A peaceful farming community is besieged with the insidious covenant it has made with its past. For fertile soil and a generous harvest, the townsfolk’s ancestors have agreed to make a human sacrifice. Now whenever there is a dry winter and an arid early spring, two residents are chosen to help the community save its paradise by playing their part in the ritual
PROLOGUE
“ Do it!” Joe cried out. “Do it now!”
“ But —”
“ All you gotta do is close your eyes and pretend I’m a squirrel, a deer, or even a bear.”
Beads of sweat rolled down Bill’s face. His hands shook. He was as white as a ghost. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he said, choking on his words. “I never thought I’d —”
“ You can do it, Bill!” Joe’s eyes opened wide. “ All you gotta do is take aim at the back of my head and pull the trigger.”
“ You know, Joe, you’re the best brother anyone could ever have.” “ I know.” Joe fought back his tears. “Let’s do what we have to do. Tell little Jed to always remember me.”
In a large field that would soon have wheat growing in its fertile soil, Joe Thompson sat at the foot of the grave he and his brother had dug the night before. Joe was forty-two and in good health. He didn’t want to have his life taken away while he was still in his prime. But he had little choice in the part he was going to play. The people of Hansford believed there was only one way to make it rain — a human sacrifice.
“ Well, what are you waiting for?” Tears rolled down Joe’s cheeks. “All it’s gonna take is one shot. Just one squeeze of the tr —” BANG!
The bullet hit true. Joe collapsed to the ground, a pool of blood slowly gathering by his side. In tears, Bill dropped the gun and dragged his brother into the grave, then grabbed a shovel and went to work burying the body. “I hate this life!” He tossed another shovel full of dirt into the grave. “Hate it with all my heart! I’m so sorry, Joe — so goddamn sorry!”
Bill Thompson was thirty-six, tall and lean with wide shoulders and dark brown hair. He had lived in Hansford his entire life. He had never thought there would come a day when he would have to save his community by murdering his own flesh and blood.
When Bill finished burying the body, he picked up the shovel and hurled it at the sky. Where were the clouds? Where were the thunderheads? “Why isn’t it fucking raining?” he screamed, then fell to the ground, sobbing uncontrollably.
That night, Bill sat on his porch, slowly rocking in his chair. He didn’t want to have dinner with his wife or play catch with his little boy. He hated Indians. All Indians. It was their curse on the land that had pushed his God-fearing valley community to take such action.
He reached alongside his chair and grabbed a thin, clear bottle of whiskey. The first swallow helped kill the pain; the second swallow warm and numbed him. It had been five years since Prohibition had been repealed, not that it would have stopped him. Even at the beginning of Prohibition, when President Woodrow Wilson had told the nation “It’s good to be dry,” Bill and his moonshine buddies made sure Hansford had plenty of whiskey. The party never ended. But Bill was drinking for a different reason today.
“ Don’t know if it’s worth it.” He took another long drink. “Don’t know if any of this is worth it.”
Sue Thompson stepped onto the porch, dressed in a floral, spring dress. She looked up at the night sky — enjoyed the musky aroma of the humid breeze. “ You talking to someone?” she asked in a soft drawl. She placed her hands on his shoulders. “ You’re all tense. Why don’t you come inside? It’s gonna start raining any minute.”
“ Leave me alone.” Bill brushed his wife’s hand from his shoulders. The first stars had taken their places in the night sky. The quarter moon hung high over the valley. It didn’t look like rain. The valley weatherman on the radio had said it would rain any day. The sacrifice had been made; the spirits had been appeased. Everyone was safe for another year. So where were the clouds? Where were the thunderheads?
“ I don’t feel like Jesus.” Bill took another swig and grimaced. “Don’t feel like him one bit.”
“ What was that?” Sue asked, trying not to smile.
Sue was thin and attractive, wore her sandy brown hair in a bun. Her family had lived in Hansford for generations, ever since the Indians were rounded up by the government in the fall of 1820 and transported out of the valley.
“ Nick Campbell and Jake Olson said I was like Jesus. Just as he saved his people, I saved all of us.” Bill’s family had lived in the valley since the end of the Civil War. He liked being a farmer and had never thought of doing anything else with his life.
Bill stared at Sue, stone-faced. He wasn’t angry at her. He wasn’t angry at anyone. He just wished he hadn’t been chosen to murder his brother. He hadn’t minded when Jack Munson had to murder his nextdoor neighbor some eighteen years ago. It was different that time.
“ I’m thinking of moving. I mean all of us — me, you, Jed. Just sell the farm and get out before the next dry season. Maybe move to Springtale Pass. Lot of nice farms up that way.”
“ You’ll feel different in a day or two.” With a peculiar grin, Sue gazed at the miles of farmland. She understood the valley’s laws and obeyed them without question. “This is the finest valley in the whole state. The finest valley in the whole world. Look how beautiful everything is. It’s as if we’re living in paradise.”
“ Still —”
“ No still about it, Bill Thompson. We’re living in paradise.”
Bill sighed, tears in his eyes. “What about Joe?”
“ I’m gonna miss him, but it’s a price we have to pay. Everyone has to do their part to live in paradise. It was our turn this time to help out all our friends and neighbors. Next time, it’ll be someone else’s turn. Who knows? Maybe this will be the last sacrifice we’ll ever need.”
Bill nodded. He needed to hear those words. If this were the last sacrifice, then no one would ever have to worry again. Joe Thompson would be the last man who died to save his community.
The next day the sky grew gray and turbid. Thunder cracked, lightning flashed; sheets of rain cascaded to the ground. In his yellow slicker, Jed stood alongside the dirt road, holding onto his father’s hand. He was seven years old and had the sandy brown hair of his mother and the dark brown eyes and slim build of his father. “Look at all the rain, Pa. I sure wish Uncle Joe was here to see this. When’s he coming back?”
Bill glowered at his son, fighting back his emotions, trying not to cry. How could he tell Jed that he had murdered Uncle Joe? He would wait ‘til after the rain had stopped and after the valley had held its celebration before he tried to explain why Uncle Joe was never coming back.
The Thompsons weren’t the only family standing at the side of the road watching the rain. Everyone in Hansford stood outside their homes, watching the large drops fall to the thirsty land. They all appreciated what Bill had done for their community. It was his belief that had made this day possible, his faith that had saved their valley paradise.Type or Paste your work here...
Excerpt
Some men escape to a better life. Some escape only in their dreams....
Professional Reviews
Denise M. Clark Reviews
Reviewed by Angela Coon
for Denise M. Clark Reviews.
Jed is your typical small town farm boy, but Hansford isn’t your typical farming town. A curse has been laid upon the land and the rains won’t come without the Ritual sacrifice. It is up to Jed whether he will follow blindly, or choose his own destiny and deny the ritual.
Ritual hits the floor running and doesn’t let up. The suspense will hold you until the very end and leave the reader looking at neighbors in a whole new light.
This reviewer simply could not put this book down. It sets and excellent pace from the very first page. It is a terrifying look into what could possibly happen if superstition and belief went bad, and I would recommend that everyone read this horror/suspense novel.
