Loudest Dungeon: Ch.6 - Stories in the Dark

“Oi, the fuck was that? Arthur – go have a look!”

For a moment Arthur silently gazed into the fire, saying nothing and basking in its warmth and light, his face obscured by a tattered green hood and the dancing shadows cast by the flickering flames. After a moment, he slowly raised his head and stared at his companion with a blank empty gaze. Cutthroat and fusilier glared at one another, steely gazes half-hidden by worn cowls only to be briefly illuminated by the fading embers that sheltered them from the unremitting, advancing darkness that threatened to consume them with a growing effervescent fervor each passing second.

There was a part of Arthur that hated Peter, hated always being the one he called out, and that part wanted ever so desperately to tell him off, to refuse. But there was another altogether larger part of him, the part that had known and worked with Peter for well on five years now, that dutifully reminded Arthur of the futility of such an action, and moreover just wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

With a heavy sigh Arthur rose reluctantly from his seat around the campfire and, gripping his twin blades in tightly clenched hands, headed towards the darkness, the muffled snickering of his comrades lashing at his back like so many razor-thin whips. Arthur walked up to the very boundary of the firelight where the black frayed at the edges of his sanity and gazed out into the shroud of tenebrosity that sought only to envelop him. Eyes narrowed and ears primed he peered into the endless darkened corridors that lay before him and then, as loudly and as threateningly as he could muster, dragged the edges of his blades across each other and shouted gruffly, “Who’s there, show yourself!”

Quick staccato footsteps answered him, echoing sharply and unseen in the inky gloom. Arthur scrutinized further, straining his ears and wondering if the strange rustles and hollow murmurs that followed were real or imagined. Arthur quickly retreated from the edge of oblivion back into the light, back to the safety of the fire and the familiarity of the weight of his company’s presence. Three heads regarded their companion’s return, still tense and ready even as Arthur retook his place by the fire.

“Well?” Peter asked, his voice a harsh whisper as his eyes whipped back and forth between Arthur and the darkness he had just returned from. The others leaned in with a conspiratorial air, their weapons gripped tightly in their rough, calloused hands.

“Nope, no one’s there,” Arthur mumbled, holding his hands by the fire and reveling in the warmth.

With relieved sighs the two other brigands leaned back in their seats and relaxed, their weapons hanging limply in their half-opened hands as the two men anxiously chuckled with eyes still fixed on the corridors.

“You sure?” Peter pressed, leaning forward with his trusty blunderbuss slung over his shoulder. “I could’ve sworn I heard something.”
Arthur shrugged, not taking his eyes off the fire. “Well, nobody came forward. I thought I heard something, maybe, but they just ran off.”

“You fuckin’ moron!” Peter growled, slamming the butt of his blunderbuss onto the stone floor. “You heard somethin’, and you let it get away, what the hell is wrong with you? Now you’ve given us away! What if it was the enemy, now they know where we are! What if the dead are getting closer?”

Arthur’s head shot up and he fixed Peter with a flat even glare. With all the malice and alacrity he could muster the man pulled one of his knives from its sheath and he held it tight in his pale fists.

“And what should I do about it?” Arthur snarled, pointing at the man with one of his blades. “I can’t see shit down here! Should I go running around in the dark, get myself eaten by a ghoul? Fuck off! You have a gun, you go do it next time!”

“I agree,” came a great, deep, rumbling voice from Arthur’s side, and both men looked over to see Reginald heft his vicious cat o' nine tails whip over his shoulder, lashing his flesh with the barbed instrument and sending blood sailing off into the darkness. If the man was in pain, he did not show it, not even grunting as he scoured himself.

“If I might... pontificate upon this most... excruciating... of quandaries... I don’t think... they were people... the footsteps... sounded strange. Too quick... the pattern was off,” the man continued, pausing every now and then to flagellate himself. Finally, he caught the stares from the others and straightened up. “What?”

“Do you have to do that now?” Peter asked, leaning away from the sordid scene as best as he could.

