The file designated Case 734-B sat undisturbed for decades in the sealed archives of the local constabulary, tucked away alongside other records deemed ‘inexplicable’ or ‘too disturbing for general review’. What little remained of the official report spoke of an isolated incident, an old, decaying manor deep within Unnamed Woods, far past the crumbling boundary walls that marked the edge of civilization. The location itself whispered of abandonment and rot. The air there was thick with the scent of decaying leaves and something heavier, colder. Locals avoided it, calling the woods ‘the Hungry Dark’ and the manor ‘Blackwood Hollow,’ though no map bore that name. The narrative, pieced together from fragments found at the scene – a blood-stained journal, a partial audio recording, scorched and damaged documents – hinted at events that defied rational explanation, culminating in a scene of horrific violence and spiritual desecration that mirrored the landscape's desolation.

The subject, a woman named Eleanor Vance, had retreat ed to Blackwood Hollow after a series of personal tragedies, ostensibly to pursue her esoteric studies. Eleanor was known, in certain circles, for her intense spiritual focus, her fascination with divine mechanics, specifically the concept she termed the "Hummingbird Model." She believed the hummingbird, with its impossible speed, fragility, and iridescent beauty, represented a unique design by a "dreamer hummingbird of the Perfection of God"—a metaphor for a divine artist creating fleeting, perfect beauty in motion, a tiny, intricate engine of light and life. Her writings, filled with florid theological musings, spoke of seeking communion with this divine artistry. It was a stark contrast to the horror that enveloped her.

The call for aid had come late, a garbled plea reaching a small, independent order known for handling what the established church dismissed. Father Michael and Deacon Thomas, accompanied by Brother Silas, a younger man whose faith was yet untested by true horror, arrived at Blackwood Hollow under a sky the colour of bruised plums. The manor stood silhouetted against the fading light, a skeletal structure of blackened stone and broken windows, overgrown with ivy that seemed to writhe in the perpetual wind. The darkness here was not merely the absence of light; it was a palpable presence, ancient and conscious, a mature darkness that seemed to press in from all sides, sucking the warmth from the air and the hope from the soul. Inside, the air was foul, a sickening mix of rot, something acrid, and the undeniable stench of pure wrongness.

Eleanor was confined to a room on the second floor, her own prison. She lay strapped to a heavy wooden bed, formerly a grand four-poster, now splintered and stained. Her body was contorted in unnatural ways, limbs bent at angles that should have been impossible. But it was the sounds that assaulted them first, driving a cold spike of repugnance and fear into their hearts.

It wasn't human speech. It was a cacophony of shrieks, guttural snarls, and frenetic chittering, interspersed with moments of chilling, unnatural silence. It sounded like a host of wild marsupials trapped within her throat – the desperate scrabbling of claws on stone, the high-pitched, almost bird-like cries of a possum twisted into agony, the deep, vibrating growl that brought to mind the ferocity of a Tasmanian devil. It was animalistic, yes, but amplified, distorted, imbued with a grotesque intelligence that mocked them. Sometimes, words would surface from the chaos, but they were slurred, backward, filled with venom, delivered in this horrifying chorus of bestial sounds.

"It... It speaks through her," Father Michael said, his voice tight with a fear he fought to suppress. He was the senior exorcist, his face lined with past battles he rarely spoke of, but even he looked shaken.

Deacon Thomas, stout and usually stoic, visibly recoiled from the sounds. Brother Silas, young and pale, clutched his crucifix, his eyes wide with visceral terror and pure, unadulterated repugnance. This was not the abstract evil of sermons; this was a foul, tangible presence defiling a human vessel.

They began the ritual. Holy water, salt, prayers that had been spoken for centuries against the forces of darkness. The air grew colder, the sounds from the bed intensifying. Eleanor's body thrashed against the restraints with impossible strength. The voice-chorus of marsupials mocked their prayers, twisting the sacred words into obscenities delivered with slobbering, chittering fury.

"Foolish birds, fluttering in the cage of light!" the voice shrieked, the high-pitched sound curdling into a low, rumbling growl. "She sought perfection! Found only worms! Found only me!"

