Chapter 7
1573words
The events of the past few days have made me doubt my own judgment and wonder what dark secrets this seemingly peaceful village conceals.
First, about my time with Anna. Honestly, setting aside those disturbing dreams, being with her was genuinely wonderful. Yesterday afternoon, we visited the small lake south of the village as planned. It's a pristine mountain lake with water so clear it perfectly reflects the sky and surrounding peaks—postcard-perfect.
Anna wore a light blue blouse with a white skirt, sitting gracefully on a large rock by the water. The breeze played with her golden hair, creating a scene of breathtaking beauty. We spread a blanket for our picnic, and the food she brought was amazing—homemade scones, fresh berry tarts, and mint tea brewed with local spring water.
"Did you make all this yourself?" I asked in amazement. "It tastes better than anything I've had in restaurants."
"I've loved baking since childhood—it's a passion of mine," Anna said with a shy smile. "I'm glad you appreciate it." We talked about countless topics. Her knowledge was even more impressive than I'd realized. We discussed literature, history, art, philosophy—and she always offered fascinating perspectives.
"Have you read Dostoevsky's 'Crime and Punishment'?" I asked.
"Of course—it's one of my favorites," Anna's eyes brightened with intensity. "Raskolnikov's inner torment is so brilliantly portrayed. Sometimes the worst punishment for wrongdoing isn't legal consequences, but the relentless judgment of our own conscience."
"Do you think his redemption is genuine? Or just the author's idealistic vision?"
"I believe it's genuine," Anna replied earnestly. "True redemption never comes from external forgiveness, but from the courage to face ourselves and begin anew. Love merely catalyzes what must come from within." Her answer deepened my admiration. A woman both beautiful and profound seemed almost too perfect to exist.
"Michael," she said suddenly, turning to face me directly, "do you believe in destiny?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you think certain people are destined to meet and share a special connection?" Her gaze intensified. "Perhaps we knew each other in some distant past and have only now found each other again."
Her words were ambiguous yet thrilling. But they also reminded me uncomfortably of those disturbing dreams.
"I believe more in serendipity than predestination," I answered carefully. "The right encounters happen at the right time." Anna smiled with satisfaction—a smile so sweet it nearly erased all my doubts and fears.
She invited me mushroom hunting the next day, to an abandoned windmill the day after, and to a secret garden she knew about after that... Each invitation was impossible to refuse—not just because of her beauty, but because of the genuine warmth she radiated.
"How do you know this area so well?" I asked curiously. "Didn't you say you just moved back recently?"
"I love exploring," Anna said with a blink. "Though small, this village has many hidden treasures. You'll discover them gradually."
Walking back along the country road, we strolled side by side. The setting sun and chimney smoke created such a peaceful scene I never wanted it to end. Anna kept the conversation flowing, occasionally "accidentally" brushing her hand against mine. Each contact sent my heart racing.
"Michael, what kind of person do you think I am?" she asked suddenly.
"Kind, intelligent, beautiful... and very mysterious," I answered honestly.
"Mysterious?" she laughed. "Everyone has secrets, don't they? You have yours too."
Her words made me tense. Did she know something? Or was it just casual conversation?
"My secrets are boring," I said cautiously. "Unlike you—I sense you have many stories to tell."
"Perhaps someday I'll tell you everything," Anna smiled enigmatically, "when the time is right."
That night in bed, Anna's voice and smile filled my thoughts. Something about her made me feel strangely secure, as if I'd rediscovered something long lost.
She listened attentively, laughed genuinely at my jokes, showed concern for my wellbeing, and effortlessly kept our conversations flowing. I hadn't felt such care and understanding in a long time.
But just as I was basking in these warm feelings, the nightmare returned.
This time it was even more horrifying. I dreamed I was lying on an enormous bed surrounded by darkness, with only faint moonlight filtering in from somewhere. Then countless pale hands emerged from the shadows and began caressing my body.
Each hand felt impossibly soft and warm, like the finest silk. They stroked my face, neck, and chest, wandering across my body, igniting every inch of skin, making every nerve ending quiver.
But this time, the pleasure carried greater dread. The hands multiplied—dozens becoming hundreds—until they covered me completely, like writhing snakes.