Reginald merely grunted, gave himself one last lash, and put the whip down. “It helps me think,” he said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Besides, I don’t think it was the dead either, when have the dead ever run from anything? Lately they’ve been lunging forward without hesitation. Why, the other day they attacked a patrol with just wooden clubs and pieces of rubble, marched straight into musket-fire, no hesitation.” Reginald paused for a moment, bringing his thumb up to his chin as he pondered his words, before nodding as much to himself as to the others. “No, the dead don’t run, probably just the lads from up top havin’ a lark, or a rat maybe,” he chirped good-naturedly, grabbing up his whip to give himself another lashing.

Arthur straightened up a bit, pleased by the unexpected support and moreover feeling quite content with himself. He flashed the fusilier a smug grin and Peter glared right back.

“Alright, fuck!” Peter snapped, grabbing up his blunderbuss and waving it about his head. “If it was the lads, they should have said something, we have rules for a reason! And you don’t have to be such a dick about it! Just last week one of our guys got eaten by a spider, a fucking spider! What if it was a scout, now it’ll just go back to its mates and next thing we know we’ve got spiders crawling up our assholes? You see Arthur, that’s your problem, you don’t think about these kinds of things!” With a snort Peter hacked up a loogie and spat it into the fire. He gave Arthur a smile much too friendly to be anything but sadistic and said quite frankly, “And don’t give me anymore lip, or next time I’ll make you run after whatever it was back into the tunnel!”

It made Arthur shudder to imagine the tunnel beyond the meager safety of the pale glow, where the light dies, and the darkness snuffs out all hope. It was horrifying just to think of it. Looking into the maw of that abyss was like looking into the very gates of oblivion itself, like looking up at a starless night only far more visceral due largely in part to its immediate proximity. No one had the guts to go off into the deeper sections of the tunnels; patrols would make it to the tenth meter with no problem, by the twentieth meter the jokes and laughs would grow faint, by the hundredth the men would be pressing against each other, their legs as slow and heavy as lead. They would stop then and having illuminated the ruined ballrooms and rotting libraries with their torches will convince themselves that there was nothing worth pilfering down here, would hastily return. Even the raiders and hunters – big guys, Vvulf’s personal enforcers themselves – would stop at the hundredth and fiftieth meter. They’d turn their baleful gazes around this ruined, dead world that had been swallowed up by the Earth, taken down to the depths of Hades itself, and stand stock-still, breathing in the dank swill of dusty, stale air and miasma. And then, they’d slowly, quietly, head back, without taking their eyes off the tunnel and never turning their backs to it.

They were now on patrol at the one hundred and sixtieth meter, though were exactly they were none could say. All attempts at trying to map out this labyrinthine nightmare had been stopped long ago. All they could do was send a patrol down every now and then to check for scrap and loot and these boundaries were, in theory, to be checked and maintained. Now their post was the outermost and, since the last check, the beasts that the last patrol might’ve scared off would have certainly begun to crawl closer once again. They were drawn to the flame, to people…

Arthur settled into his seat and looked over towards Byron to ask, “So what actually happened at the docks?”

For a moment Byron said nothing, his head hanging in his hands as he leaned in towards the campfire. After a few seconds of silence Reginald reached over to tap the man on the shoulder and withdrew just as the cutthroat leapt to action, twin swords slicing through the air where the large man’s fingers had been. Breathing hard Byron looked around the camp, eyes wide and jaw clenched, taking in Reginald’s easy-going smile, Peter’s thoroughly unamused glare, and finally Arthur’s surprised and somewhat fearful features. This last visage seemed to resonate somewhere in Byron’s addled mind and the man’s rage and confusion passed into genuine enthusiasm as something in his brain finally clicked.

“The dock? Oh, the dock! Y’wanna hear ‘bout the docks, d’ya?”

“Yeah, ‘s why he asked.”

“O’IM TELLIN’ THE STORY REGGIE!”

Reginald sighed and wearily raised his hands in defeat, a motion which seemed to placate the old, scarred up cutthroat who after a moment turned back to Arthur with a wide grin.

“So yeah, the docks. Surprised you haven’t heard about it yet. Anyways, ‘s an odd yarn to be sure. It all started when them lads, John, Henry, y’know, them Butcher Boys what work with Jim? Yeah, they up and disappeared by the wharf.”

