Page 1 of Chaos has a Name (An FBI Romance/Thriller #66)

The Reservation

Damascus

One Week Earlier

For everyone, it was just another day on the reservation, or so they believed, but that wasn’t the case. What happened in the shadows was none of their concern, and that was how it had always been.

The supernatural was there, and at this time of the year, it was making itself known—to certain individuals.

This supernatural entity thrived on the hallowed, incredibly sacred grounds.

What others called mysticism, the Natives who had heard the tales and stories called it just a way of life for those it touched.

If you knew, you knew.

If you didn’t know, you were likely never going to have a clue it existed.

It was that secretive.

A Native could go their whole life and never know about the bump in the night, or the dealings done on that one particular summer evening.

And it was for the best.

Really.

There was no reason to get the panic growing throughout the reservation when this was something that had been handled for a very long time.

What was it exactly?

Well, every year, on the same day, a person was chosen, and they were taken.

Taken where, one might ask?

Well, that was the big mystery to those who only heard of the legend.

To the one doing the choosing…

They had a place where the necessary deed was done.

More importantly, they were studied for the whole year, and then, on that one night, they were carefully taken so that they disappeared.

Into the night.

That was the beauty of it all.

Mostly, no one cared when they disappeared since this person wasn’t exactly the star member of the tribe.

Basically, they earned this with their behaviors and actions the prior year.

Whereas a lover might be worried as to where they went, or the police might be called in to figure it out, the bottom line was that it all happened for good reason.

It had always been.

And it would always be.

The only proof of their existence would be found at the edge of the reservation in the days that were to come.

For them, and those who searched, there would only be one sign of their existence left behind.

What was it?

Well, it was their neatly folded clothing left beside the river for time to forget.

And a reservation of people to ignore.

Because their sacrifice was everyone’s oath to take for the following year.

No one cared that they were taken.

Why?

Because it was their way.

The way of The Hollow.

That was the name that was chosen, and that was what hunted amongst all of them.

Again, it was done with definitive purpose.

It was to feed the Great Spirit and make sure that the remaining members of the tribe would be forever seen favorably in the Great Spirit’s eyes.

It was tradition, and something that had been done for as long as time. This one act was done from the moment the troubles began, and would continue going to keep those issues forever at bay.

It.

Was.

Necessary.

It was to protect them all from the Wendigo who haunted their land, ruining their lives with its punishing ways.

One didn’t ask why.

Instead, one turned a blind eye, thankful it wasn’t them.

It did two things.

The coming of The Hollow kept everyone on their best behavior, and it took out the trash—those who didn’t live as they should be.

On a reservation, that gave The Hollow plenty of choices in their offering to the Wendigo.

PLENTY.

The bottom line was that they would never run out.

Not.

Happening.

The ritual had always been and always would be a part of their way. For once a year, every year, that one person was offered up to the spirit as a promise of loyalty.

And in its place, they would have peace and prosperity throughout the land.

Look at what magnificent benefits had come to the tribe as of late.

They had a community center filled with ways to help the people. There was plenty of food, and now medical treatment.

It was a plethora of benefits, and there was no doubt that they were blessed by the offering given to the Wendigo.

The only issue was that in those days and times, it was beginning to be more difficult to make a person cease to exist.

Incredibly.

Difficult.

With technology, and the FBI office not far from the Native land, there came the worry that the ritual would come out from the dark, and the truth would ruin their good fortune.

It had taken years of sacrifice to receive the boon of blessing.

There was also one more worry.

That the whole world would know of what was to become of the chosen ones, and that would draw attention to their tribe.

The rumors would start up about how they were barbarians and savages.

That wasn’t true.

This was just their custom.

Their beliefs.

That the world would judge them was always a worry, but as of late, it was amplified beyond normal times.

Why?

There were outsiders on the reservation, and while welcomed, they were problematic. The Wendigo could NEVER have one of them.

It would draw too much suspicion, and risk their generations of handling this.

There was that paranoia and fear that someone would start to look into disappearances, and then, it would all be shared with the world.

