Hell Fire Club, Ireland — The Ritual
by Dawg
High on Montpelier Hill where the storm-bent heather grows wild,
the lodge sits crooked, windows staring, the stones defiled.
Blasted by winds that never rest, the threshold guards its sin,
ruined chimney, scorched beams, shadows leaking from within.
Centuries ache in the rotting timbers, blood memory stains the floor,
ravens circle overhead, as if called by rituals from before.
Night falls thick and sudden; the forest recoils from the slope,
every branch twisted, recalling oaths sworn without hope.
Inside, the air smells of singed bone and lamp oil gone sour,
walls whisper in feverish tongues, secrets that curdle and flower.
Candle wax puddles in the groove of a skull carved on the hearth,
footprints track black powder–ash from something torn apart.
A circle of chairs ringed in salt, bottles stacked in precarious towers,
smoke coiling in prayer–summoning whatever devours.
The ritual begins with a shriek, laughter spiraling into a moan,
wine is poured, fire spatters, and every man stands alone.
The club’s cruel hosts chant, their words igniting the air,
calling for devils and demons, daring God to be there.
Monstrous shadows leap across faces, flaying reason and doubt,
old rites resurrected, black eyes rolling, twisted mouths shout.
Wind pounds the broken windowpanes, glass shivers in the frame,
candles sputter, painting the ceiling with the echo of every name.
Rain seeps through the rafters, mingling with blood on stone,
every drop is a warning–no one truly leaves alone.
The lodge stands empty at daybreak, the ritual long spent,
yet echoes of what happened remain–scarred timbers, air rent.
Some say the Devil was summoned, some say only men to blame,
but on Montpelier Hill, after midnight, the dark remembers every name.