[ WP ] People in this town have somehow stopped aging . The locals are calling it a blessing , but you know different .

I can not sleep, despite the heaviness of my eyes and the dull aching of my mind. It feels as if it has been ages since I last felt slumber's sweet embrace. I am no longer sure if I ever will, but knowing what I know now I'm beginning to feel I no longer want to. 
 
 In March of my twenty-eighth year I received a missive informing me of an estate in my family's name. I did not know my parents very well, both of them having passed when I was but a child. I spent much of my youth in delinquency, floating from one foster family to the next. The lawmen were never fond of me, reprimanding me at every turn and warning me that a life of crime was one filled with strife and discord. I wish I could say I grew wiser with age and mended my mischievous ways but a childhood of theft and vandalism led easily to an adolescence of the same, then making way for an adulthood with crimes grander in scale and rife with more encounters with the law, many of which ended in a few nights spent locked in a cell. How this letter found its way to my latest hovel I have yet to discern, but nonetheless I elected to read its contents. 
 
 > Mr. Elwood: 
 
 > We send our deepest regrets concerning the fate of your mother and father. They were well loved in our small village, even as they left with the intent of granting you a life in the world outside our modest walls. They have been sorely missed as they were pillars of the community and helped many of our flock find a new lease on life during their years with us. 
 
 > In their honor, we have kept the land they used to call home clean and in living condition. Upon hearing of your current status we only found it appropriate that we approach you now. The land is free for you to live on, if you would so choose. The people of our village are always willing to lend a hand to our neighbors, so we only ask that you be willing to do the same and you will be welcome. 
 
 > Included with this letter is a small map which will lead you to our lands. The post does not make its way to us often, so you do n't need to bother yourself with writing a return message. Simply make your way to us when you deem the time is right. 
 
 > Sincerely, 
 
 > The people of Greenswood 
 
 I found it hard to turn down the opportunity at a free place to stay. My nights as of late have been spent squatting in abandoned houses throughout town, sleeping in its dark alleys, or behind bars. Some time in a remote village would be a welcome change of pace, and so I packed my meager belongings and followed the rudimentary map that I was given. It was a lengthy journey of 2 weeks on foot, but altogether an uneventful one that consisted mostly of following seldom-traveled trails and the occasional trek through small patches of forest. Thankfully my lifestyle had made me accustomed to small meals with little nutrition, letting me stretch the lifetime of the rations I managed to steal from the market before leaving town. 
 
 I was greeted by a jovial man with a belly that spoke of home-cooked meals and a fairly sedentary life who introduced himself as Thomas Greene, the tacitly elected mayor of the small village who I assumed was descended from its founders. He told me how he had known my parents and that it was his idea to reach out to me in hopes of giving me - in his own words - `` a better, more fulfilling life''. I was still trepidatious about the whole affair, having no knowledge whatsoever of these people, but upon meeting the villagefolk it appeared nearly everyone was just as pleasant as their mayor. With at least some of my fears allayed, I decided to stay at least the one night in the house of my name. 
 
 -- -- - 
 
 The summer seemed to wax and wane quickly in Greenswood; I was very appreciative of its location in the deep woods as it kept the air somewhat cool during the standardly sweltering season. June gave way to August and I was told this meant the annual harvest festival was near. I had grown fond of the village's people and their neighborly gestures, so much so that I had, in such a short time, mostly given up my sordid ways for a much simpler existence. 
 
 I was still unsure what the harvest consisted of, as I had spent much of my time engrossed in the many books my family left for me. Among these books was an historical account of the village's founding, although the details were very rough. The only hard fact that I could discern was that the houses of Elwood and Greene were very involved with settling the land and establishing the original traditions. Many details were missing, most notably the age of the village and the traditions themselves. Attributing these to the eventual recording of oral traditions, I paid it no heed as I prepared for the festivities. 
 
 The harvest festival seemed to span a whole week of celebration, including a banquet, friendly competition, and a lively dance each evening. I found myself caught up in this whirlwind of whimsy and unable to contain myself. The villagers' mirth was infectious, spreading throughout my whole being and leaving me with a sense of belonging each night, as if this is where I was meant to be. 
 
