Super flumina Babylonis

Short Horror Fiction

Photo by Marvin Zettl on Unsplash

Author’s note: This piece is a response to Labyrinthia Mythweaver’s latest Salon of the Mythweaver prompt. This is somewhat darker than my usual horror fiction, containing elements of grooming, ritualistic abuse, and violent imagery. Reader discretion is advised.

Super flumina Babylonis.

So reads the inscription, carved on the weathered face of an antediluvian cabin by a lakeshore in the mystery shrouded northwest corner of Rhode Island. It has long been a locus for all manner of queer doings in that smallest of states - due, some charge, to its treasured policy of toleration, even for the most outlandish of sects and practices. And, as the old whisperings suggest, the doings which transpired in this tract of cursed and abandoned woodland over a century ago were indeed outlandish: nay, damnably demonic.

It all began innocently enough, in the year of our Lord nineteen hundred and nine. Old Providence was still a mighty bastion of industry, smoke stacks belching their blackened fumes into the air. Years of ravenous production had taken its toll on the surrounding landscape, rendering it into the very picture of Blake ‘s “dark satanic mills.” Driven by the great wave of the national conservation movement - embodied by that veritable human dynamo, Theodore Roosevelt, then recently departed from the White House - Rhode Island had begun championing the cause of the great outdoors. Lincoln Woods, long a jewel in the crown of the modest but beloved state park system, was formally opened on Lincoln’s birthday that year, serving as a health granting haven from the grit and grime of the surrounding mill towns.

In this spirit of public good came forth a most enigmatic figure. Old Cyrus Phillips, the eccentric and reclusive bachelor scion of an ancient Providence line, approached the superintendent of the State Home for Neglected Children with a generous proposal. Wishing to make the most of his limited time and plentiful resources, he wanted to give the teenage boys and girls of the school a chance to “rough it” in “real countryside” for the summer. His family had long owned a hundred acre plot, including a lake, in the rustic town of Smythefield. He had utilized it as a private hunting camp but desired to make the property’s “soul enhancing” atmosphere open to disadvantaged city youth. Moved by such a display of philanthropy, the superintendent readily agreed and the requisite arrangements were made.

When the group of twenty boys and girls arrived at the amply provisioned and comfortably furnished group of cabins by the lakeshore, it was the picture of paradise. Well worn footpaths led into majestic stands of pine and oak, and glacially cut boulders offered arresting views of the water. Fish were plentiful as was small game, with both sexes being encouraged by Phillips (who actively participated) to learn the art of the hunt. By night they would sit by the roaring fire pit near the cabins, listening to the old man recite his encyclopedic knowledge of strange and exotic lore, impressionable minds ablaze with wonder.

The time passed in idyllic splendor, but not without growing rumblings from the neighboring townsfolk. Jabez Arnold the grocer, on one of his deliveries, witnessed both boys and girls openly frolicking in the nude, as unashamed as Adam and Eve before the Fall. Eleazar Olney, whose apple orchards abutted the property, often heard strange incantations floating on the night air - punctuated by thunderous splashes and gurgles coming from the lake. When he paid a visit to Philips to inquire as to the cause the old man issued a chuckling apology, saying the young folks got “a little carried away” with their campfire songs.

“They’ll learn not to bite off more than they can chew,” he said, seemingly to himself, as Olney made his exit with a shudder. As he turned to leave Phillips’ cabin Olney noticed, from the corner of his eye, a crimson bound volume on the old man’s desk, pages filled with a flowing script which he assumed to be either Hebrew or Latin. Making his way back to the road he saw a group of teenagers, nude and leaning over the water, mouths moving in low whispers.

The strangeness only grew, with the incantations taking on an increasing tinge of madness with each passing night. The splashes and gurgling also intensified to the point that Olney and his wife were startled awake, thinking the house was going to collapse. On a particularly oppressive night during the height of the dog days, the usual round of chanting was punctuated with a ghastly chorus of orgiastic release, echoing far and wide. The Olneys again felt their house shake, the horses neighed madly from the barn, and several trees were uprooted in the orchard, as if by the blighted hand of Old Nick himself. Olney clutched his trembling wife, firmly countering the blasphemous shrieking and screaming with the familiar verses of the 91st Psalm:

“He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust: his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day…”

With the coming of day Olney knew action was needed. Phillips had long been known in the neighborhood for his queer mannerisms, but his past visits out from Providence had been quiet and uneventful. Yet now some deep seated perversity had been brought to the fore, as evidenced by the nightly Bacchanalias sounding from the camp. What was he putting those poor children up to? And why the water? Olney gritted his teeth as the sickening sounds from the night before threatened to drown his consciousness. Girding himself, he mounted his horse and rode into town.

