The One Beneath the Ground

it has come to see your soul: an easter fable

Leave out the basket. Leave what you love.

Leave what you have, or it takes what you are.

Knock, knock. Hush now. Don’t make a sound.

Something is waiting beneath the ground.

•

In a village where all things are priced,

And nothing given free,

They spoke of sins made clean and sold,

But not what it should mean.

•

They bowed their heads. They learned the words.

They sang of value dressed as worth.

Then priced those sounds like caged-up birds,

And called the selling right.

•

Each year the children, wanting eggs,

Waited by the door,

And learned to count what morning brings

And hunger ever more.

•

“If you are good, your basket will fill.

If not, you’ll wake to none.”

And still they slept so sure of it,

As though the test were done.

For every child would find an egg,

And none would question why.

•

Leave out the basket. Leave what you love.

Leave what you have, or it takes what you are.

Knock, knock. Hush now. Don’t look down.

Something is moving beneath the ground.

•

One child, Anya, would not sleep.

She waited by the door.

She knew the shape the others keep

Pretending to ignore.

•

Not soft, not small, not sweet, not mild,

Not anything of spring,

But something ancient, starved and wild,

Born of their hollowing.

•

At midnight came the weight of air.

The walls forgot their place.

The door unlearned the need for care

And opened to its face.

•

It entered slow, joint after joint,

Too tall to stand upright.

Its shadow split at every point

And swallowed back the light.

•

It carried eggs within its hold.

It set them one by one.

Each egg was pale. Each egg was cold.

Each pulse was not its own.

•

For something moved beneath the shell,

A breath that did not stay,

As what once lived and might have told

Had somehow slipped away.

•

Anya spoke, her voice unsure.

“I thought you came with good.

With sweets. With gifts. With something pure.

With all things the Easter Bunny should.”

•

The thing stood still. Then something old

Moved deep beneath its skin.

A memory, cracked, and long grown cold,

Pressed outward from within.

•

“Once upon a time, I did,” it said inside her mind.

“I came with gentle hands.

With sweetness shaped for humankind,

Before want was all that commands.

•

I came when giving still was known,

When merit was freely made.

When what was offered was not sold,

And worth was not a trade.”

•

Its limbs drew tight. Its voice grew thin.

“The sweets began to rot.

The gifts were stripped to what was in

The wanting, not the thought.

•

They sold, and sold, and called it need.

They sold, and called it right.

They fed on more, an endless greed,

And starved the root of light.”

•

“The sugar turned itself to ash.

The bright things broke in two.

And something in me learned to match

The emptiness they grew.”

•

It raised its hand. The eggs grew still.

The pulsing turned to strain.

“What they have hollowed, I now fill.

What’s empty, I reclaim.”

•

“I see who will take, and steal, and keep,

Who will strip and leave no breath,

I take their warmth, I take their sleep,

I take what outruns death.”

•

“And then?” asked Anya, barely breath.

“What happens when you do?”

The thing bent close. She felt its stare

Pass straight and through and through.

•

“They wake,” it said, “but not the same.

They walk, but not as men.

Their flesh remains. Their shape, their name.

But nothing lives within.”

•

“They hunger still. But now it shows.

No mask. No gentle skin.

The outside bends to match what grows

And writhes and rots within.”

•

“And those who still…” she tried to say,

“…who still can feel and see?”

A pause. Then softer, far away,

“I don’t take all souls with me.”

•

It placed the final egg with care.

It turned. It did not stay.

But something colder filled the air

That would not go away.

•

By morning, all the eggs were found.

The children gathered near.

They cracked the shells upon the ground

And felt a chilling fear.

•

Some grew still, and some grew cold,

And some began to change.

Their mouths too wide. Their eyes too low.

Their movements sharp and strange.

•

Their outside bends to match what grows

And writhes and rots within.

Until it splits and overflows

The truth breaks through their skin.

•

They reached for more.

They clawed. They tore.

They could not name the need.

For the soul they’d sell when they grew old

Had left them only greed.

•

But Anya held her egg untouched.

She felt it faintly beat.

And did not know if it was hers

Or what was answering beneath.

•

Leave out the basket. Leave what you love.

Leave what you have, or it takes what you are.

Knock, knock. Hush now. Don’t make a sound.

Something is always beneath the ground.

•

And if you wake and hear it near,

And feel it at your door,

It’s not a gift for you, that’s clear,

But what it’s coming for.

•

For it is not a thing of spring.

Not joy. Not light above.

But what is made when selling things

Replaces what was love.

•

Leave out the basket. Now it’s bare.

There’s nothing left of you.

Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

It’s not what you thought you knew.

Time to weigh what you have sold.

The one beneath the ground has come to see your soul.

•

•

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