Most terrifying was that at the moment of peak pleasure, those hands suddenly turned violent, pulling and tearing at me, trying to drag me into some bottomless abyss.
"NO!" I screamed, fighting desperately, but their strength was overwhelming. I felt myself being inexorably pulled downward, toward a darkness from which there would be no escape...
I jerked awake, drenched in sweat, my heart hammering against my ribs.
It was 3:30 AM.
As I sat trying to calm myself, a realization hit me that sent ice through my veins—the multi-armed angel statue from the church in my childhood!
Countless arms extending from the angel's body, each exquisitely carved... The parallel to my dreams was unmistakable!
"Jesus Christ..." I clutched my head, trying to steady my breathing. Was this just coincidence, or was there some connection I was missing? Why these recurring dreams of hands? Why did they feel so real? And what did any of this have to do with Anna?
Unable to sleep after dawn broke, I decided to seek out Jack for answers. I messaged him saying I wanted to learn more about the village's "multi-armed angel" legend—or what they called the "Thousand-Handed Holy Mother."
Jack replied quickly, saying he'd come over—some things were better discussed in person.
Around ten that morning, Jack arrived. He seemed unusually nervous, constantly glancing around as if worried about being overheard.
"Why are you asking about that?" he whispered.
"Just curious. My childhood memories are fuzzy, and I want to understand more about the village's traditions."
Jack's expression grew increasingly troubled. After a long silence, he asked, "Do you really want to know?"
"Of course I do." He took a deep breath and leaned in close. "Michael, I'm going to tell you something, but you can't tell anyone else."
"What is it?"
"The village's renewal ceremony... it's not symbolic." I stared at him. "What do you mean?"
"We actually cut off a living person's arm and offer it to the Multi-armed Angel," Jack's voice trembled. "Every year, someone is chosen for sacrifice. Those 'new' arms you saw as a child weren't stone—they were real human arms specially preserved to look like stone."
My blood ran cold. "Jack, you're joking, right?"
"I've never been more serious," Jack's eyes were wide with fear. "Michael, this is why your family fled. When you ate that offering as a child, you were 'marked' according to the rules."
"What does 'marked' mean?"
"It means you were chosen to eventually offer your arm." Jack grabbed my shoulders. "Our ancestors were sinners! They imprisoned that angel here, and as punishment, every family owes a blood debt! A real hand must replace a stone one to maintain the balance. This is the contract our ancestors made!"
I was stunned speechless. If what Jack said was true, then...
"So that college student's death..."
"She was that year's sacrifice," Jack said, his voice thick with guilt and fear. "Her hands were cut off and offered to the angel, then her body was discarded. That's why her corpse was missing its hands."
The room seemed to spin around me as nausea rose in my throat.
"But this is insane! This is the 21st century—how could such a barbaric ritual still exist?!"
"Insane?" Jack smiled bitterly. "Michael, why do you think we stay in this backwater village? Why not leave for the cities? Because we're bound by the curse! Anyone who tries to leave permanently faces the angel's wrath!"
"Your family was the only exception, Michael. What did you do differently?" he whispered.
His words filled me with dread. If all this was true, hadn't I just walked straight into a trap by returning?
But just as terror overwhelmed me, Jack suddenly burst into laughter.
"Hahahaha! Oh man, Michael, you should see your face right now!" He doubled over laughing. "I was just messing with you! Did you seriously believe all that?"
"What?" I stared at him, dumbfounded.
"Of course it's fake!" Jack continued laughing. "Chopping off arms, blood sacrifices, curses... These are just stories the elders made up to scare kids! How did you get so superstitious living in Chicago all these years?"
I studied his broad smile, uncertain what to believe. My fear had been so genuine, yet his laughter seemed so natural...
"You're... really joking?"
"Of course I'm joking!" Jack slapped my shoulder. "But your reaction was priceless—I thought you might actually faint!"
But when he turned to pour water, I caught his reflection in the mirror. His expression wasn't relaxed at all—his brows were deeply furrowed, his mouth a grim line.
His laughter had been entirely fake.
"Well, if it's all fake," I suggested carefully, "why don't we visit the church? I'd like to see that angel statue again."
