In the shadow of the Tatra Mountains in the valley where reception is

non-existent and the radio sing a single static-filled song there is a village

It's no different than any other villages you would find in the Slovakian countryside.

There's a single road lined with wooden cottages. The occasional pensioner on a horse and

the fresh mountain air is intermixed with a gentle

smell of manure. It's just like any other village except for the screaming.

Every evening, after the day's field work is finished and dinner has been eaten, the people

of the village get ready for the ceremony.

They wash up, put on their Sunday best and gather at the edge of the

woods. A couple dozen people, young and old, but mostly old, watch as the sun slowly sets behind the tree line. The lower the ball of fire sinks

beneath the dark wood the more their mouths open. It starts off as a gentle gargle, something you'd have to be close to hear.

But as the sky reddens, those whispered screams grow into a throaty thunder that echoes

through the valley. The children in their button suspenders, the old

women in their humble headscarves, the farmers wearing their wedding suit, they all

scream at the setting sun from the core of their souls.

I grew up in this.

This all seemed normal.

As most children do, I had my Y period.

I would ask why the sky is blue, why Mr Joskovic's roost the crows every morning,

why the trees shed their leaves with the coming of winter. I was a young human being trying to make sense of the world that I had been plunged into.

My mother and father answered most of these questions to the best of their abilities. They supported my curiosity, but as soon as I asked about the

screaming, their tone changed. My father would slam his blistered hands on the table and send me to bed without supper.

...