“Disappeared?” Arthur asked. Now, he’d heard of people disappearing, a few mates of his own had been killed now and then, but the Butcher Boys? And by the wharf? Not in the Ruins or the Weald or, god forbid, the Warrens?

“’S what I said,” Byron continued, his voice grave as he slowly nodded his head. “Vanished. Gone. Nobody knows what happened to ‘em. Or, back then they didn’t.”

“We found ‘em?”

“Funny you should says that. So, anyways, the lads are off by the harbor, on accounts of them new tarts what’s been making moves in the Hamlet lately—

“’Buncha tarts,” Peter muttered darkly before spitting into the fire. His dislike of the new Ladies in charge of the Hamlet ever since that Ancestor fella’ up and croaked was mutual amongst the group but Arthur always wondered if his wasn’t just a bit more... personal. Maybe he should ask him sometime, when they get back up top.

—making it hard for our boys to put the squeeze on them shitheel pissants,” Byron continued, pausing for a second to glare at Peter before continuing. “So, they figures they could shake down a few of them weirdos what live by the Cove. ‘Buncha fuckin’ creeps if you asks me, somefinn’s not roight wiff ‘em, they got funny eyes…”

Arthur shuddered a bit. He knew exactly what Byron was talking about. Those people that lived by the Cove were even creepier than the folks what lived in the Hamlet proper, at least they could be called normal, or at least whatever passed for normal ‘round these parts. Those Cove folks though... they weren’t right.

“So anyways that goes about as well as you can imagine,” Byron said, picking at his teeth with a blade, “those fishermen ain’t exactly the friendliest type, and more important than that they’re dirt-poor so they barely got nuthin’. So, them Butcher Boys tell the ret of the lads to go back to camp, that they’ve got some unfinished business with them fisher-folk.”

“Like what?”

“How the fuck should I know, probably was gonna burn down a house or two, rob a couple of them for ‘oldin out on us. Them Butcher Boys never did have much sense if you asks me. Anyhow, they set up right there on the beach and the rest of the lads turn in at the camp. Next morning they hop on down to the wharf and whad’ya know but they’s just up and...

Byron paused a bit, put his thumb in his mouth, and extricated it with a loud pop.

“Vanished. Gone. Not a trace.”

Arthur leaned back in his seat and shook his head, already beginning to regret asking Byron what had happened. It would be different, he told himself, if he had asked up top, but down here? A fresh chill ran down Arthur’s spine as he gazed off into the murky darkness that surrounded them, barely kept at bay by the flickering light, and he felt thoroughly uncomfortable even though he was closest to the fire. Any rustlings from the tunnel, even the faintest whispers born from his imagination, heralded ghouls and beasts from the very depths of hell itself.

“So,” Byron continued, leaning back himself to prop up the back of his head with his arms, one knee over the other and a grin on his face, “naturally, the lads set to looking. They go around, shoutin’ names, harassin’ the locals, the usual. ‘S not like them Cove folk like us, they figured them butcher boys got lynched, happens from time to time, nothin’ unusual there. Only, see, them Cove folk weren’t there, not a single one on the streets, in the markets. They musta’ went bangin’ on every door but couldn’t find a single bleedin’ soul in the whole place.”

“Now they’re getting’ scared, yeah? Gettin’ a little antsy. They called for some reinforcements and searched and searched, must’ve combed the whole beach over three times shoutin’ their names to high heavens – but they couldn’t fine ‘em. Them Butcher Boys was just gone! And the worst part wasn’t that they might be dead, oh no, the worst was that nobody knew! No blood, no bodies, nothing! There was no trace of them whatsoever.”

“So, when they go back to camp that night and get a few drinks in ‘em, they decide the lads must’ve skedaddled. Hit the road, took a hike. Them Butcher Boys was always the grumbling types. So, they said deserters, the lot of ‘em, and went on their merry way. If it’s an easy life they want, if they want to run around with all kinds of riff-raff, then let ‘em run around to their heart’s content. To hell with them! Simple that way, see? So now they’ve got some beer in ‘em, some food, and now that they’ve got it all figured out they start feelin’ pretty chipper ‘bout themselves. So, the next day comes and goes and the next patrol goes on down to the Cove and what do you think they find?”

