In a secluded village
shrouded in mist and mystery, seven children were chosen for a ritual—a dark ceremony meant to open a portal to another world.
The villagers believed that if certain conditions were met, they could summon a being—perhaps even the devil himself—to grant a single wish in exchange for a year of sacrifice.
For generations, the village and those surrounding it had tried to open that door to the unknown. Countless lives were offered—one person killed each day for a year—but the ritual always failed. The portal remained shut. The bloodshed, in vain.
That's when the village witch had an idea…
So she shared her idea with the villagers.
"Watch the pregnant women closely," she said. "Track every birth. If we can find—or make—seven children, each born one day apart, from the eldest at seven days old to the youngest just one day old… then we'll have what we need."
Seven children. A perfect sequence. One born each day, forming a sacred line of life across a week.
"That gives us two sacred timeframes," she explained. "A full week… and the nine months of gestation. Two cycles. Two portals. And the children, being less than a year old, would still be pure enough for the ritual."
To any sane person, it sounded like madness—delirious superstition wrapped in blood and desperation.
But they weren't sane. were they.
Everything was in place. The nameless seven were ready.
It didn't matter where the ritual was held—only that it was done. Still, the villagers chose a place beside the old, deserted palace. A place steeped in fear and silence. A place no one dared approach.
They believed the cursed ground would give the ritual the "boost" it needed.
Each child was placed in their position, just as the witch had instructed. Circles drawn. Candles lit. Blood offerings quietly made.
And then the witch began to chant—words that made no sense to most, but scraped against the edge of reality like broken glass:
"Mirror realm, open so we can welcome your master...
rorrim mlaer nepo os ew nac emoclew ruoy retsam."
It took just one minute for a place once crowded with people to fall into complete silence.
If you had been there, the only sound you would've heard was the crying—seven babies, all wailing at once.
One of the outsiders, a man who was only passing through the village to deliver a shipment, had pulled over to relieve himself. As he stepped out of the car, he heard a faint noise in the distance—something he couldn't quite place at first. But something about it felt... wrong. Like it was calling to him.
He followed the sound, step by step, until it grew clearer: the unmistakable cries of babies.
He ran.
When he reached them, he gathered the seven infants, loaded them gently into his car, and drove straight to the nearest police station. No questions were asked. No explanations were offered. They let him go.
He delivered his package as planned—but he never returned to that village again.
Thank you — now I fully understand. You're not talking about gossip or official judgment, but something heavier: a silent truth the village knows but never speaks. An unspoken rule born from fear, not law.
Here's a refined version with that exact tone:
The police delivered the children to those who had once served the witch—people trusted to watch over them until their families could take them back. But the night grew late, and the children stayed.
By morning, their families were gone. Not missing—gone. No trace. No sign.
The witch had vanished too, along with the few leaders she trusted most.
The village searched, but found nothing. No clues. No bodies. Just absence.
The children were the last ones by the witch.
Their families were the only ones taken.
Stay away from the children.
they're cursed and bring only misfortune was the right explanation.....
___________
but how they servive
they didn't servive but they lived as stranger.
to be continued...