Nothing here is to be taken ICly unless you learned of it ICly.
Many people confuse occults with cults, but rarely vice versa. This isn't anything particularly new, unfortunately, but it is still annoying nonetheless.
A little girl, only 10 years old at the time, had the unfortunate displeasure of discovering what the difference is.
Under her father's orders, this child would be tasked with infiltrating a cult. A stubborn one indulging in rather grotesque rituals, staining the company Ivan Belov wished to partner with. What better way to deal with it than to send his daughter to dispose of them? No one would know.
Pomona Belov did not realize the gravity of what she was getting herself into. It may have been a mission from her father, but she didn't expect... this.
A dark, musty room with a wooden tomb in the center of it. The floorboards were stained with crimson, the wood rotted and moldy, and the stench permeated the air. Several small insects scurried across the floor and walls, startled by the presence of other people.
If Belov weren’t conditioned to stomach such a horrid thing, she would’ve been puking up her guts, no doubt.
“You are to lie inside the tomb as we perform the ritual. Understood, Ms. Achlys?”
Isolyn, the cult’s leader. Born and raised in it, her fate had long since been set in stone.
“... Yes, of course.”
The alias she’d taken on with her disguise was… unusual. Foreign, but it worked. Without any objections, she approached the tomb, taking in its appearance once close enough. Messy carvings of odd symbols were embedded into the wood, etched by hands that trembled more from blind belief than actual skill.
Small fingers traced the edge of the tomb, the wood groaning beneath the pressure. It was as if it was welcoming her, urging her to rest inside. How unnerving…
Wasting no more time, the young girl climbed into it. Her arms crossed over her chest, forming an ‘X’. Peering down at her were two cultists, cloaked in a dark blue, almost black, robe. She recognized one solely from the blonde strands that peeked over the gothic, theatrical mask—Noel.
A surprisingly sweet girl who’d been dragged into the cult against her will. She was religious, yet she couldn’t indulge in her usual practices as she used to. Unfortunately, her time in such a grim, vile environment had corrupted her once pure soul. A shame… truly.
The last thing Pomona saw was the pale, hollow expression of Isolyn. Then, the lid was slid over the tomb, and darkness descended upon her. Despite the stench of rot and an unpleasant image of bugs crawling all over her, she was relatively… fine. Her eyes fell closed, listening closely to what was happening beyond her confinement.
Whispers…
Murmurs…
Chanting…
Murmurs…
Chanting…
A mixture of something within the tomb, within her head, and outside of it. The cultists chanted their nonsensical hymns, but something else lingered near the child’s ears.
“You don’t belong here.”
“You’ve brought IT with you.”
“They know what you are… what you carry.”
“It is something worse than us.”
“You’ve brought IT with you.”
“They know what you are… what you carry.”
“It is something worse than us.”
She was nothing more than a vessel for their fake deity.
Were these… her thoughts? Were these words being chanted by the cultists beyond the wooden walls? Paranoia slowly seeped into her conscience, anxiety coursing through her veins. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. Then, a harsh bite on her tongue, a subtle metallic taste filling her mouth.
“Pain is proof you are still the master of your body. Use it,” her father’s words echoed.
The Latin chants had grown quiet until the air stilled, a cold chill filling the atmosphere. It slipped between the cracks of the tomb, brushing over Belov’s body. For a moment, it felt as though something had snuck in, slithering around her neck in a suffocating manner.
Breathe. Don’t forget to breathe.
A hand reached into a small pocket, clutching something with a handle.
The cold only grew, causing the child to shudder a little.
Do it… now.
The tomb creaked, followed by a muffled clicking sound, and then…
Blood-curdling screams.
It was not Pomona Belov who became the sacrifice, but the one doing the sacrifice.