The Verboten

I

The village of Andover was a small quaint town, not yet touched my the fingers of industrialization. Corruption ran deep in authoritative hands, even seeping into the souls of the blessed and demanding everything that it was able to take. Upon the surface one wouldn't think a lively town which was filled with people saying hellos to every other person and filled with laughter could be the noble center of sex slave trade. No, of course not. Children played merrily in the fields and strangers were to be welcomed into the local inn. But at night, when darkness fell upon the land, the rules were set to a different kind of occasion.

The baker would fuck his daughter while his son watched. The butcher would take to the dead corpses of animals. The benevolent holy preacher would undo his robes upon two innocent little twin girls, not even of age 8. Their mother, having sold them for money for her next morphine fix. Surely if there was a god, he must have a plan? No. There was no god in that forbidden abyss. The same children who would be merry during the day, would be locked in a dungeon until chosen to become sex slaves and eventually losing their soul to insanity. But there was one rule, and only one that Andover had. Which the less sinful told their offspring of.

"Do not covet the creatures of Ravanna. For if you do, our souls will be damned."

This stemmed from many generations ago, when Andover was first built in 1622. One of the founders attempted to touch a Ravanna. It was said his body lit on fire, and venomous snakes hunted his last family members one by one until effectively the bloodline ceased to exist. They would from then on be unspokenly titled the 'verboten', meaning forbidden. Throughout the many years, mobs would attempt to drive out the family of Osiris. Their raised pitch forks and torches meant nothing to the family. Once the stream of chants entered the small house, a different mantra started to echo. Once the door closed behind them, it was left closed.

Soon there was a day the moon abandoned Andover. That was the day she was born into darkness. There was no shining light, no bright path upon which the moon could have shown itself. The dirt paths of Andover lay bare, as the low winds rustled the branches of willows. If one was to listen closely, their low whispers would slowly become clear statements of excitement yet underlying darkly with fear. Tragedy. The townspeople closed their shutters and hid themselves under the guise of the thick black air that hung still. Some took to praying to whatever gods they depended on, while others threw themselves upon the more primitive ways of group sex, members of the willing and unwilling, in order to cast away the oncoming danger.

"𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑 𝑖𝑠 𝑏𝑜𝑟𝑛. 𝑂ℎ, 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑙𝑑!"

Predators who stalked their prey any other night would do no such thing, for that night was the night of which there would only be one predator.

The first born of Osiris.

The House of Ravana stood on the edge of Andover, it's appearance a stark contrast to the pastel theme that cloaked the disgusting towns' horrors. A true representation of what was hidden beneath. It's dark frame stood out among light brown topsoil, an imposing figure indeed. The creak of splintered oakwood whispered echoes of the rich past. Of great figures, not entirely righteouss.

The house itself was alive, its breath flowed through the house. Painted faces overexerted in power emotions decorated the walls. Upon the door frames lay the crest. The evil one, the sinner, the snake. Bookshelves adorned all walls of the house, filled with secrets yet to be allowed revelation. The past etched itself into the cracked wood, not yet able to loosen it's claws. Not much unlike a lion whose pray lay still in his grasp. The lion enjoys the presence of death, savors in the rich rush of a hunt, then devours his pray in front of his rivals.

That night a woman gave birth to a child that was not her own.

The woman hushed the whining bloody newborn in her arms. Her face pale, and her breath unsteady as sweat dripped down the sides of her face. The arms that wrapped around the newborn shook violently, as blood slowly pooled around her lying form and seeped into the carved lion drawn etched into the floor. The room itself was a barren room, devoid of most furniture save for a bookcase. Etchings of various shapes and ancient tongues decorated the room instead. 

The mother knew she had little time left, she felt her soul being ripped away from her being and absorbed by the newborn. No there was no time left. She whispered a chant as her vision started to darken, and with every breath she took blinding pain shot through her spine. Burning, excruciating pain. Her chant was an ode to protection. Protection of her child. Her eyes started to blurr and drift over the beautiful little sin, but once her eyes landed on her child's collarbone the voice that hummed rites of protection vanished. Her vision swayed this time and her head hit the floor as her arms loosened around the newborn. A tear slowly trailed down the side of her face as she uttered one incantation under her breath.

Then the world vanished.

~~~~~~~~~

Fact: The salem witch trials occurred in 1622.

Fiction: Andover was built in 1622.