Eleanor’s head snapped towards Father Michael, her eyes, once bright and intelligent, now twin points of malevolent red in a face contorted beyond recognition. The marsupial sounds emanated not just from her mouth, but seemed to vibrate through her entire frame, a horrible, internal rustling and snapping.

They pressed on. Father Michael read from the Exorcism Rite, his voice steady despite the rising chaos. Brother Silas held the crucifix forward, though his hand trembled violently. Deacon Thomas sprinkled holy water, which seemed to hiss and evaporate on Eleanor's skin like acid, eliciting renewed shrieks.

The entity within her retaliated. Objects in the room flew across the space, smashing against walls. The air grew thick with a sulphurous smell. A sudden, violent wind howled through the broken windows, extinguishing their candles, plunging the room into the "mature darkness" that felt like a living, breathing entity.

In the gloom, the sounds were worse. They heard the ripping of fabric, the scraping of something sharp on wood. When Father Michael managed to relight a candle, they saw the scene. The restraints were tearing, splintering. Eleanor's body seemed to flow, her limbs impossibly long or short for moments before snapping back. Her face seemed to shift, elongating into a snout-like shape before collapsing back into human form, all while the wild marsupial chorus poured from her.

"She dreamed of perfect flight!" the voice screeched, a sound like a thousand tiny claws scrabbling on bone. "Tiny wings! God's model! I am older than models! Older than dreams!"

It was a direct assault on Eleanor's former beliefs, a mockery of her pursuit of the "Hummingbird Model." The entity was not just possessing her; it was deliberately defiling everything she held sacred. The repugnance they felt deepened – it was not just physical horror, but a spiritual nausea at the deliberate perversion of beauty and faith.

Father Michael changed tactics. He confronted the entity directly, demanding its name in the name of God.

The cacophony of marsupial sounds erupted into a climax of noise – a horrifying symphony of snarls, screeches, and growls that seemed to shake the very foundations of the manor. Then, silence fell, absolute and terrifying.

In the oppressive stillness, the darkness deepened further. It coiled in the corners, writhed in the shadows. It felt ancient, immeasurably old, the true "mature darkness" of primordial evil.

Then, a voice spoke. It wasn't the chittering, animalistic voice from before. This voice was calm, deep, resonant, yet utterly devoid of warmth or humanity. It was the sound of crushing rock, of infinite void, of something that was and was not all at once. And it filled the room, filled their minds, leaving no space for thought, only overwhelming fear and profound, absolute repugnance.

"You call me forth?" the voice rumbled, and the floor vibrated with its power. "You ask my name? You small, fragile things, scratching at the surface of MY dominion?"

Dread solidified in their veins. This was not a demon. This was something infinitely worse. The air itself felt poisoned by its presence. A terrible, crushing weight settled upon them, pressing them down, stealing their breath.

"She sought the 'Perfection of God'," the voice continued, its tone laced with contempt so profound it felt like a physical blow. "A foolish child, playing with sparks. God's 'model' of a bird? A triviality. Behold, my model."

As the voice spoke, a shadow detached itself from the deepest pocket of the room's darkness. It wasn't a solid form, but a twisting, shifting shape composed of nightmare. It writhed like a knot of serpents and shadows, resolving for a terrible moment into something vast, winged, yet broken and jagged, a grotesque parody of flight. And from its non-form emanated the most intense feeling of repugnance they had ever known – the foulness of decay, the malice of centuries, the cold, empty void of ultimate evil.

Then, the marsupial sounds returned, but now they didn't seem to come from Eleanor alone. They echoed from the walls, from the shadows, from the very air. They were no longer just mocking; they were the sound of torment, the sounds of souls being ripped apart, a symphony of suffering that the twisted shape seemed to conducting.

"Her little model of perfection," the deep voice resonated, accompanied now by the wild, chittering chorus of suffering. "Defiled. Broken. Like all of His creations eventually are. This place... this foolish woman... they sought the light. They found the punishment."

Eleanor's body convulsed one final time, arching against the torn restraints with a sickening snap. Her head twisted, her eyes fixed on the terrifying, formless shadow. The marsupial sounds peaked in a single, agonized shriek that was abruptly cut off.

Silence returned, heavier and more absolute than before. The vast shadow seemed to contract, shrinking back into the 'mature darkness' that now felt permanently embedded in the room, in the house, in the very ground.

