Acolytes

Families weep and gather in clumps
around graves carved with elegant names.
They place flowers on the earthy mounds,
kissing crosses and whispering prayers to the air.

Beneath their feet and the cracked leaves of autumn,
tunnels twist in intricate spirals deep in the earth.
Elongated shadows cast by torches tattoo the dirty walls,
and the sound of footsteps echo as figures approach.

Draped in black cloaks with crimson stitching at the hem,
they dress as death with skeletal fingers and gaunt cheeks.
Thin lips hide filed teeth and sharpened nails dig into palms.
Blood runs from cut wrists and the earth soaks up the offering.

The dirt smooths out and becomes marble,
a towering wooden door stands in their way.
Whispers are exchanged and passwords uttered to the smoky air,
the door swings wide and they shuffle inside over onyx patterned floors.

An altar stands in the center of the room,
massive and carved from jet and obsidian.
Silk and fur decorates the platform
where a gagged virgin woman is stretched.

The spirits kiss the outer realms,
they struggle against the tenuous binds that hold them.
On this day, and only this day, the spirits crouch behind the veil, waiting.

The chanting is soft as whispers as the cloaked figures sing.
They sharpen knives and the woman cries, salty tears stain her cheeks.

The cloaked men drive daggers past innocent flesh and the woman screams.

Blood pours in scarlet rivulets and the ghost become voices,
booming voices that reverberate in the chamber.
The men scream and hit their knees, hands drenched in blood clapped to their ears.

Demons pour from the wounds they inflicted on the veil,
devils with black teeth bared and corrupted minds aflame with desire.
The men writhe as the possession begins,
veins burning as the creatures dig their talons deep.

Above the ceremony the families leave the graveyard,
midnight bells ring and children close their eyes.

A rusted mausoleum gate swings wide.
Men cloaked like death step from the darkness,
hoods hide their glowing red eyes,
gloves hide their talons,
thin lips cover vampire fangs.

The dead always listen to the living,
but torn veils open portals to Hell,
where no amount of pleading will earn you mercy.