Hidden Ritual Episode 3

Episode 3: THE FINAL SACRIFICE

I knew, in that moment, that there would be no sunrise for me.

The room shook as Daniel stepped closer, his bones cracking and rearranging themselves with every movement. He was no longer a child. He was something ancient wearing my son’s face like borrowed skin. His shadow crawled across the walls, stretching far beyond his body, touching the bones in the pit like they were greeting an old king.

My wife knelt beside him.

She was crying.

But not tears of regret.

Tears of gratitude.

“It’s almost complete,” Nneka whispered. “Just one more.”

I tried to stand, but the floor had turned soft, swallowing my legs like mud. Hands small, bony hands reached out from beneath the ground, holding me in place. I recognized their faces as they surfaced briefly.

Children.

Some with crushed skulls.

Some without eyes.

Some with mouths sewn shut.

“All of them were fed,” Nneka said softly. “All of them were loved.”

Daniel tilted his head.

“Daddy,” he said, his voice layered with many others, “you’re the last.”

The candles flared violently, and the symbols on the wall began to glow. Nneka took the knife from my hand and pressed it against my chest.

“This house was built on a covenant,” she said. “Every generation must give a father. Blood for blood. Love for life.”

My knees gave way.

“You used me,” I whispered.

She shook her head slowly.

“No. I married you because you were kind. Because you would follow me. Because you would come looking.”

Daniel smiled.

The pit opened wider, revealing something beneath it something massive, breathing, waiting. The walls cracked as a deep voice echoed from below, older than language itself.

THE FATHER RETURNS. THE CYCLE CLOSES.

Nneka leaned close and kissed my forehead.

“Thank you,” she said.

The knife went in.

Pain exploded through my body, but it didn’t last. As my blood poured into the pit, the thing beneath the house roared in satisfaction. The dead children began to sink back into the ground, smiling peacefully for the first time.

Daniel screamed.

Not in hunger.

In relief.

His body collapsed, shrinking, skin repairing itself, eyes clearing. In seconds, he was just a child again. My child.

Alive.

Breathing.

Crying.

“Daddy!” he cried, reaching for me.

I tried to reach back, but my hands were already turning to dust.

Nneka picked him up and held him tightly.

“It’s over now,” she whispered. “You can live.”

Daniel looked at me as I faded.

“I’ll eat the rice, Daddy,” he said softly. “I promise.”

The house grew quiet.

Above ground, the pit sealed itself. The bones disappeared. The symbols faded. The curse slept again.

By morning, neighbors would say Nneka was a strong woman widowed, but blessed. They would say her son miraculously returned after death. They would celebrate.

Every midnight, she would still cook jollof rice.

Not for Daniel.

But for me.

Because beneath the house, beneath the soil, beneath the silence…

I am still hungry.