Father Michael, trembling, managed to raise his candle higher. Eleanor lay still. Terribly still. Her eyes were wide open, vacant and red, fixed on nothing. The horrifying contortions were gone, replaced by a slack, lifeless posture. But her skin was grey, her lips pulled back from her teeth in a rictus of eternal horror. And from her mouth, now unnaturally wide, leaked a thick, dark fluid that smelled of rot and something indescribable.

The room was a wreck. Furniture was overturned, wood splintered. The floor was marked with inexplicable scorch marks and strange, viscous trails resembling dried blood but darker, thicker. The air remained frigid, heavy with the lingering scent of sulphur and decay.

Brother Silas choked back a sob, stumbling back towards the door. Deacon Thomas, his face pale and slick with sweat, sank to his knees, whispering prayers or perhaps just gibberish. Father Michael stood frozen, his gaze fixed on Eleanor's lifeless body. He had confronted demons before, but never this. Never the source. Never the embodiment of the ancient, mature darkness.

They left the next morning, carrying only the fragmented recordings and the Father's brief, shattered notes. They left the body, unable to touch it, unable to face the violation it represented. Blackwood Hollow stood silent under the bruised sky, radiating an aura of pure, unadulterated evil.

The official 'true crime' report, decades later, would note the inexplicable state of the manor, the physical impossibility of the damage, the high levels of hydrogen sulfide found in the air, and the condition of the body, deemed 'unidentifiable' and 'severely decomposed' despite only a day passing. It spoke of a possible cult activity gone wrong, perhaps a mass suicide or murder, citing the symbolic significance some investigators tried to attach to scattered objects – including a small, intricate carving of a hummingbird found shattered near the bed. They couldn't explain the sounds captured on the partial audio fragment – the horrifying mix of human screams and unidentifiable animal noises. They couldn't explain the profound psychological trauma suffered by the first responders, none of whom stayed on the force long after.

The file concluded with a note about the unnerving stillness of the surrounding woods, the lack of bird song, the way animals seemed to avoid the area entirely. The 'mature darkness' of Blackwood Hollow had not lifted. It remained, a testament to a failed confrontation with ultimate evil, a place where the 'Perfection of God' had been shattered by a cosmic, ancient repugnance, and where the only sound left was the chilling echo of wild, tormented cries from the heart of the Hungry Dark. The punishment had been inflicted, not just on Eleanor, but on the place itself, leaving a scar visible only to those who dared to feel the cold, ancient presence that still lingered there.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting its final, weakened rays upon the dense foliage of Unnamed Woods. Within the gloomy embrace of the trees, the path grew narrower, the shadows darker, and the silence deeper. A solitary figure, her eyes reflecting a fierce determination, pushed her way through the thick underbrush. She was Eleanor Vance, a woman whose life had been a pattern of sorrow, loss, and an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Her destination: Blackwood Hollow, a manor shrouded in whispers of decay and despair.

The house, once a bastion of grandeur, now loomed over her, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised sky. The ivy that clung to its stones seemed to writhe and pulse with a malevolent life of its own. The air grew colder as she approached, thick with the scent of decaying leaves and something far more sinister. She stepped over the boundary wall, the stones crumbling beneath her feet like ancient bones giving way to time's relentless march.

Entering the manor, she felt a chill that no fire could conquer. The darkness within was mature, a living force that seemed to have grown old with the very fabric of the building. It was as if the house itself had been infused with the essence of the Hungry Dark, the woods' malevolent spirit that the villagers whispered about in hushed tones. Her footsteps echoed through the corridors, a solitary rhythm that seemed to disturb the slumbering house.

Eleanor Vance, driven by personal tragedies and a quest for divine knowledge, ventures into the eerie Unnamed Woods to reach Blackwood Hollow. The decaying manor's ivy-covered exterior and the oppressive, ancient darkness within foreshadow the malevolent presence that awaits her, as the house seems alive with a chilling, malignant force that echoes her solitary steps.

Eleanor ascended the stairs, her gaze drawn to the second floor. There, in a room that smelled of mildew and despair, she found what she had come for – a heavy, wooden bed, its four posts reaching towards the ceiling like the arms of a monstrous octopus, poised to embrace her in a suffocating grip. She lay upon the bed, strapped herself down, and waited for the darkness to come.