Byron let the question hang in the air for a moment, eyes closed and a smug grin on his face as Arthur, Reginald, and Peter all lean in closer. Suddenly he slammed his boot onto the stone floor and all three brigands flinched back at the noise and the feral glint in his eyes as the firelight illuminated his leathery, torn-up face.

“There they are, them Butcher Boys. Only, see, it ain’t exactly all of ‘em. ‘S only their heads, John, Henry, both of ‘em on fishing spears, just stickin’ out of the sand. Their eyes missin’, tongues cut out, flies swarmin’ all over ‘em both. Their skin all green and rotted, like they’ve been out there for weeks. Not Jim though, nah, he’s still in one piece. He’s sittin’ there, quiverin’ and mumblin’ to hisself, dead to the world. So the lads, them what can still stomach the whole thing mind, they come up to him they say, ‘Jim me old boy, what’s all this then?’ But he don’t say nuthin’, just sits there, whisperin’ dark things under his breath.”

Byron leaned forward in his seat, his terrifying smile shining all the more terrible in the flickering flames of the fire, both illuminated and yet in shadow. The brigands leaned back, their faces hidden by the encroaching darkness, as though the shadows themselves were drawing in as the tale reached its climax.

“And then,” Byron whispered, his voice hoarse and crooked and tight in his throat, “He turns around. And he ain’t got no skin, none at all. ‘S all muscle and bones. No eyes, no tongue, no face. And he opens his red, bloody mouth, and he screams. He just screams and screams this ‘orrible noise and he starts vomitin’ blood at falls down at their feet. Now one of the lads, he knows Jim some, and he gets down and he asks him what ‘appened, what ‘appened Jim? And Jim? He just looks up at him, smilin’ and grinnin’ all red and bloody, and y’know what he says?”

Arthur’s hair stood on end. “What’d he say?” Arthur asked. His voice sounded unusual, quiet and warbling, so unlike him.

“...The Deep Ones,” Byron finally said, his voice as cold and heavy as the deepest depths of the ocean. “The Deep Ones.”

Silence reigned for a good long while after that, with nothing to stifle the all-pervading solitude except for the light crackling of the fire. Arthur sat and thought, he tried to imagine the sight, but found himself unable. Arthur was no stranger to horror, to terrible sights, you do the things he’d done for as long as he had and you see some shit, some of which he’d done himself. He’d seen dead people, he’d seen men who’d been shot, stabbed, he’d seen severe heads, he’d seen the burnt bodies of those still left in the fires he’d started. Oh yes, he’d seen things, but there was something about Byron’s tale that seemed... wrong. The lack of blood at the scene, the decay of the heads after merely a day or two, and then there was all that business with Jim...

Reginald let out a low, deep whistle that reverberated in Arthur’s skull and cascaded through the Ruins, echoing far down into the darkened corridors as loud and intrusive as a gunshot.

“’Cor Byron,” the bloodletter chuckled, though it was distinctly devoid of mirth and his smile showed too many teeth. “Right spooky tale that was, eh?”

Byron merely shrugged his shoulders and grunted. “’S somethin’, I guess. The boys legged it back to camp after that. They came back with a posse, but Jim was gone, them heads were still there though. Some of the lads wanted to go burn down the fishing village, most just wanted to leave though. If you ask me, it weren’t them fishermen, they’re a grumpy lot but mostly they’re just spineless, sure they’ve gutted the odd lad now and then, but not like that. No, I bet it were them Flesh Cult motherfuckers!”

Every man by the fire immediately leaned forward and spat into the fire, willing all their anger and disgust at the merest mention of that name into the flames. The mere thought of the Flesh Cult sent an unpleasant shiver through the men, like worms had crawled into their clothes and were writhing under their skin.

“Damned savages!” Peter snarled, shaking his head. “I’ve seen some shit, done some shit myself besides, but never have I seen such... such...

“Such raw, visceral brutality,” Reginald chimed in, a haunted note to his tone.