 After the last night of festivities I assisted in cleaning up the village square before retiring to my new home. I found myself unable to sleep, still feverishly filled with vim and vigor. I danced madly by myself to a tune only I could hear in an effort to expend this energy, but it was to no avail. I felt a need to drift outside; perhaps the night air would bring me to my senses. 
 
 As my midnight excursion drifted me closer to the square I heard voices coming from the edge of the village's borders. Taking a moment to sober myself, I began moving in the direction of the sound, worrying that there was an additional part of the celebration I was missing out on. As I made my way further into the woods the voices started to become clearer. They seemed to be chanting something, although what the words were I still could not make out. Moving ever closer to the source of the mysterious voices, I began to feel uneasy, something that had become alien to me as of late. After a few more strings of trees I came across a decently sized glade with an open view of the night sky, which I may have recognized as beautiful if not for the scene in front of me. 
 
 Circling a stone outcropping were figures cloaked in black, each carrying a candle or torch. I could not see their faces, but I could hear their voices, chanting over and over again some phrase that I could not translate. On the outcropping itself was a large black figure, its face hidden by the thick cloak over its shoulders, and a young woman near due for childbirth who I recognized as the youngest Greene son's wife. The figure raised its arms to the moon overhead and began to speak in a studied, rhythmic tone, one that seemed to have spoken these words thousands of times before. 
 
 > As we look to thee as our guide, look to us as thy flock. 
 
 > As we hold thee as our savior, hold us as thy slaves. 
 
 > We implore thee to stay thine embrace once more 
 
 > So that we may serve thee forever and for eternity. 
 
 As these last words left the speaker's mouth he threw his hood back to reveal the face of Thomas Greene. Looking to the crowd around him, he spoke, this time more like a speech than part of whatever ritual they seemed to be performing. 
 
 > The Harvest is upon us again, my friends. As with the past few hundred years we have been here, we must give thanks to our savior for the gift She has bequeathed upon us. Join me in this joyous occasion, where we reaffirm our loyalty and receive the gift of life once more, in the manner taught to us by the great Anne and George Elwood. Despite their betraying our trust by leaving this holy place, we must still honor their legacy. And with their son now amongst our flock we must ensure that the foundations of this village are maintained. 
 
 Reaching into the folds of his cloak, he produced a gleaming tool which I could not see properly as I was still quite a distance from where he stood. The chanting among the villagers grew louder as he stalked towards the young pregnant woman who seemed to be chanting along with them. The man who I originally saw as a good-natured mayor lunged at the poor woman, plunging his silvery instrument into her engorged belly. Her screams pierced the stale night air as the blade sliced through, spilling her contents onto the stone altar. 
 
 I could not tell you what happened next, as I did not witness any more. Terrified by the paganistic ritual, I ran to the safety of my home, the sinister chanting following me through the woods as I fled. I flew up the stairs and locked myself away in the bedroom, desperate to escape the horror I had seen. I could not sleep, for every time I closed my eyes I could see the young woman's face, a grimace halfway between pain and exultant madness, and could hear her cries, an odd and terrifying mixture of ecstasy and unbearable pain. 
 
 It has been six years since those awful events which showed me the truth of Greenswood. Each villager looks the same to me as the day I first arrived excepting the darkness that I know exists behind their eyes. I fear they do not realize the horrific and demoniac nature of their actions, but I fear even more that they do. Each year a new sacrifice is chosen, and each year they are offered at the harvest festival. I have not slept since that horrid night and am likely only alive due to whatever dark magics keep the villagefolk from aging even a single day. I can not bring myself to leave as I suspect the deaths of my parents to be a direct result of their departure. And as hard as I try to forget the details of that night I am no longer sure if I ever will. 
 
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 A/N: This is my first story on this subreddit, but please be as critical as you like. It might be obvious, but I took a lot of influence from Lovecraft as I am currently reading through his works and have fallen in love with his style.