In the quiet of the night, the first sound emerged, a faint rustling from the depths of the manor. It grew, swelling into a cacophony of snarls, shrieks, and chitters. The air grew thick, as if the very walls were closing in, and the odor of corruption filled her nostrils. Above her, a shadow began to form, a twisting, writhing mass that coalesced into the grotesque visage of the devil – not the charming, seductive creature of myth, but a beast of pure repugnance, a creature of the darkest nightmares.

The creature's mouth, a gaping maw filled with razor-sharp teeth, stretched into a grin that split its face from ear to ear. Its eyes, twin pits of blackness, bore into hers, promising a fate far worse than death. The chorus of marsupials grew louder, a symphony of torment that seemed to fill the room, a cacophony of pain and rage.

"Your God," the creature's voice rumbled, a deep, resonating bass that vibrated through her very bones, "has abandoned you. I am all that remains."

At Blackwood Hollow, Eleanor finds the room of her destiny, the decayed four-poster bed, and awaits the encroaching darkness. The house's malevolent presence manifests as a terrifying shadow, a monstrous entity that declares her God has forsaken her. The cacophony of animal sounds reaches a crescendo, the creature's twisted form appearing in the room, revealing a gaping, teeth-filled maw and eyes of pure blackness, promising a fate more dire than mere death.

The exorcism had gone wrong, so very wrong. The darkness had not been vanquished; it had grown stronger, feeding on her fear and her faith. The devil spoke through her, a chilling, intelligent presence that belied the animalistic sounds that poured forth from her lips.

"Foolish bird," it taunted, "you sought to fly on divine winds, but here, you are only worm food for the true master of the skies."

The room grew colder still, the shadows thickening into a palpable, sentient presence that seemed to breathe, watching with malicious glee as the holy men struggled to reclaim her soul. The candles flickered and went out, plunging them into a darkness so complete it felt like a living entity. The air grew heavy with the stench of sulphur, the unmistakable scent of hell's embrace.

Eleanor's body thrashed against the restraints, her bones popping and cracking like dry twigs under the unnatural force. The bedrock of her beliefs was being torn apart, the concept of the 'Hummingbird Model' twisted into a grotesque mockery.

The creature's jaws stretched open, revealing a cavernous maw lined with teeth that gleamed with a sickly light. It was the jaw of a predator, the jaw of the Devil himself. "Look upon me," it whispered, the voice now a chilling blend of human and beast, "I am the true model of existence."

The room grew colder, the darkness thickening into a miasma of pure malice. The sounds of the woods outside, usually a soothing lullaby, had transformed into a cacophony of hellish screams. The shadows grew teeth, and the very air seemed to bite at their skin.

The exorcism continued, but it was clear that the battle was lost. The entity had grown too strong, its power fed by the very essence of the mature darkness that surrounded them. The men of God, once so sure in their purpose, now cowered before the ancient, malevolent force that had claimed this place.

In the flickering light of the last candle, the shadowy figure grew more distinct, its form shifting from a writhing mass of serpents into a towering silhouette of wings and talons. The air grew colder still, the stench of sulphur choking, as the true nature of the beast was revealed.

The voice grew louder, more demanding, its words a direct affront to their faith. "You bring your puny light to challenge me?" it bellowed, its laughter echoing through the manor like the shrieks of a thousand tormented souls. "I am the punishment!"

The men of the cloth stumbled back, their sacred symbols offering no protection against the onslaught of evil. They watched in horror as the room was torn apart by invisible hands, the very fabric of reality warping and contorting around them.

Eleanor's eyes rolled back in her head, only the whites visible, her body a canvas for the demon's rage. The bed frame shuddered and splintered, the mattress soaked with a black, viscous fluid that smelled of decay. Her limbs snapped and bent in ways that defied human anatomy, the restraints now useless against the creature's might.

Father Michael, his resolve wavering, knew that this was no ordinary possession. This was something far older, far more powerful. He called upon every ounce of his faith, his voice straining with the effort to be heard above the din of the creature's taunts and the shrieks of the damned that filled the room.

