There’s a steady plink, plink, plink, of distant water dripping from ancient pipes. A moldering, musty odor snuck into my nose, provoking an urge to gag I couldn’t act on. Apersistent chill whispered over my skin, as gentle as a teasing lover’s touch, but horribly frigid, turning my bones to ice.
One floor. Then another. And another.
Another.
Shadows shift along the walls as breath fogs from the lips. A gentle exhale of darkness permeates the stone walls and wooden stairs. They feel present, like memories and living beings of history walking beside me, guiding me.
Another set of stairs.
Older, rickety, with steps that groan with complaint on each step. Deeper and deeper into the bowels of the old building.
And another.
Another.
Deeper and deeper still, into the bowels of the earth.
As if I were walking into a pit, a void, a chasm.
Or a grave.
Crack!
The step shattered underfoot.
I plummet into the abyss. My heart thunders, my pulse quickens, and a scream dies on my lips. I’m a frozen statue dropping like a stone into still waters.
A sob bubbles in my chest and clogs the back of my throat.
Then I blink.
I’m standing before a set of unremarkable, weathered doors.
Somewhere behind me, a single candle flickers, lengthening the shadows before me into figures. They grow arms and reach for the doors. Rusted hinges scream in protest against being opened.This place feels like a living thing, and I am a parasite waltzing through vital organs and straining joints. But it is welcoming me and pointing me to where I need to go.
I can’t be late.
The sickly yellow glow lights the way, revealing a narrow tunnel of stone gradually morphing and degrading into a cavernous gullet. My hand trails along a wall slick with condensation, or stomach fluids, and feeling the faint pulsating of life within. A pungent, fetid smell wafts into my face, and I cringe. Enthralled, I descend deeper and deeper.
Charged air with a distinctly sulfuric taint blows around a corner, and I follow the curvature of the stone with my breath held and chest tight.
Dread skitters over my skin, and the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
A blinding light stops me. Hand lifted, I peer through the shield of my fingers to make out the general shape of a bonfire. Orange and red and gold, crackling, spitting flames, and burning hot.
I froze. Even my heart became ice.
A circle of robed figures surrounds a blazing fire pit, chanting in a language that grates at my ears, a sound too jagged to be human. Their voices rise and fall in a resounding, feverish cadence.One by one, the robed figures step forward. Each loosens the tie at their throat, letting heavy fabric fall open before slipping off completely.What emerges from beneath the robes is viscerally, horribly wrong.
Skin splinters and warps, bones twist with brutal transfiguration, and eyes bulge into yellow discs. Feathers erupt from their bodies like black thorns tearing their way through delicate meat, rendering flesh. Viscera drips from elongating claws, and dewy feathers ruffle as they grow.Their mouths stretch, unhinge, tongues lolling as they gag and choke on their infernal rebirth. Wicked grins split wide as if delighting in euphoric bliss, too wide, reforming into sharp, hooked beaks as their forms twisted and deformed.
Limbs crack backward. Talons click against the stone. Mortal flesh sloughs off feathered bodies and sizzles into ash.I should run. I should scream. I should do anything but stare as if locked to the spot by invisible chains. But I’m held hostage by an unseen presence and forced to watch.
Grandpa’s journal had led me to the unholy sanctum of Moloch’s apostles, carved beneath the school. A church of horrible worship and grotesque rebirth hidden within the ancient innards of the university.
The stolas are gyrating and moving around the fire. Their hooting shrieks grow louder and rhythmic. A ritualistic chant meant to entice a beast from another world into ours.
And it is working.