And it would end all the prosperity.

It was a fear that it would end the blessings being bestowed upon them.

For the Wendigo were sacred to them, and had always called the reservation home.

Because of the Wendigo, their tribe was powerful, and prosperous. There was money coming into the reservation, and things were getting better.

For.

Every.

One.

While some would point out the potential other reasons they were flourishing, the one who chose the offering didn’t relate that to anything other than the spirits being pleased with them.

It was as simple as that.

When you heard the whistling of The Hollow, you knew that you were about to be the one sacrificed for the good of the whole.

The elders spoke of it in tales to the younger generations for many, many cycles of life.

Some called it stories.

Others called it truth.

As for them hearing the whistling…

Oh, you might not be taken that day, but you would be taken at some point. That was the way to warn the offering, so they could change their ways before it was too late.

Seldom did.

Unfortunately.

So, this lottery of sorts became their way.

It had been adopted as their own for countless years, and it would remain a tradition that was upkept by some of them.

For this reason, it was done behind everyone’s back. Their main job was done in the shadows—a way to help facilitate keeping their people safe.

As it had been, it should forever be.

When did it begin?

Well, that was many, many years ago, adapted from a time when their people were at rock bottom.

It was from when they were marched for hundreds of miles from their homes to a new place where they would be forced to live out their lives.

In squaller.

In destitution.

In misery.

In hopes of changing their fate, it became so important to find a way to give thanks to the other side, that the tradition was born.

And in it, so many thrived.

That was what kept it alive for so many years. It helped them get to this point in their lives as a tribe.

Finally, they found prosperity.

Now, as The Hollow watched over the reservation, making its choice for that Solstice evening, it was clear who would be the next person to become their sacrifice to the mighty Wendigo.

It was a no-brainer.

He.

Was.

Found.

The Hollow had kept an eye on this one, with the intent of making that fateful choice that would give them more blessings from the mighty Wendigo.

His time had come.

He was about to be the sacrifice needed for the better of the whole.

As ‘the chosen’ walked home from the only bar on the reservation, he was followed. In the shadows of the night, his footsteps were trailed, making sure he was accessible.

Tonight, he would be special.

Well, for this sacrifice.

Thomas Adsila was a common man, but tonight, he would be the sacrifice that kept their community going—for the next three hundred and sixty days, at least.

It had been decided, and what the Wendigo wanted, the Wendigo got.

That was the bottom line.

If one were to listen carefully, one could hear the whispers from the Great Spirit that this needed to be done.

The voices said to make it happen, and that was exactly what would be done.

When this man was chosen, his name whispered through the trees as if he was being called home, and that was all that was needed.

He.

Was.

Chosen.

Tonight, he would be going home, his sacrifice never forgotten.

He would be remembered forever even if only in the shadows by The Hollow.

Thomas Adsila would forever be part of the reservation, and their community.

His sacrifice would be the oath they took to the future of their home.

The Hollow demanded it.

So it must be done.

As he was tracked along the desolate Native road, leading back to his cabin not that far away, tabs were kept to ensure that he was safe.

After all, they didn’t want him harmed in any way shape or form. His well-being was important. After all, you didn’t give a damaged sacrifice to The Wendigo.

No.

It had to be pristine.

If anything were to happen to him, the search for a new sacrifice would need to be hurried, and that wasn’t how it was done.

The Wendigo would punish them.

It had happened once before, fifty years ago, and the story was told down from one generation of The Hollow to another.

It had been a mess.

This day was well-planned for, and it needed to go off without a hitch.

Every year, on the Summer Solstice, another soul would be harvested to feed the hunger of the Wendigo. That time of the year was here, and this man was the feast.

His body would be devoured collectively to appease the supernatural that haunted the sacred grounds.

The Hollow would collect him, and the Wendigo would feast upon his soul, and the shadows on the reservation would be satiated once more.

Thankfully.

There was no guilt.

There was no sorrow.

It was a small price to pay to ensure they were all blessed with prosperity for the following year.