The entity's laughter grew, the sound of it a knife slicing through the last vestiges of their hope. The walls of Blackwood Hollow wept with the stench of its amusement, the very air vibrating with the power of its malice.

The men stumbled back, the weight of their failure crushing them. They had not come to save a soul; they had merely unlocked a cage containing a monster that had been waiting, patiently, for its release.

The room grew colder yet, the warmth of their candle extinguished by the cold, malevolent breath of the demon. The shadows grew teeth, and the darkness whispered its victory.

The true horror of the situation dawned upon them. This was not just a battle for Eleanor's soul; it was a battle for their own. The devil had come to claim them all, to feast upon their fear and despair.

And in that moment, as the creature's jaws snapped shut around Eleanor's lifeless body, the true nature of the 'Hummingbird Model' was laid bare. It was not a divine creation, but a prison forged by the very essence of evil – a prison that had held it for millennia, and now lay shattered at their feet.

The men of God stumbled backward, their faith a trembling candle flame in the face of this ancient horror. The walls of Blackwood Hollow wept with the stench of decay, the very fabric of the house groaning under the weight of the darkness that had been unleashed.

The devil's jaw unfurled, revealing a mouth lined with teeth that gleamed like sharpened obsidian, each one a monument to the countless souls it had consumed. The shadows grew longer, stretching into the room like tendrils of pure malevolence, reaching for the men who had dared to disturb its slumber.

The room, once a sanctuary of hope, was now a cage of despair, the air thick with the scent of sulphur and the echoes of the damned. The sounds of the wild, the cries of the animals that once filled the woods, had been twisted into a symphony of pain that seemed to resonate with the very core of the earth beneath them.

Their hearts pounding in their chests, they knew that they had not just failed in their exorcism; they had unleashed a punishment that would consume them all. The devil's voice grew louder, more insistent, a chorus of madness that filled their ears and seeped into their very minds.

The floorboards groaned, the shadows grew teeth, and the darkness grew a pair of wings. It was a creature of the night, a creature of the mature, ancient evil that had slumbered within the Hungry Dark for eons.

The exorcists turned to flee, their eyes wide with terror. They could feel the cold breath of the devil on their necks, the sharpness of its claws in the very air that surrounded them. The house seemed alive with malice, every corner a potential trap, every shadow a concealed monstrosity.

Father Michael, his crucifix clutched tightly in his trembling hand, whispered a prayer for salvation as the creature's laughter grew louder, echoing through the corridors of Blackwood Hollow.

But the devil's grip was firm, the darkness now a living entity that clung to their very souls. They stumbled through the house, pursued by the shadow of wings and the cries of the damned, their path illuminated only by the flickering candlelight that cast dancing shadows on the walls.

The devil's jaws snapped shut once more, and the room was plunged into a silence so profound it was deafening. The candle flame flickered out, leaving them in the embrace of the mature darkness, the true face of the evil they had unwittingly released into the world.

The men of the cloth were lost, adrift in a sea of fear and doubt. The exorcism had become a true crime – not just a failure, but a gateway to the most terrifying depths of hell itself. And as they stumbled into the night, leaving the manor and its horrors behind, they knew that they would never truly escape the shadow of the Hungry Dark that had claimed them all.

The woods that had once been a place of refuge now felt like a prison, the branches reaching out to snare them in their panicked flight. The once-familiar sounds of the night were now the whispers of a million malicious spirits, the rustling leaves a cacophony of taunts and threats. The darkness grew thicker, the air colder, and the scent of decay filled their nostrils, a reminder of the punishment that awaited those who dared to challenge the mature darkness.

The devil's jaws, now a vivid memory burned into their minds, remained open, a silent, mocking testament to the true nature of the 'Hummingbird Model'. The creature that had spoken through Eleanor was not a mere demon, but a force of nature, a manifestation of the most primal and ancient of fears. It was the embodiment of the punishment they had brought upon themselves.

The men, their souls stained with the taint of the evil they had faced, returned to their lives forever changed. The story of Blackwood Hollow would become a whispered legend, a cautionary tale of the price of curiosity and the futility of faith in the face of the inexplicable. The sounds of the wild, the cries of the animals, would forever be tainted by the memory of that foul, unearthly chorus that had filled the air that night.