“Yeah that! Buncha fuckin’ lunatics. Them, the Hamlet, this whole fucking place is sick! I keep tellin’ the boss, I tells him, ‘Boss, we gotta leave while the leavin’ is good,’ we ain’t gonna get our spoils, and that’s a right pain, but it is what it is!”

Peter leaned back in his seat and sighed, rubbing the side of his head as he gazed forlornly into the fire.

“Here!” – Peter suddenly snapped – “Now I’ll tell you all a story, since that’s the only way to pass the time down here in Hell. None of you knew this but I was part of the expedition party Vvulf first sent into the Weald, and though I’ve seen my fair share since then nothing has haunted me as what I’m about to tell you.”

“We didn’t know what we were doing back then. Still don’t really, but at least we have a clue now, we’ve seen things, we know something’s out there if not what exactly, but that’s better than nothing. This was back when the old man was still around, but he was already on his last legs so to speak. Hadn’t the flair he used to, hadn’t that, what’s the word, aristocracy. He was a haunted man, pale and haggard, like he’d seen hell itself. Was enough to turn the blood cold, imagining what could do that to a man like him, after all he’d done. But what’s worse than all of that was that the money had stopped, we’d bled the old tosser dry or he just didn’t care anymore. We’d already taken to highway robbery when the funds started dippin’ but now we hadn’t enough to get a decent meal or drink, and it wasn’t like them Hamlet folks were gonna start shelling out, wouldn’t be too long until they’d just up and kick us out entirely, the bastards...

“So, Vvulf gets the bright idea to send some of the lads out into the forest, what we know to call The Weald now, to scrounge up some supplies. The Ancestor told us not to go in there, all sorts of threats and vagaries, you understand, but if he wasn’t gonna start supplying us then what did we care? Told him to sod off and leave us to our own affairs. He killed himself not too long after, now here we are.”

“Well, me and the lads, some blokes by the name of Connor, he ain’t around no more, that Irish pork pie O’Malley, then there was Dunham... Oh! And that darkie, what’s his name? Amir! Yeah, him. And then we had young Bill Turner.”

“Ah Bill,” Reginald sighed, slowly shaking his head as he gave himself another lashing with his whip. “Now there was a good lad.”

“Too right,” Peter grumbled, scratching the side of his head with one of his crossbow bolts. “Hell of a lad that boy. Damn shame what happened to him, a goddamned shame."
“...So,” Arthur pressured, waving a hand in the air. “What did happen to him? Get on with the story Peter, you’ve got me hooked now!”

“Yeah, yeah,” the older man huffed, waving the lad off, “I’m gettin’ there, I’m gettin’ there. So anyways there we were, in the Weald. Now we’d all been in the woods before, that’s usually how it goes in our line of work, but I don’t think I need to tell any of you that the Weald is something else entirely.”

“Place isn’t natural,” Byron agreed, a shudder running up his spine. “It ain’t wholesome, get the feeling something’s watching you soon as ya step foot in the place.”

“And you’d be right,” Peter said, his voice low and even as he pointed at the man, “don’t never trust that place, same goes for anywhere in this shithole Hamlet. Any place were the dead don’t have the common decency to stay dead ain’t a place to be letting your guard down. But this was all before we knew about the walking dead, before we knew to be careful and always vigilant and the like. So yeah, we let our guard down, and ain’t a day hasn’t passed where I don’t think about what came from it.”

“It was a pleasant day, I suppose. ‘Bout as pleasant as it gets around here at any rate. The lads and I had been scouting the perimeter of the forest for a week? Something like that. But this would be our first real foray into the forest proper. Wasn’t supposed to be more than a simple romp, got all the essentials with us and we’d go camping for a few days, get a lay of the land then get back to Vvulf. ‘Course, we’d all heard the rumors from them Hamlet folk, ‘bout how the forest was... tainted. Same with the haunted ruins, or the demons what they say live in them caves, nobody believed ‘em at first, but we sure as hell do now.”

