The Ritual

by Ssosma Ismail

The Ritual
The new town feels like wearing someone else’s clothes. Everything feels slightly wrong, how the
light shines through the window of my new bedroom, the way people pronounce certain things
here that makes me feel like an outsider every single time I open my mouth. I can’t put my finger
on what exactly makes me feel so incredibly uncomfortable about this new city, but there’s
something in the air that wants me to go away so badly.

At the new school, I am nobody. I don’t want to be noticed either. I deliberately sit in the back of
every classroom. I always leave early to avoid interactions. I never eat in the cafeteria. You might
ask why I make my school and social life so unnecessarily difficult.

Good question. I just can’t shake this weird feeling that something isn’t right about this city. The
environment, the people.. everything would seem totally normal to others but my body screams
danger.

It starts with the smell. Sweet but strong, like flowers left too long in water. It’s strongest near
the old church at the center of town, the one that looks like it will collapse any minute if the wind
blows too hard.

The people here smile too much. Not genuine smiles but stretched and weirdly uncomfortable
ones that look like it hurts. They smile when they pass you on the street, when they’re buying
groceries, when they’re talking about the weather. Always the same weird smile.

David notices it too. He’s in some of my classes, always sitting near the back like me, always
watching with careful attention.

“They all have the same haircut” , he says to me one day after german class. It’s the first time
he’s spoken to me directly.

I glance around the hallway and realize he’s right. Every adult follows identical styles, the men
with hair cut to the same length. The women’s hair varies in color but follows the same pattern,
open short curls, reminds me of Marilyn Monroe.

David and I start eating lunch together, sharing observations. Everyone in town goes to bed at
exactly 9:30pm. You can watch the lights go out house by house like dominoes. Children here
don’t really play, they just stand in groups talking quietly.

The more we notice, the more obvious it becomes that everyone is part of something we’re not.
Conversations stop when we approach. People watch us from their windows. My mom starts
asking strange questions if I’m “settling in properly”.

“Mom, what exactly do you do at work?” I asked her one evening.

She pauses, staring at her plate. “It’s hard to explain…” she says.

“I help newcomers understand their place in the town’s… ecosystem.”

Three weeks later, I decide to follow Mrs. Gillard, my neighbor, from the grocery store. She
leaves her house every evening at 8:45 pm, walking toward the old church with a canvas bag.
She doesn’t go into the church. Instead she walks around behind it, where a small path leads
into the woods. Other people come from different directions, all carrying the same similar bags.

They all head toward the path.

The path twists through trees that look old and strange. With every step the sweet smell in the
air becomes stronger. After ten minutes, I see a soft flickering light ahead. Fire?

I stop and hide behind a tall tree. In front of me is a clearing I have never seen on any map.

There are about thirty people standing in a perfect circle. In the middle, there’s a weirdly looking
stone with odd symbols carved into it. The symbols make my eyes hurt when I look at them.

They’re chanting in unison but not in English. The words sound like they’re coming from their
throats. The rhythm makes my vision blur.

Mrs. Gillard steps forward and empties her bag onto the altar. Small objects spill out, figures
made of straw and cloth. They look like people.

Wait.

Jesus Christ.

They look like me and David.

The chanting grows louder and louder. The people begin to move in a slow circle around the
altar, their movements perfectly synchronized.

That’s when I see my mother.

She’s standing directly across from me, holding a small figure that’s unmistakably meant to be
me, same hair color, same clothes, same backpack. The symbols on the altar begin to glow the
minute they threw the dolls into the fire.

The flames rise higher, turning from orange to deep purple to a color I can’t even name.

I run. I run so fucking fast my lungs burn and the taste of blood fills my mouth.

The next morning, I feel different, disconnected from my own body like I’m operating it from a
distance. When I look in the mirror, my reflection seems out of sync with my movements.

David looks the same way, pale, hollow eyed, moving like he’s about to collapse.

“Something happened last night” I whisper during first period.

“I know. I can feel it. Like something’s been taken.”

Over the next few days, the effects become more pronounced. I catch myself smiling their
empty smile. I find myself walking in rhythm with other students. When my mom asks how
school is going, I almost answer with scripted responses.

We’re losing ourselves, bit by bit, day by day.

“We have to stop them.” David says. “Before there’s nothing left.”

“How?”

“The same way they’re changing us. We make our own ritual.”

We spend a week collecting materials, fabric from our old clothes, hair from our brushes,
personal items. We make figures of ourselves. The next ritual night, we arrive early with our own
small fire. When their chanting begins, we start our ritual.

“We are who we are” we hiss, holding our dolls. “We choose who we become. We reject your
changes.”

The air snaps with tension. Their chanting cracks, became messier with every word, but they are
stronger and more practiced than us. Their fire burn hotter and I feel pieces of me being ripped
away.

That’s when David throws his figure of himself directly into their fire.

The purple flames explode outwards sweeping over the circle of people. They scream in voices
that are more human than anything I’ve heard since moving here.

When the light fades, they’re all unconscious around the altar. The glowing symbols have gone
dark.

David collapses, his face gray. “I had to give them something real to break their hold”.

The next morning, everything is different. People move naturally. Their smiles are genuine.
Children play actual games. My mom asks about my day like she actually wants to know.

“Think it’s over?” David asks at lunch while casually shoving a huge cooked potato in this mouth.

“I think we won. But we’ll have to stay sharp…”

I knew my intuition is always right.

About the Author: I’m Ssosma, a horror lover with a strange fascination for the unsettling. I write the kind of stories that might make you glance over your shoulder. Have fun reading.