In the aftermath, the local authorities would piece together the fragments of their story, the shattered remains of the manor, and the inexplicable condition of Eleanor's body. They would label it a case of extreme cult activity, a tragic loss of life and sanity in the pursuit of dark knowledge. But the truth, the real horror of what had occurred in that house, would remain buried in the archives, a secret whispered among those who dared to believe in the existence of true evil.

The woods remained silent, the animals giving Blackwood Hollow a wide berth. The trees grew twisted, as if attempting to flee the malignant presence that had settled into the very earth. The house itself stood as a monument to the night the devil had come to claim his prize, its windows gaping like the empty sockets of a skull, the ivy its hair of eternal mourning.

The exorcists, their faith shattered, continued to live their lives, haunted by the memory of the night they had faced the mature darkness and been found wanting. The voice of the devil remained with them, a constant reminder of the punishment they had brought upon themselves. They had sought the divine in the 'Hummingbird Model', but instead had found the ultimate expression of the beast that dwelt within the Hungry Dark.

And in the quiet moments before sleep, when the world was at its most vulnerable, they could still hear the chittering of the possessed, the echoes of the devil's laughter, the final, terrible punishment that had been meted out. The darkness had not just claimed Eleanor; it had claimed a piece of them all, leaving them forever scarred by the horror of what lurked in the heart of the woods, in the decaying manor that none dared to approach.

The men tried to bury their memories, to return to their duties within the church, but the stench of Blackwood Hollow clung to them like a miasma. They saw the twisted forms of the damned in every shadow, heard the whispers of the devil in every rustle of leaves. Their faith, once a bastion of light, had been tainted by the darkness they had sought to banish.

Years passed, and the story of Case 734-B grew into a legend, a grim tale whispered by those who knew the truth of what lay within the Hungry Dark. The woods remained silent, the animals wary, as if they too bore witness to the night the devil had come to claim his prize. The manor stood, a blight upon the landscape, its ivy-covered stones whispering of the unspeakable acts that had occurred within its walls.

Father Michael, Deacon Thomas, and Brother Silas, their names forever linked to the tragedy of Blackwood Hollow, continued their lives in quiet desperation, each man haunted by his failure. They knew that the devil had not been defeated; it had merely been stirred from its slumber, its appetite for fear and despair now insatiable. The true crime was not what they had found in the manor, but what they had unleashed upon the world.

The mature darkness grew, seeping into the hearts and minds of those who ventured too close to the Hollow. The woods grew denser, the trees more twisted, as if the very fabric of the natural world was warped by the malevolent presence that lurked within. The air grew colder, the shadows longer, and the silence more oppressive. The devil's jaw, once a symbol of its dominion over the house, now loomed over the entire region, a specter of the ultimate punishment that awaited all who sought the 'Perfection of God' without understanding the true nature of the universe's design.

And in the deepest, most profound moments of their fear, they heard the chilling cries of the damned, the shrieks of the demon they had set free. It was a reminder that the true exorcism had not been of Eleanor, but of themselves – a cleansing of their own pride, their own arrogance in believing they could tame the wild, ancient forces of evil.

The file remained sealed in the archives, a grim reminder of the night that the devil had come to Blackwood Hollow. The fragments of the story, the blood-stained pages, the broken crucifix, and the shattered remains of the 'Hummingbird Model' – all were silent witnesses to the battle that had been lost. The true crime was not just what had been done to Eleanor; it was the opening of a door that should never have been unlocked, the invitation to the mature darkness that now dwelt within the heart of the Hungry Dark.

Yet, the world continued to turn, the seasons changing, the woods growing more twisted with each passing year. And in the quiet, desolate halls of the abandoned manor, the devil waited, its jaws open wide, ready to devour the next soul who dared to seek the light in the shadow of the mature darkness. The true punishment was not death; it was the eternal, unending torment of the damned, trapped in the prison of their own folly, forever echoing the cries of the wild, the sounds of the animals that had once been a part of the divine tapestry but were now warped into the symphony of despair.

Their names were forgotten, their deeds buried, but the legacy of that fateful exorcism lingered, a stain upon the land. The woods whispered of the mature darkness.

By Carlos del Puente relatos