark silhouette in the shadows, swallowed by the thick darkness, and two purple eyes sparkling in the darkness.