The ritual does not happen in darkness. Darkness allows imagination; it gives fear too much freedom. They prefer clarity. The room is always lit with the same dull yellow bulbs—never bright enough to comfort, never dim enough to hide anything. The light hums softly, a constant presence, like a reminder that silence is never complete. Stone walls surround the space, cold and damp, stained darker in places no one ever cleans. The floor is smooth from years of bare feet pressing into it, shifting weight, learning stillness. No symbols hang on the walls. No candles carved into skulls. No robes. Everyone wears ordinary clothes—jeans, sweaters, shirts with loose buttons—the kind of clothing people forget they're wearing. That is what makes it unbearable.
Seven people sit in a perfect circle, evenly spaced. Distance matters. If someone sits too close, they are asked to move. If they touch another person, the ritual is postponed. Touch creates noise, and noise breaks listening. Bare feet rest against the stone floor as cold seeps upward, numbing toes, ankles, calves. No one shifts. No one crosses their legs. Movement draws attention. The silence begins and lasts seven minutes—not counted aloud, not measured by a clock, but measured by the body. At first, breathing is easy, natural, thoughtless. Then awareness creeps in. The chest feels too full, the lungs suddenly seem insufficient, and every inhale sounds loud inside the skull.
Eyes are not allowed to close. Blinking is permitted but discouraged. Tears are acceptable only if they fall silently; wiping them away is not. At some point, everyone becomes aware of their heartbeat, and that is when the offering begins. One person stands. It is never announced beforehand who it will be, because knowing would invite resistance. The volunteer steps into the center of the circle and removes whatever part of their clothing is necessary—a sleeve, a shoe, sometimes nothing at all. Pain is offered, never life. A thin blade is pressed slowly into skin, a needle slid under a fingernail, a flame held close enough to feel heat but not enough to burn immediately. The goal is not injury. The goal is restraint.
Blood is allowed to fall, darkening the stone in places already marked by older stains. No one wipes it away. That would be acknowledgment, and acknowledgment is indulgence. During the offering, everyone presses two fingers—index and middle—to their throat, feeling the pulse, counting. The rhythm becomes everything, faster at first, then slower, controlled. The chant begins, not with words but fragments—pieces of sound that do not form meaning on their own. Each person carries only part of it. No one hears the whole chant. No one is allowed to. Together, the fragments create something that cannot exist alone. The building listens. It always has.
There is one rule—the only rule that matters. If someone screams, truly screams, the ritual ends. Everyone leaves immediately. No discussion. No questions. Sometimes, someone does not leave. They are not dragged away. They do not resist. They simply stop being present. The first time it happens, people are shaken. The second time, they understand. By the third, they know better than to ask. The ritual ends quietly, with no closing words and no release. People stand, dress themselves, and leave without looking back. Outside, the forest absorbs the sound of footsteps. Inside, the building remembers. CONTINUE....