Twisted

The orchard was a place of darkness, of solemnity. The decaying trees bore no fruit here. They stood in solidarity with their gnarled roots and twisted branches stretched towards the sky. Near the center of the orchard a mound arose from the earth, and atop the hill a funeral pyre was ablaze. From the sky the landscape appeared to be the fiery wheel of Ezekiel etched into the earth.

A group of hooded figures came emerged from a cave on the east end of the grove. The leader of the group held a crying baby in her arms. Together they encircled the fire and began chanting in unison.

“Mother grant us fire to defeat the Beast,

our Father, who loved us the least.

Accept our sacrifice, and may it suffice,

from the womb to the tomb, thus sealing his doom.”

And with that they hurled the baby into the flames. But the screams of agony quickly transformed into maniacal laughter. The baby crawled out of the flames and onto the grass. The coven stood immobilized as the child-thing grew larger and more menacing. A few cultists tried escaping the orchard when the surrounding trees swooped down and impaled them. Nothing was what it seemed. The remaining witches fell to their knees and began begging for forgiveness.

“Father. Please. Do not do this. We didn’t know. We thought Mother told the truth.”

and with that The Patriarch bellowed, “Pity. You had thought me evil and sought to extinguish my life. But in your sacredness had decided to kill an innocent child? And I’m the wicked one? None of you will leave here alive.”

Instantly the trees uprooted themselves and encircled the remaining cultists. One by one the remaining cultists fell. The Father looked upon his slaughtered children and was saddened. This would be the first year without their petulant insincerity. He resolved to impregnate more women.