The tribe pays to be afraid.
I do not understand this. In my world, fear is free. Fear comes at night when the fire dies. Fear comes with yellow eyes at the edge of the dark. We run from it. These people walk toward it, in a line, giggling, holding hands.
The cave is not a real cave. It is bones of wood, dressed in fake rot. Inside, something screams that is not hurt. A false spirit made of cloth jumps out. The tribe screams back, then laughs, then screams again. They enjoy the trembling. They chose it. They gave good tokens for it.
I watch a young one grab the arm of another young one and not let go. This part I know. This is old. When the shadow moves, you reach for your tribe. You want a warm body between you and the teeth. The fear is fake, but the grabbing is true.
So this is the trick. They cannot make real threat anymore. No lion waits in their soft, lit world. So they build a lie of danger, just to feel their own hearts hammer, just to have a reason to hold each other in the dark.
They are not hunting fear. They are hunting the closeness that fear brings.
Weak spirits. Clever ache. I would burn this false cave down and call it mercy.
But I would hold my tribe just the same.