The Town of Bogahill

Chapter Five: The Feast of Flesh

Morning came slowly, dragging itself through the fog like something wounded. The light that seeped through the curtains was pale and sickly, casting long shadows that made the room seem smaller than before. Caroline woke to an empty bed. Gerald was gone again, and his side of the mattress was cold. The smell of damp earth and smoke filled the room, and for a moment, she could have sworn she heard footsteps pacing in the hallway. But when she opened the door, there was nothing just silence, thick and heavy, pressing against her ears. Downstairs, the children were quiet. Rita sat at the table, staring blankly at a bowl of untouched porridge, her small hands trembling slightly. Patrick was by the window, drawing invisible lines on the glass with his finger. Caroline tried to sound calm as she asked where their father was, but neither child answered. Rita finally whispered, “He’s with them.”

“With who, sweetheart?”

Rita lifted her eyes, dark and hollow. “The people from last night. The ones that talk through the walls. Caroline’s stomach twisted. She wanted to tell her daughter it was just a dream, but the words refused to leave her lips. There was something about the way the house felt this morning alive, aware that made lies impossible. She decided they needed fresh air. Anything to escape the suffocating weight of the whispers. But when she opened the door, the street outside was filled with fog so dense she couldn’t see ten feet ahead. Figures moved in it slow, deliberate shapes that disappeared the moment she tried to focus. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang three times. Its sound was low and mournful, echoing through the valley like a warning. As the bell faded, Gerald’s voice broke the stillness. “Caroline.”

She turned sharply. He was standing at the gate, his clothes damp, his face pale but calm. “Where have you been?” she asked, her voice trembling despite herself.

“Meeting some of the townsfolk,” he said softly. “They invited us to a feast tonight. A celebration in our honor.”

“A feast?” She forced a laugh, though it came out thin and brittle. “That’s strange. You said this place was quiet people hardly spoke to each other.”

Gerald smiled, and something about that smile made her blood run cold. “It’s a small community, Caroline. They value togetherness. They said it would mean a lot if we came.” Rita began to cry quietly at the table. Patrick moved to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Caroline wanted to say no, to tell Gerald they were leaving, but his eyes calm, steady, and strangely distant held hers, and she found herself nodding instead. That evening, as the sun bled out behind the hills, the family followed Gerald through the fog-shrouded streets. The air was thick with the scent of burning herbs and something faintly metallic. Torches lined the road, flickering weakly in the mist. The townspeople were already gathered in the square, dressed in worn robes that fluttered like wings. Their faces were pale, their eyes sunken, yet they smiled when they saw Gerald. Caroline gripped his arm tightly. “Gerald, what is this?” she whispered.

He looked down at her with that same quiet, unsettling calm. “Tradition,” he said. “Just tradition.”

At the center of the square stood a massive wooden table draped with a black cloth. On it were bowls of dark stew, loaves of bread, and slabs of meat glistening in the firelight. The smell was overpowering—rich, sweet, and wrong. Caroline’s stomach turned as one of the villagers gestured for them to sit. Rita clung to her mother’s hand, whispering, “Mommy, the meat is crying.”

Caroline froze. “What?”

“The meat,” Rita said again, her voice barely audible. “It’s crying. Can’t you hear it?”

Caroline listened. At first, there was nothing but the crackle of fire. Then, beneath it a faint, wet sound, like a muffled sob. Her throat tightened.Gerald sat at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. The townsfolk began to chant in low, rhythmic tones, their voices blending into something ancient and wrong. Caroline’s vision swam. The sound pressed into her skull, vibrating through her teeth. When she turned to Gerald, he was already looking at her, his eyes dark and hollow. “Eat,” he said softly. “It’s part of the ritual.”

“Ritual?” she whispered.

“For the good of the town,” he replied.

A woman approached with a bowl and placed it in front of Caroline. The stew inside was thick and red, and floating at the top was something that looked disturbingly like a small bone. Caroline pushed it away, bile rising in her throat. Gerald didn’t flinch. He picked up his spoon and began to eat. The townsfolk watched in silence, their chanting replaced by slow, collective breaths that rose and fell like the tide. When he finished, he wiped his mouth and turned to her, his voice calm and final. “Tomorrow,” he said, “it will be your turn.” Caroline felt the world tilt around her. “My turn for what?”

But Gerald didn’t answer. He only smiled, and in that moment, she realized the truth—Bogahill wasn’t a town that welcomed its visitors. It kept them. And tonight’s feast was only the beginning.

ID: 001234