Great—I'm starting **another, very long, and dark story** in a separate block.This will be story number **7: "The Shadow Pilgrimage of Glastonbury Tor"**.--

# 🜂 **7. "The Shadow Pilgrimage of Glastonbury Tor" – a very long horror story**

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## *Prologue: The Hill That Never Sleeps*

Glastonbury Tor looks peaceful—a green hill, with the stone tower of St. Michael at the top, and fields around it that ripple like a sea in the wind.

But no one talks about what happens there after dark.

Because that's when you can see **pilgrims**.

Not the kind with lanterns and singing.

The other kind.

The Shadow ones.

Wandering in silence.

And always towards the tower.

And whoever sees their procession becomes part of a story they should never have heard.

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# 🌫️ *Chapter I: The Archaeologist Who Searched for Something More*

Eleanor Flynn was an archaeologist specializing in Arthurian legend.

She was just finishing a fieldwork project in Somerset when the local council asked her to analyze newly discovered remains near Tor Hill.

The remains were deep—where the earth had been undisturbed for hundreds of years.

And there was something else.

In the same spot, a **stone circle** was discovered, recessed deep beneath the layers of soil, each stone carved with the same symbol:

**An elongated silhouette of a man with empty eye sockets.**

Above it was carved an Old English word that read:

> **“Gæstgengan”** – *“Those who come for souls.”*

Eleanor was delighted.

Everything pointed to an unknown cult from thousands of years ago.

She didn't know one thing:

This cult… had never ceased to exist.

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# 🌬️ *Chapter II: Night One – The Echo of Footsteps That Weren't*

On her first night, Eleanor stayed at an old guesthouse by the road.

The landlady, Mrs. Whitmore, heard that the explorer was heading to the Tor.

“By day, you're welcome.”

But you don't go there at night.

— Why?

— Because then they return.

— Who?

— Pilgrims.

And like the previous people Eleanor had met on the dig, Mrs. Whitmore refused to explain.

She whispered the word *pilgrims*, as if afraid the mere sound of it might summon them.

Eleanor shrugged.

But before she fell asleep, she heard something that disturbed her more than anything before.

Footsteps.

Equal.

An identical interval between them.

Slow.

Walking… up the hill.

Meanwhile, it was a windless night.

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# 🔱 *Chapter III: The Second Night—A Procession That Shouldn't Have Happened*

Eleanor returned to the Tor with a flashlight, camera, and notebook.

She didn't intend to wait until morning—her curiosity was stronger.

She climbed the hill.

The night was inky black, and the only light came from the moon cutting through the clouds.

When she reached the top, she heard a sound.

Not the wind.

Not animals.

**A chorus of whispers.**

And then she saw them.

They emerged from the fog, as if the fog had created them from nothing.

Dozens of figures.

Thin, tall, wrapped in long cloaks that seemed woven from shadow.

They moved in sync, silently, without the sound of their feet.

Their faces were covered with hoods, but Eleanor could see there was no skin beneath them.

Only darkness.

One of the figures turned to face her.

Eleanor froze.

The shadow beneath the hood moved, as if smiling.

> *“Seeing…”*

Eleanor dropped the flashlight.

"Who are you?!

The pilgrims didn't stop.

They didn't slow down.

They didn't speed up.

They just kept walking.

Straight to the tower.

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# 🜁 *Chapter IV: The Record in the Book That Shouldn't Be Opened*

The next day, Eleanor went to the archives at Glastonbury Abbey.

She searched through old books, parchments, maps.

In one book, dating back to the 12th century, she found an entry:

> *And when the moon is full, those who never died return, carrying the souls that saw them pass."*

Another passage read:

> *"The pilgrims of the Tor don't come for the body.

> They come for what leaves the body when the fear becomes too great."*

Eleanor pushed the book aside.

Her hands trembled.

These weren't legends. These were warnings.

And another sentence, circled in red by someone centuries ago:

> **“If they see you, you will go with them.”**

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# 🜃 *Chapter V: The Third Night – Entering the Tower*

Eleanor returned, though she should have fled.

She knew the pilgrims would appear again.

And indeed:

They emerged from the mist like a procession of ghosts.

This time, however, Eleanor saw something new.

They weren't just going to the tower.

They were **entering it**.

And when the last pilgrim entered, the moonlight faded for a moment—as if the night hesitated to let them exist.

Eleanor felt compelled to go in.

She descended the cracked stairs into the interior of St. Michael's Tower.

It was cold inside, as if the walls were absorbing her body heat.

And then she saw the door.

Stone.

Closed with a symbol she had seen earlier in the excavation circle.

A man with empty eye sockets.

Suddenly she heard a whisper:

> *"If you've already come... you won't come back."*

And she felt a breath on the back of her neck.

The pilgrim stood right behind her.

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# 🜄 *Chapter VI: TA mystery that had no way out*

Eleanor turned slowly.

The pilgrim didn't move, but his hood lifted, as if something were breathing inside.

"Who... who are you?!

> *"We were the people of Tor...

> Before men came and took our lands."*

Eleanor felt the coil of her stomach turn to ice.

"What happened to you?"

> *"We became shadow. A procession.

> We cannot die, we cannot live.

> We can only walk."*

"Why do you want to drag me into the procession?"

> *"Because you saw."*

Eleanor took a step back.

The pilgrim raised his hand.

A flash lit the cloudy sky.

The door in the stone opened with a long groan.

Behind them lay a spiral descent—black as a bottomless pit.

> *“Come with us…”*

Eleanor hesitated.

Then something inside her snapped.

Not fear.

Determination.

“I will not go.

I am not yours.”

And then the impossible happened.

The tower trembled.

It jerked.

As if the entire hill were breathing sharply.

The pilgrims began to retreat—as if they had forgotten how to move.

> *“We are rejected…”

> You are rejected…”*

Eleanor ran up the stairs outside.

The fog was thick as milk.

Before she reached the bottom of the hill, she heard them for the last time.

> *“See you—at the next full moon.”*

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# 🌒 *Epilogue: The Procession Never Leaves*

Eleanor returned to London.

She handed in her report.

She closed the case.

But every night she saw the procession of pilgrims in her dreams.

And when the full moon came…

…there was a knock on her apartment door.

Three slow knocks.

Through the peephole, she saw silhouettes in cloaks.

And in the middle of the night—a whisper:

> *“Time to go.”*

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