Instead, I decide to focus on something more productive: figuring out what the fuck is going on in this castle. So I put my filthy uniform back on, grab a lantern from the hallway closet, and head out to the grounds.
The icy wind that presses along the castle walls is piercing through the wool and making me shiver. It hisses along the bricks like an overfilled tea kettle. My still-damp clothes do nothing to protect me from it. With a bent head and hands tucked inside my jacket, I finally reach the spot I’m looking for. The shovel and gloves are still conveniently placed right next to the filled ditches, and I wince as the stiff leather scrapes over my raw fingers. With everything that happened, I hadn’t even noticed what hours of mopping had done to my skin.
There’s no light coming from the castle, so I place the lantern close by and begin removing the topsoil from the first ditch. At this point, I’m not entirely sure which outcome I would prefer: a ditch full of dirt or a ditch filled with…well, something else entirely. Let’s just say, I have a bad feeling about this.
The lantern is desperately trying not to extinguish in the late-night breeze, but even in the dim light, I spot something pale in the soil. I crouch, brushing dirt off with my gloved hand. Like this, I feel a bit like the least qualified archaeologist to have ever lived, but then my attention is drawn to the ground below me when I recognise what I’m looking at.
The shovel drops on the dirt with a muffled thump when I step back. I stare at the thing I’ve uncovered. A human finger sticking out between bits of dried-up roots.
I admit, even for me, this is pretty intense.
My heartbeat slows down and my limbs feel even colder than just a second ago. Still staring, I have to take a moment to settlemyself before crawling back to make sure my eyes didn’t deceive me.
It’s a finger. Not a bone, but an entire human finger. Wrinkled skin and a dirt-crusted nail. I use my hands to remove more soil, but I already know what else is hiding underneath. I claw at the dirt;even through the leather, my nails splinter as I uncover the rest of the body.
The head of an old man, eyes wide open, and a gash in his throat. He glares at me almost accusingly. A cold shiver runs down my spine, and I feel strangely hollow staring back at the body. I’ve always wanted to see a corpse, but not like this.
I lean closer to the man’s neck. The cut is too jagged to have been done with a sharp object. The skin around the wound is scratched, as if a wild animal tore into his flesh. The rest of the head is barely holding on by broken vertebrae and stringy tendons.
It’s too much, too vivid. Too real.
I have to steady my hands to cover the body as quickly as I can manage. When I’m done, I walk away, leaving him there to rot.
The knowledge of what I’ve just uncovered seeps into my bones. Someone in this castle killed that man. Cut his throat open until his head nearly fell off. Planned the murder in advance so that I would conveniently dig this grave. Does that mean the other ditch was also filled with a nearly decapitated corpse?
A sudden sound ahead of me makes me press myself against the castle walls. I try to quietly disappear into the vines that are crawling up the building. Holding my breath not to make a sound, I quickly extinguish the lantern.
Bayard comes slowly into view, grunting and groaning with effort, seemingly dragging something behind him. I recognise what it is as soon as he reaches a small door not too far ahead ofme: a large man, tied up with rope. At first, I wonder if he’s dead, but then he opens his eyes wide and starts to struggle with the binding. Bayard drops the man to the ground and starts cursing quietly under his breath. He takes a baton from his coat and starts to beat him. All I hear is the thudding of wood on skin and the man’s pained moans. Bayard hits him until his eyes swell up, and blood drips down the stranger’s face. The man lets out a sick, wet gurgle before passing out, then Bayard continues to drag him into the castle.
I stare in horror at the brutality of it, hand pressed across my mouth to let no sound escape. I stay hidden between the vines for a long time, breathing as quietly as I can, making sure no one is around to discover what I just witnessed.
I have no more ordered thoughts. Only confliction. A part of me wants to storm after Bayard and confront him right then and there. Another wants to question Abas and find out if he’s behind this.
I’m aware that good people would know exactly what to do. If I had an ounce of human decency, I would choose the right thing, the moral thing. But not a single part of me wants to pack my things and leave.
It’s fine. I already knew I was callous and reckless; adding stupidity and injudiciousness won’t make much of a difference. In the end, I choose to go to my room. But when I arrive, I find my door locked.
“Fuck,” I mumble. I had completely forgotten they lock me in at night. Well, at least now I know why.
For a split second, I consider going to Abas’ room. I’m trying to imagine what he looks like asleep, and I honestly don’t know why I’m not scared of him. After all, he might be behind all of this. But something tells me otherwise. Wishful thinking? Maybe.
Instead, I head down to the cellar, hoping to hide there until dawn.
I curl up in a corner like a dog, shivering in the dark, letting my tape’s music lull me to sleep. I’m too overwhelmed and numb to pay attention to the smell of rot getting stronger and the packed earth beneath me warming up.
Nothing lives between these walls. No breathing. No life.
I wake from my body being moved. When I shoot up, all I see is Abas’ stern face very close to mine. He scowls the moment he sees me looking up at him. He was lifting me off the floor, but now that I’m awake, I half hang, half stand on one foot between his arms. I straighten awkwardly, unsure what to do with myself.
Abas lifts one finger to his mouth and silently signals to follow him. With a small candle in hand, he disappears into the darkness of the cellar. I hesitate for a much shorter time than I’d like to admit before following him into the void. I have to hurry to see him turn a stone located high up near the ceiling. The wall quietly slides open, revealing a hallway behind it. Abas enters and beckons me to follow him. Once inside, he takes a torch from the wall, lighting it with the candle. After he turns another stone, the door slides closed. He moves along the dark passage in eerily silent steps. My ears feel hollow, every sound muffled by invisible hands.
We walk for a while without saying a word. I’m not completely certain, but I’m pretty sure this passage is leading away from the castle. The narrow walls look hewn from bare rock, like torrential water burrowed through a mountain. The floor below us is packed earth, and it smells surprisingly like fresh rain. Abas’ shoulders nearly graze the walls, the ceiling barely tall enough to let him walk upright.
Eventually, we reach a set of carved stairs. At the top is a small door that Abas unlocks with a large, ancient-looking iron key. On the other side is only darkness.
“Where are we?” I ask, still standing at the threshold, unable to make out anything inside.
I hear Abas rummaging, and suddenly fire appears.
