The Cult

The glow of my dashboard clock read 11:42 PM as I fought back another heavy wave of exhaustion. I had been driving for hours through winding backroads, and fatigue was taking a dangerous toll. My eyes felt heavy, my hands tightened around the steering wheel, and the empty highway ahead seemed to stretch forever. The road was surrounded by towering pine trees, with nothing beyond my headlights except darkness. I needed somewhere to stop before I made a mistake or drifted off the asphalt completely into the brush.

Just as I began searching for a place to pull over, a wooden sign appeared in my headlights: BLACK HOLLOW. It was the name of the town, though I had never heard of it before tonight. It wasn't part of my route, but I didn't care. I was too tired. A few seconds later, another sign appeared: GUTHRIE'S SHOOTING RANGE 2 MILES. A shooting range in the middle of nowhere wasn't ideal, but there was a chance they had a parking lot where I could sleep for a few hours in peace and quiet.

I turned onto the gravel road. The farther I drove, the more isolated I felt. The trees seemed to close in, blocking out the moonlight completely. Eventually, the forest opened into a clearing. A long wooden cabin sat there with a faded sign above the entrance: GUTHRIE'S, beside a badly painted revolver symbol. The parking lot was empty. No cars, no lights, no people. I parked, turned off the engine, and noticed how quiet it was—the kind of absolute silence that makes you aware of every single sound. I leaned the seat back and closed my eyes.

When I woke up, the sun was rising. There was now one other vehicle in the lot: an old green pickup truck. I decided to go inside to use the restroom or buy something. A small bell rang as I opened the door. The inside smelled like old wood, dust, and gun oil. Behind the counter stood a man in his late fifties with a weathered face and rough hands.

He smiled. "Morning there, sleepy."

"Morning," I laughed. "I saw your sign last night. I needed somewhere to rest."

"Don't worry about it," he said, extending a hand. "Guthrie Pruitt."

We shook hands. His grip was surprisingly strong. I filled out the paperwork, paid for a lane, and told him I had my own firearm. While I was finishing, a door behind him opened, and a young woman carrying target boxes stepped out. She looked around my age, with light brown hair and freckles.

"This is Trish," Guthrie said. "She helps me run the place."

She smiled politely, but something about her seemed tense. Guthrie was relaxed, but Trish looked nervous. I followed Guthrie outside to the range—simple wooden dividers, old tires, and targets hanging in front of the forest. Trish walked downrange to place my target. When she came back, I noticed her hands were shaking, though I assumed she was just cold.

I started shooting, the sound echoing through the trees. After a few minutes, I noticed Guthrie standing beside Trish, whispering something to her. She looked uncomfortable before they walked back toward the office. When I finished, I returned inside. The conversation stopped the second I entered.

Guthrie smiled. "All done?"

"Yeah. Nice range."

"You staying around tonight?"

"Probably."

"You should come back."

"For what?"

"We have a gathering tonight. Some locals. Food, shooting, just a tradition we have."

"At night?"

"More fun that way."

I looked toward Trish. For a brief moment, she shook her head. It was barely noticeable, but it happened.

"I'll think about it," I said.

"Nine o'clock," Guthrie replied.

I left and drove into town. Black Hollow was small: a gas station, a church, a library, and one diner. I stopped for lunch, and the waitress looked interested when I mentioned Guthrie.

"Guthrie sent you?" she asked, smiling in a way that felt rehearsed.

While I ate, I overheard two older men sitting behind me.

"Good night for it. Clear skies too." Then one lowered his voice. "I heard the newcomer might show."

My hand stopped. They were talking about me.

"Think he'll cause trouble?"

"Nah. Guthrie will handle it."

"Trish okay with it?"

"She'll come around."

I finished eating quickly. Every instinct told me to leave, but curiosity kept me there. At nine, I returned to the range. The empty parking lot was now filled with trucks, and the clearing was lit by floodlights. People stood around laughing and talking like it was a normal community event.

Guthrie saw me. "Kevin! Glad you made it."

Everyone welcomed me, asking about my trip, where I was headed, and whether anyone expected me. At first, it seemed friendly. Then I realized they were collecting information about my life.

After dinner, Guthrie clapped his hands. "Alright, let's begin."

Everyone moved immediately—too immediately, like they had done this many times. The first rounds were normal targets and challenges. Everyone laughed, but something felt wrong. Everyone moved together following the same rhythm.

During a break, I looked at Trish. She was loading ammunition with shaking hands.

"Are you okay?" I whispered.

"Kevin..." Her voice was quiet. "You shouldn't have come tonight. They do this every year. It's not just shooting. It's a ritual of blood and sacrifice."

Before I can ask more, Guthrie called everyone back. "Final round."

The mood changed. When it ended, Guthrie smiled. "Now for the part everyone looks forward to."

Several people disappeared into the woods and returned carrying two large wooden posts, placing them into holes in the ground. My stomach tightened. The posts were stained with dark, old stains from years past.

Guthrie stepped forward. "Tonight, we are blessed."

Everyone turned toward me. The friendly faces were gone. I wasn't a guest; I was the reason they were gathered here tonight in this isolated forest clearing surrounded by towering pines and absolute darkness.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice trembling in the cold night air as icy terror gripped my chest completely.

Guthrie smiled. "You were meant to find us here today."

Two people moved behind me. Trish stood away from the group, tears in her eyes. Guthrie reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of wooden straws.

"The willing must be chosen."

One by one, everyone stepped forward and picked a straw. Some looked disappointed, others relieved. Then one man lifted his, a smile spreading across his face.

"It is me."

They congratulated him and walked him toward the post. He didn't fight; he looked proud and happy. They tied him securely to the timber.

That was when I understood. The shooting range was never about shooting. The gathering was never a party. The targets were never the purpose.

Guthrie raised his voice. "Blood and powder."

The group repeated it. "Blood and powder."

The rifles were raised. The man beside me smiled. "Straight and true."

The first shot echoed through the forest. Then another. Then another.

When it ended, silence returned. Guthrie looked at me, his expression calm and nearly kind.

"Don't worry, Kevin," he smiled warmly. "You were chosen for a very important reason tonight."

I looked around at the people surrounding me, at Trish standing frozen in the darkness, and at the empty road beyond the trees. And I realized the worst part: they didn't think they were monsters. They genuinely believed they were protecting their home, preserving their heritage, and keeping their valley safe through sacrifice.

Guthrie lifted the wooden straws once again into the pale floodlight glare, his eyes fixed steadily upon me. "Now," he whispered across the clearing. "It is time for the outsider, and we must make sure everything is properly prepared for the midnight blessing tonight in Black Hollow."