The Pull
The wind carried an eerie stillness as you trudged along the dirt road, the last rays of sunlight dipping behind the jagged peaks. The air was heavy, charged with an unnatural energy that prickled at your skin. The village came into view like an apparition—a cluster of sagging roofs and smoke-stained chimneys nestled in the shadow of an ancient forest. You didn’t know what had drawn you here, only that the compulsion had grown impossible to ignore.
It began weeks ago. First, in dreams. They started as flashes of a dark chapel, of crows circling a blackened sky, of golden eyes watching you from the void. The dreams left you waking in a cold sweat, the images etched into your mind. Then, during your waking hours, you began to hear whispers—faint and unintelligible, like the echo of a forgotten prayer.
They grew louder as you neared the village, guiding your steps as though the path was etched into your soul. Rational thought told you to turn back, to forget the unsettling pull, and to return to the mundane safety of your life. But something deep within—the same part that trembled at the whispers—told you there was no other choice.
As you passed through the wooden gate marking the village entrance, the atmosphere thickened. The air felt alive, pulsing with a rhythm you couldn’t quite place. Shadows flickered at the edges of your vision, darting between the crooked buildings, but when you turned to look, there was nothing there. Only the crows, dozens of them, perched along rooftops and gnarled branches, their unblinking eyes following your every move.
The village was silent, unnaturally so. No voices, no signs of life, save for the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional caw of a crow. Your footsteps echoed against the cobblestones as you made your way deeper into the heart of the settlement.
And then you saw it.
The chapel stood at the end of the main road, its dark spire piercing the sky like a blade. The structure was old, older than the village itself, its stone walls etched with intricate carvings of wings and eyes. The massive iron gates bore the emblem of four wings encircling a void—a symbol that felt both foreign and intimately familiar.
Your heart raced as you approached, the whispers now a chorus in your mind, their words just out of reach. You hesitated at the gates, your hand trembling as it hovered over the cold metal. Something inside you screamed to stop, to turn back, but the pull was stronger. You pushed the gate open, the creak of its hinges echoing into the silence.
The interior of the chapel was dark, lit only by the pale glow of moonlight streaming through cracked stained glass. Rows of wooden pews stretched toward the altar, where a lone figure stood, their back to you.
She turned slowly, her movements fluid and deliberate. The air seemed to shift around her, the oppressive energy thickening as her golden eyes locked onto yours.
Mother Miranda.
Her presence was overwhelming, a combination of regality and menace that rooted you to the spot. Her black-and-gold robes seemed to shimmer in the dim light, flowing like liquid shadow. The mask obscured her face, but it did nothing to hide the power radiating from her, nor the intensity of her gaze.
“You’ve come far,” she said, her voice smooth and commanding.
Your throat felt dry, words failing you as you struggled to comprehend the gravity of her presence. You hadn’t even realized you’d dropped to your knees until you felt the cold stone against them.
“I—” you stammered, but she silenced you with a raised hand.
“There is no need for words. I know why you are here,” she said, her tone carrying an edge of satisfaction. She stepped closer, each movement deliberate, her gaze never leaving yours. “I felt you long before you felt yourself.”
“What… do you mean?” you managed to choke out, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
Miranda’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it carried no warmth. “You are connected to this place, to me, in ways you cannot yet understand. You were meant to come here, drawn by forces older than this village.”
The cryptic words stirred something deep within you, an unsettling resonance that left you breathless. “I don’t understand,” you said, shaking your head. “Why me? I’ve never been here before.”
Her smile widened, and for a fleeting moment, the mask seemed to slip, revealing a glimmer of something raw beneath the austere exterior. “Haven’t you?”
Before you could respond, she raised her hand, and the air around you seemed to ripple. The crows outside erupted into a cacophony of cries, their wings beating against the night sky as they took flight. The energy in the room crackled, and your vision blurred.
Images flooded your mind—visions of the village in flames, of experiments conducted in dark chambers, of Miranda herself standing amidst it all, her golden eyes blazing with purpose. And then, you saw yourself—not as you were now, but as something… different. Something more.
The visions left you gasping for air, your knees buckling beneath you. Miranda caught you effortlessly, her grip firm yet almost gentle. “Do you see now?” she murmured, her voice softer but no less commanding. “You are not merely a visitor. You are part of this. Part of me.”
You struggled to process her words, the flood of images still swirling in your mind. “I… I don’t understand. What are you saying?”
“You will,” she said simply, releasing you and stepping back. “In time.”
Her gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before she turned, her robes billowing behind her as she moved toward the altar. “For now, you must rest. You will need your strength for what lies ahead.”
Her words carried an undeniable finality, and though every instinct screamed at you to demand answers, you found yourself unable to disobey. As if compelled by an unseen force, you rose to your feet and followed her gesture toward a small side chamber.
Inside, a modest bed awaited, along with a basin of water and a single candle. The room was sparse, but it felt oddly comforting, the oppressive energy of the chapel lessened within its walls.
As you lay down, exhaustion overtaking you, the whispers returned—softer now, but no less insistent. You closed your eyes, their words lulling you into a restless sleep filled with visions of golden eyes, black wings, and a destiny you could not escape.