They’d told him not to, but he’d show the villagers their ignorance by sitting on the stone at night.
“Get off!”
“Who’s there?” he demanded. No response. He stood and began walking home.
“Get off,” the voice commanded. He started running. The chant grew louder and faster. His foot caught a branch and he tripped. The voices roared in his ears. He writhed on the ground, unable to escape them. A sharp stick jabbed against his side.
“Get. Off.”
No more. He jabbed the stick into both of his ears. In the morning, they found his smiling and bloody body.
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alt="Heartwood by R.J. Cannon"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Denied by J.B. Corso"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Cold Recognition by Andreas Flögel"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Winter Feast by Pauline Yates"
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