The Price of Wanting

I had wanted a child for so long that the wanting had begun to rot inside me.

In my village, women whispered about fertility as though it were a curse that could be passed by breath alone. I smiled through their pity, nodded through their prayers, swallowed every bitter herb suggested to me. Nothing worked. When my friend told me about the priest, her voice dropped low, reverent and urgent, I listened.

“People swear by him,” she said. “Women who thought they were barren come back with bellies round as the moon.”

I should have questioned why I’d never heard his name before. I didn’t.

The journey took us far beyond anything familiar. The road thinned into dirt, then into nothing more than the memory of a path. No children ran alongside us. No goats bleated. No smoke curled from cooking fires. Just silence—thick, heavy, unnatural. I remember thinking the quiet felt watchful, like the land itself was holding its breath.

I said nothing.

When we finally arrived, my heart sank. The church—or whatever it once was—leaned into itself like a dying thing. Vines strangled the walls. The roof sagged. The doorway yawned open, black and waiting. This was not a place of miracles. This was a place people forgot.

Then the priest stepped out.

He smiled broadly, far too broadly, teeth flashing white against his dark skin. His eyes never softened. They measured us, weighed us. When he spoke, his voice was calm, smooth, almost kind—and that frightened me more than anger would have.

“Welcome,” he said, as though he’d been expecting us.

Inside was colder than the night air. The walls were lined with symbols I didn’t recognise, scratched deep as though carved in desperation. The floor was stained dark in places I refused to look at too closely. Candles burned without flicker, their flames steady and wrong.

When he asked why I had come, my voice trembled despite my efforts. I told him I wanted a baby. I told him I was tired of emptiness.

He placed his hands on my head and prayed. His fingers were cold. Too cold. His words slithered rather than flowed, curling around my ears, sinking into my skull. I felt dizzy. Hollow.

Afterwards, he stepped back.

“The ritual must be done at dawn,” he said. “You will stay the night.”

Fear bloomed sharp and sudden in my chest, but my friend squeezed my hand, smiling, assuring me it was normal. I let myself be convinced.

He led us to a small storage room at the back and handed us threadbare blankets. Before leaving, his expression hardened, the warmth draining from his voice.

“If you hear anything in the night,” he said slowly, deliberately, “you will ignore it. Do not answer. Do not leave this room.”

Then he closed the door.

Sleep came in fragments. I woke to the sound of movement—soft footsteps, whispers brushing the edges of my hearing. I strained to understand the words, but they slipped away, just out of reach. My chest tightened. The whispers grew louder as I crept closer to the door, heart hammering.

Then the handle rattled.

I stumbled back, breath tearing from my throat. The rattling turned violent, metal clanging against wood. I turned to wake my friend—

And stared into the priest’s face.

His smile stretched impossibly wide, eyes empty and knowing. I screamed, falling backward, my head striking the floor. When I looked again, my friend was herself, blinking sleepily, asking what was wrong.

Before I could answer, the pounding outside exploded into a frenzy. The whispers screamed now, overlapping, clawing at my mind. I turned back—

She was gone.

The door stood open.

I ran.

The main chamber was lit by dozens of candles. At the altar stood the priest. Beside him was my friend. Both wore the same grin. Both watched me as though I were already dead.

I tried to speak. No sound came. My throat closed, my body frozen.

My friend stepped toward me. Her eyes were bright, eager. Grateful.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

The blade flashed.

Pain burst white-hot as my throat opened beneath her hand. Warmth poured down my chest, my legs giving way as I collapsed to the floor. I tasted iron. The world tilted, candles blurring, shadows closing in.

As I lay there drowning in my own blood, the priest knelt beside me, smiling still.

“Your sacrifice,” he murmured, “will not be wasted.”

The last thing I saw was my friend placing her hand on her stomach, already swollen, already chosen.

Then there was nothing.