The Last Sunrise

The town of Red Hollow had long since abandoned the joy of Easter. What had once been a celebration of spring and renewal had turned into a time of terror. Every year, as Easter morning dawned, the sun would rise blood-red, bathing the land in its eerie glow.

No one knew when it had started—perhaps it was a punishment for some ancient sin, or maybe it was a curse tied to the land itself. The elders whispered of a forgotten god, a being of wrath and madness who demanded worship. But no one dared to speak its name aloud.

The rules were simple: on Easter morning, when the first light of the sun crept over the horizon, no one could be outside. Every door had to be locked, every window shuttered. Even a single sliver of light could spell doom.

This year, something went terribly wrong.

________________________________________

Maggie Collins stared out the boarded-up window of her family’s farmhouse, clutching a rosary in her trembling hands. The faint glow of the blood-red sun seeped through the cracks, casting an unnatural light across the room. Her father, William, paced the floor, his shotgun cradled in his arms. Her younger brother, Sam, sat silently in the corner, his wide eyes fixed on the floor.

"It’s worse this year," William muttered, peering through a narrow gap in the boards. “The light’s brighter. Stronger.”

“Don’t look at it,” Maggie whispered, her voice barely audible. “You know what happens.”

They all did. The year before, their neighbor, Mr. Harris, had ignored the warnings. He’d been outside when the sun rose, laughing off the old stories. By the time the light touched him, it was too late. His eyes had turned an inhuman shade of crimson, and he’d attacked his own family, screaming praises to a name no one dared repeat.

The townsfolk had to put him down like a rabid dog.

A sudden knock at the door made them all jump. It was frantic, desperate.

“Let me in!” a voice cried. It was their neighbor, Mrs. Reed. “Please, they’re coming! They’re out there!”

William hesitated, his grip tightening on the shotgun. “We can’t,” he said, his voice shaking. “If we open that door, the light could get in.”

“She’s going to die out there!” Maggie cried.

“She’s already dead,” William said grimly.

The knocking stopped, replaced by a guttural scream that made Maggie cover her ears. Through the cracks in the boards, she could see Mrs. Reed’s shadow writhing in the crimson light. Her screams turned to manic laughter before fading into silence.

And then came the others.

________________________________________

The first sign was the chanting. It was low and rhythmic, carried on the wind like a sinister hymn. Maggie crept to the window and peered through a gap in the boards. The town square was filled with people—neighbors, friends, even children—all standing motionless in the blood-red light. Their eyes glowed with the same crimson hue, and their mouths moved in perfect unison, reciting a language Maggie couldn’t understand.

In the center of the square stood a figure cloaked in shadows, its form twisting and shifting as if it couldn’t decide on a shape. It raised a hand, and the chanting grew louder.

“They’re building to something,” William said, his voice tight with fear.

“What do they want?” Sam whispered.

William didn’t answer. Maggie already knew. The stories always ended the same way. The followers of the crimson god were vessels, empty shells to carry out its will. They were its army, and the town was its battleground.

Suddenly, the chanting stopped.

The figure in the square turned its head toward their farmhouse. Maggie felt its gaze like a physical weight, pressing down on her chest. The followers began to move, their footsteps heavy and synchronized. They were coming.

“They know we’re here,” she whispered.

________________________________________

The first blow to the door came like a thunderclap, splintering the wood. William fired through the crack, the blast of the shotgun deafening in the small room. There was a wet, inhuman scream, but it didn’t stop them. More hands pounded against the walls, the windows, the door.

“We can’t hold them off!” William shouted.

Maggie grabbed Sam’s hand and pulled him toward the cellar door. “Come on! We have to hide!”

William hesitated, firing another round into the crowd before retreating. The three of them scrambled down the stairs, slamming the cellar door shut behind them. Maggie shoved a heavy crate against it, her heart pounding.

The pounding above grew louder, the sound of wood splintering and glass shattering filling the air. Then came the voices, chanting louder and louder, the language burning into Maggie’s ears.

“It’s not going to stop,” Sam whispered, tears streaming down his face. “They’re going to get in.”

Maggie hugged him tightly, trying to block out the sound. But deep down, she knew he was right.

The chanting reached a crescendo, and the cellar door shook violently. The crimson light seeped through the cracks, painting the walls in blood. Maggie looked at her father, who clutched the shotgun with trembling hands.

“It’s the last sunrise,” William said softly, his voice hollow. “It’s over.”

The door burst open, and the light engulfed them.

________________________________________

When the townsfolk arrived later that day, there was nothing left of the farmhouse but smoldering ruins. The town square was empty, the followers of the crimson god gone as if they had never existed.

But the blood-red sun still lingered on the horizon, casting its unholy glow over the land. And somewhere, deep in the woods, the figure of shifting shadows waited, biding its time for the next Easter.

The last sunrise was only the beginning.