Conferring with Jabez Arnold over the latest developments in the back of the general store, Olney voiced his desire to mount an expedition to the camp- but only in broad daylight. Arnold, who had been keeping abreast of the situation, heartily agreed, not wishing to meet by night whatever hideous rituals were being conducted by the old lecher. They would get to the bottom of whatever depravity was occurring and bring Phillips into custody. Arnold’s oldest son John was the town police sergeant and could swear in special constables as needed. Leaving the store to his wife once duly sworn in and armed alongside Olney, his son and four other younger men, Jabez and his comrades made for the accursed camp.

By mid afternoon they arrived on the outskirts, leaving their horses tied near a stand of pines to enter in on foot. Drenched in sweat the group proceeded slowly, rifles in hand, through the woods. Olney, being the witness closest to the dread scene, felt an acute sense of unease in the air. Save for the crackling of dry branches under their feet there was no sound whatsoever. What new round of devilry had unfolded in the watches of the night prior?

The answer was not long in coming.

As they exited the treeline by the cabins, it took everything they had not to wretch at the sight: a score of young naked bodies, gutted like game from neck to crotch, littered the lakeshore. Trails of crimson ran back to the cabins where - alongside the plainly human tracks - were imprints of a monstrosity whose proportions defied any attempt at naturalistic description. Burned logs from the fire were scattered like discarded matchsticks. A pair of hunting rifles lay nearby, chambers full.

Olney, raising his rifle, entered the nearest cabin with a few of the others. More young bodies, limbs torn clean off and strewn across blood soaked bunks -

“Eleazar...you best come see this,” came Jabez Arnold’s halting call from Phillips’ lodgings.

Two of the younger men rushed out, overcome with nausea, as Olney entered. Arnold looked away, shaking his head.

Phillips’ headless body - draped in a blood spattered purple robe - was sprawled in the corner, his formidable desk overturned. Amidst the pile of papers and artifacts was the crimson book which Olney had seen before. Not far from it was an open journal with a crabbed script, written in English. Olney ventured a few steps forward into the carnage to decipher it.

Super flumina Babylonis… by the waters of Babylon we sat…

The stirrings grow stronger: youth’s full ardor opens the gates below… virgin seed is best. They grow in lust and life, useful tools…

If only man knew what dwells beneath, as I shall! The hour draws nigh! Rejoice, children! You are parents to the new Aeon!!!!!! What bliss awaits me in the worlds within!!!

Good God… what is IT?! Did I not give them the correct verse to recite during the act?! They have called up what cannot be put down by word alone! Heaven save me!!! -

“They’ll learn not to bite off more than they can chew,” Olney muttered, the cruel irony of the old wizard’s words evident.

Exiting that scene of black sorcery the men grimly agreed that, while some manner of preternatural justice had been meted upon Cyrus Phillips for his degradations (which none cared to further investigate) the authorities in Providence needed to be alerted. The scope of the old man’s scheme was apparent, preying upon the orphaned and needy. Who knew if this was but the latest - and thankfully last - in a long line of similar evils by the long lived warlock? They let the question die, lighting a fire to turn the abominable tracts to ashes. Not wishing to stay even for a moment in that resort of the damned after sunset the group returned to town, with Sergeant Arnold wiring to Providence with the news. The crime determined to have been an act of ritualistic murder, the bodies were quietly removed and cabins left to rot. As the last of the Phillips line, no one would mourn or care to learn further about the old man’s fate.

And so the land sat vacant for over a century with not even a peep of interest in development or use, until the town of Smythefield finally claimed it as conservation land. Plans for renovating the cabins for overnight camping and building a boating ramp, however, were quietly put on hold. The town surveying team, it was said behind closed doors, found the old inscription etched into the tree and uttered it aloud in amazement. Then their attention was called to the nearest cabin where, on the remarkably intact window pane, emerged with a grisly thump a pair of hand prints.

Disembodied hand prints, coated in crimson.

© Conor MacCormack, 2026. All rights reserved.