Short story The Lottery by Shirley Jackson,

The sun shone through a light haze upon the village square. Children, recently released from school, skipped about, gathering stones the size of small fists. The air buzzed with a peculiar combination of excitement and nervous anticipation.

"Careful, there, Bobby!" Mrs. Hutchinson called to her youngest son, snatching a particularly large rock from his grasp. "Those are for the bigger folks today."

The lottery was an annual event in this village. It wasn't a competition for prizes, nor a chance to win a trip. This lottery held a different kind of weight.

Mr. Summers, the jovial grocer, bustled about arranging the black wooden box in the center of the square. Old Man Warner grumbled in the corner, muttering about how things "used to be better" and that the younger generations didn't understand the importance of tradition.

Heads of households began assembling, families forming clusters around the box. The tension thickened as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and began speaking.

"Welcome, everyone," he began, his voice booming through the gathered crowd. "Glad to see you all out here on such a fine day for the annual lottery." There were scattered chuckles, a nervous release of tension.

The process was familiar, almost comforting in its routine. Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves, the postmaster, checked the list of families, ensuring everyone was present. Then came the drawing of the slips of paper from the black box, one for each family. The tension rose a notch with each folded piece retrieved.

Tessi Hutchinson, her arms full of nervous energy, shuffled her family into the ever-tightening circle. Her husband, Bill, drew the paper, his face grim as he unfolded it. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the crowd; the dreaded black spot wasn't present. Bill handed the paper back to Mr. Summers, a flicker of relief crossing his features.

The "lucky" family was soon identified. Mr. Delacroix, a quiet man with a perpetually worried expression, drew the marked slip. A murmur of sympathy went through the crowd.

The second stage of the lottery was far more chilling. Each member of the Delacroix family drew a slip from the box, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and grim acceptance. The black spot materialized in Tessie Hutchinson's hand.

A stunned silence descended upon the square. Tessie's face drained of color as she sputtered, "It isn't fair! It isn't right!" A wave of unease rippled through the crowd, a discordant note in the previously practiced routine.

Undeterred, Mr. Summers proceeded. He handed Tess a pile of stones, the same ones the children had collected earlier. A dark look hardened her eyes as she gripped a heavy rock. The crowd, their faces a mask of unease, began to form a circle around the doomed woman.

The story ends here, leaving the reader in a state of shock and disbelief. What started as a seemingly innocent tradition devolved into a horrifying ritual. The author masterfully utilizes a normal setting and a familiar tone to lull the reader into a false sense of security, only to reveal the barbarity lurking beneath the surface.

Despite the rising tension, Mr. Summers continued the ritual. He offered Tess a pile of the very stones the children had been playing with just moments ago. Her eyes hardened with a dark resolve as she chose a heavy rock. The crowd, their faces etched with a growing sense of dread, instinctively formed a circle around Tess, the condemned woman.

The story abruptly ends here, leaving the reader reeling. What began as a seemingly harmless tradition has morphed into a horrifying act. The author masterfully creates a sense of normalcy with the familiar setting and casual tone, only to rip the rug out from under the reader, revealing the shocking brutality that lies hidden beneath the surface.