Redeemer

Night takes possession of a small, picturesque mountain town. The wind quietly slips between the unplowed streets. It plays with the snowflakes like toys, shifting delicate flakes from one side of the street to the other. This brings it inexpressible joy. Blessed silence penetrates the apartments, swirls around them with a subtle note of wonder, and flies away into the unknown, only to return again a short time later. Frost paints incredible images on the windows—delicate, subtle, created by the skillful hand of a master. The empty streets terrify with their darkness and inaccessibility. The moon emerges from behind the clouds, looks around, and then decides to stay and soothe the inhabitants with a bit of cool winter light. Falling snowflakes seem to sparkle like small diamonds in its light, as if the Queen of the Night had snapped a string of pearls. A piercing chill envelops the walls of the houses, depositing a delicate silver layer of ice on the river.

At the very top of the hill, just outside the town, lies a cemetery. Its cool earth joyfully welcomes the new snowflakes. Crosses white with frost gaze into the distance with a cold, empty gaze. The last candles are extinguished in a silent cry. Night gives the inhabitants a sense of security, a chance to hide from the rest of the world, but instead of protecting them, the night conceals a madman in its depths.

A man walks down a deserted street. He seems pleasantly surprised by the absence of other residents, whom he had no interest in anyway. A black hood covers the man's head, tightly obscuring his face. From beneath the hood, only his empty eyes can be seen. The man pushes forward like a bear, ignoring the raging wind. From time to time, he pushes something in front of him, hits it, picks it up, and then pushes it again... It's a boy. Thirteen-year-old Krzyś, returning from school, separated from his friends only to fall into the claws of death. The boy's cries, carried by the wind, disappear into the black night. His swollen eyes are seeing increasingly dimly, and his neck aches unmercifully. Unaware of the unfolding tragedy, the city is settling down to sleep. One by one, the windows go out. Only one family, with fear in their voices, calls their son's friends to ask if they've seen him today. Sorrow, longing, pain, and fear fill their hearts.

Meanwhile, the man and the boy turn onto a side street, heading out of town. The boy is choking with fear; he knows where the man is leading him; he knows this path up the hill so well. The snow stops falling, and the wind deposits the last, weary flakes on the boy's forehead. It is at this moment that Krzyś's Stations of the Cross begin. The moon, seeing the extent of the evil and madness about to unfold, hides behind a thick layer of graphite-black clouds. The city is now illuminated only by old, rusty streetlights. Even cats and rats are afraid to emerge from their warm burrows for fear of hearing the cry of silence.

The man urges the boy to walk faster, his strong hands like raven's talons gripping his neck. The path winds gently along strangely twisted trees, ending after about 500 meters at a somber black gateway, from whose walls, like great sentinels, tower over massive sculptures of archangels.

The boy trips over a protruding stone and falls. His hands are bound, so he lands facedown in the snow. The man's hands lift him, only to punch him painfully in the stomach. Krzyś cries, and a delicate puff of steam escapes his lips like a dead soul. The clouds in the sky are growing thicker and darker, the wind has almost completely died, disgusted by the lack of snow. Strong arms of frost envelop the town in an icy dome. The man zips his jacket up to his neck and adjusts his black gloves. He unbuttons his scarf and smiles, and at the sight of his deranged expression, the trees seem to tremble with terror. The boy's tears fall to the ground, melting the snow, and his silent cry is lost in the black treetops.

Halfway there. The boy falls a second time. He shivers with fear and cold. A thick rope cuts into his wrists. Sadness and homesickness burn his throat like a living fire. There's nothing left; the world has become one dark stain. The boy barely raises his head and spots the statue of Jesus standing at the bend. He longs to reach out, touch it, and ask for help. But it's too late. Was this the plan for him?

The city has fallen into the arms of Morpheus, petrified.

The parents of the kidnapped child call the police to report a missing person. Fear poisons their veins as they try to comfort each other through tears. The warmth of their home has evaporated, vanishing along with his happiness and peace. Only pain remains.

The man is no stranger; he knows the people of the city, he knows what they are like. What they are truly like. He had dreams. They told him what to do, urged him, ordered him to act secretly. The voices in his head confirmed his belief that he was merely a laughingstock, a scapegoat, but he would prove to the voices and the dreams that no one would laugh at him, no one had the right. Someone had to atone for the sins of this city—someone innocent…a child. It was the people who had imprisoned him, and now they would pay for it.

At the gate, the boy collapses for the third time. Sweat pours from his body, tears running down his cheeks, and he has no strength left to scream. The man picks him up and throws him over his head as if he were a sack of old potatoes, not the exhausted body of a man. He approaches the gate and, with a crowbar hidden in his belt, destroys the old, rusty padlock. The sound of the gate opening chilled the veins of every forest creature nearby. The sound was so terrifying and loud that if it weren't for the sudden awakening of the wind, the entire world would have heard it. Two angels watch as the man with the child in his arms passes through the gate. The madman directs his steps to an old shed situated at the side of the cemetery. He kicks open the rotten lock and enters the stinking room. After a moment that seemed like an eternity to Krzyś, he emerges, his breathing quickening. He was close to his destination. Now, carrying a shovel in his hand, he quickens his pace and heads for a deserted corner of the cemetery. He carefully avoided the graves, which towered with monuments and crosses. The sheer size of some inspired fear and dread. The snow crunched beneath his feet, and above him, ravens and rooks circled ominously. In the pitch darkness, he found a suitable spot and then threw the boy off him. Krzyś fell limply, like a doll thrown by a bored child. Somewhere in the distance, wolves howled. The man began digging. The ground was very hard, but that didn't bother him. His immense strength allowed him to work in superhuman conditions.

The city slowly learned of the tragedy. Rescue teams were organized. Time, as always, proved to be man's enemy.

The hole was dug, his hands untied, just one more punch in the stomach, and that taste of power, of supremacy over the world.

The boy's resistance weakened with each second. The taste of blood in his mouth became unbearable.

Someone had the idea to search the cemetery on the hill. A dozen people volunteered. They set off. The air thickened, the darkness refused to budge, and only the wind howled louder and louder, apparently finding some other amusement.

The man began to grow nervous. He saw flashlights flashing towards him, and heard the cries of people, the hated inhabitants. Krzyś, disoriented, opened his eyes; he must have clearly lost consciousness. Hands lifted him and threw him into a fresh grave. In the distance, increasingly louder thunder could be heard, and repeatedly the sky lit up like New Year's Eve.

A group of men notice something at the end of the cemetery. It's a man. They approach. A flash of lightning reveals him leaning against something… a makeshift cross, two branches tied with rope. Suddenly, the silence is shattered by a soul-suffocating clap of thunder, followed immediately by the man's voice: "…now you are redeemed…" Then, as the voices had previously told him, he draws a knife and kills himself in front of the searchers. The startled men approach the cross, which bears a plaque reading: "Here lies the child who cleansed you of sin."

Suddenly, rain poured from the sky, and the storm began in earnest.

The body was unearthed after a dozen or so minutes. Unfortunately, too late.

Just as horror, terror, and unimaginable sadness reigned in the cemetery, the police received a call about the escape of a dangerous psychopath, a completely abnormal individual, from a nearby mental hospital.

Another night has won over day in the small mountain town, and only the moon illuminates the hilltop cemetery. Its light falls on the new grave… in the glow of its light you can see a small silver plaque on which it is written… here lies Krzyś, 13 years old

, and underneath a short text:

“…sometimes God also happens to forget about us…”