At the corner of a busy city street, feeling disoriented and confused, I struggled to keep from being pushed along by the crowd rushing past me. Most of the people running along the grey pavement were women, but a few couples walked hand in hand, sometimes one dragged the other forward.

  One of the women bumped into me, and I reached out to stop her and ask where everyone was going. There was a look of annoyance on her face as she glanced at me before hurrying away. A bundle was tied to her front, and as I looked around I noticed that all the women rushing down the street carried the same.

  My curiosity aroused, I followed her, the strong current of people pushing me along. Among the crowd, I could better observe the bundles. They were of varying sizes, pure white, and made of the softest fabric.

The road was now attractive russet cobblestones. Joyful music played, and on each side of the road, murals decorated the walls. Painted branches reached down, bearing fruit so realistic it seemed like I could reach out and pick it.

The crowd slowed, then came to a standstill. As far as I could see, people were standing waiting in lines. Even on my tiptoes, I could not see what we were waiting for. On one side of the street, steps were leading up the side of a building. Making my way through the crowd, I started to climb.

As I rose above the street, I saw, at the front of the crowd, a red curtain that spanned the street and fastened to the tall walls on either side. As I paused, wondering what was behind it, I noticed the women at the front of the lines were handing their bundles to workers in black uniforms.

Some women were hesitating and asking to see what was inside their bundles. The workers told them that they should not worry about the contents but rather think about the weight and how it would only grow heavier and more burdensome the longer they stalled. Being convinced, the women handed over the bundles and left.

Some women seemed to know what was in their bundle and asked the workers if they would be kind before handing them over. The workers assured them that they would be gentle.

Other women laughed as they handed over their bundles, conversing with the workers as if they were old friends. As the workers unfolded the soft cloth of each bundle I saw that each contained a small baby. Some were very tiny, others larger. I could see their hands, feet, and faces and hear their heartbeats, barely audible over the music. The workers took them and passed them through the curtain.

Then I saw one of the couples in which one had been dragging the other arrive at the curtain. The woman was screaming and begging, but the worker and man accompanying them tore the bundle from her. Other times, the scene was reversed, with the women handing over the baby and the men powerless to stop them.

The scene troubled me, and I climbed higher to see past the curtain. On the other side was a deep, dark pit with jagged rocks at the bottom. My horror grew as I realized that the babies passed through the curtains were being tossed into the chasm.

I could hear the piercing screams of an innumerable number of babies echoing from the bottom of the pit as their little bodies were crushed from the fall. I saw that among the dead, a few of the bigger ones were still moving and crying out.

 More and more babies were tossed into the pit, faster and faster. Their red blood splattered onto the dripping curtain. It was running down the road and staining the cobblestones their russet hue.

I wondered, why is there no one to help? Away in the distance, back down the street, a small group of people called out to the women, warning them of what was happening behind the curtain. Some passersby laughed at them, while others stood in front of them and called them liars. Few women stopped, but many times, those who did, joined the group in warning others.

I wondered why there were so few; and why they did not get closer to the curtain. Just then, one ran towards the group of women, pleading with them, but was dragged away and put into a cage.

Next to the wall, I saw a tall building with a golden cross crowning its steeple. The sight comforted me. Surely they would help. Some workers and women who had just left the curtain walked into the building. I climbed down and followed them.

Inside, there was a large crowd of people. They were singing songs and dancing, laughing as they did so. To my surprise, the workers joined in with them.

I saw that the church had a window overlooking the pit, but heavy drapes obscured the view. One of the people sitting in a pew went to the window and tried to pull open the drapes. Others told them to stop, as it was distracting from the service. They also motioned to the workers and women, and the person at the window sat down again, for fear of offending them.

As I was considering all I had seen, a fiery light began to glow at the front of the room. A finger appeared, writing on the wall in burning letters.

“THEIR BLOOD CRIES OUT TO ME — THEIR BLOOD WILL I REQUIRE AT YOUR HANDS.”

 Dread enveloped me. “Does nobody see?” I shouted.

 But the frenzy of the music seemed to grow, and the dance made them turn away.