“The second we got in that forest something wrong. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up, but I didn’t say nothing ‘cause the rest of the boys seemed alright, joking and laughing like, sayin’ how this would be the easiest job ever, so I kept my mouth shut. Figured it was just nerves, but as we kept walking the mood shifted. You could feel it on the wind, in the air itself. Like you were being watched, like you were sneaking ‘round someplace you had no place being and you knew if you got caught something bad would be coming your way. The lads stopped laughing, stopped talking for the most part really, looking ‘round with wide eyes and the like. And these was some hard boys, say what you want ‘bout ‘em but weren’t none of ‘em craven and I’ll knock the head off anyone says otherwise.”

“So, it’s a been a few hours in the place and now we’re stuck in good and proper, all deep like, and the lads are spooked like nothing before. See, ‘cause the whole time we’ve been walking we’ve been also been looking, and we’re starting to notice the little things. At first the forest was might bit spooky yeah? But it was still a forest, birds and squirrels and shit, trees and flowers and what-have-you’s. But the further we got in... well, the stranger it got. No more animals, no birdsong, the trees started getting taller and blocking out the light. Then there was these mushrooms see, just all over the place, covering entire trees at time; had half a mind to pick some but I had the inkling none of ‘em was the wholesome variety. Some of the boys would stop and look off into the forest, sayin’ they just saw something duck behind a tree, or a face in the leaves staring back, all sorts of fucked up nonsense that was just getting the rest of the boys riled up. Told ‘em it was nothing, they were just tired and seeing things, liable to happen in these new environs and such, and we’d make camp soon so’s to get some rest and be right as rain tomorrow.”

Peter grabbed his gun and slammed the butt of it onto the concrete floor, the sound of it as loud and clear as any gunshot and the lads ‘round the fire all jumped back, unaware ‘till now that they’d gathered in as close as they had to listen to Peter’s tale. The man gave them a cruel smirk that slowly faded into a grimace as he stared off into the fire, his eyes flickering with the flames as Peter relived his past.

“It all started coming to a head when we made camp for the night. We had a pretty good fire going, and the light was starting to get the boys back in proper order. Sure, there were a few nervous smiles, a few cautious glances towards the woods, but I prefer it that way, keep ‘em on their toes. ‘Course some damned fool had to break out the ale and next thing I know there’s a bunch of right rowdy lads whoopin’ and hollerin’ like a pack of dogs. Wanted to say something but nobody listened to me and I thought, fine, let the boys have a drink, might help their nerves, ‘sides maybe there ain’t nothing even down here, maybe I’m just paranoid. So yeah, I took a drink or two, and wouldn’t you know it but that being watched feeling started to go away. Oh, not completely, no, but just enough were I didn’t want to go poppin’ off into the dark.”

“So, I’m starting to feel good. We’re all laughing, drinking, having a good time more or less. And I turn over to Bill and I start talking, probably a joke though I can’t be buggered to remember it, and the lads are all laughing and I’m smiling all casual like and it’s a good time, we’re having fun. Then Bill just turns to me and all the piss in me blood just turns sour when I see his cold, empty eyes staring at me. And then he just stands up and says – listen to this part! – just stands right up and says, 'The Mistress is calling for me,' and he just turns around and he fucking walks off into the bushes. Just right out into the dark, no torch or nothing! Just disappears!”

Peter leaned back in his seat, covering his eyes with his hands as he took in a deep breath through his teeth, held it for a moment, then blew it out in a harsh hiss. All around the fire the lads drew in, unease and nervousness coupling with that perverse desire to know more that only a good story can truly inspire.

Peter needed only a scant few seconds to recompose before he continued. “Everyone ‘round the campfire just stopped. One of the fellas laughed a bit, but it was like, how could you not? Just so fucking weird, right? Lad says something like that and just walks right off into the night, how could you not laugh? So, we sit there for a bit; stunned, I guess. Bit addled from the drink too, I ‘spose. One of ‘em, Amir I think, made a crack about it being a weird way to say, ‘I need to take a piss,’ and the boys had a chuckle at that, but nobody’s heart was in it.”

“I can’t tell you how long we waited there for Bill. I can tell you though it wasn’t me who first suggested going to get him. I looked at Connor like he’d grown a second head, no fucking way I was going back in there! But then I started thinking, it’d look real bad to Vvulf if we lost the kid out there, look even worse if I was too chicken to go out and get him. So, I got up, grabbed a stick from the fire, and followed Connor. Wasn’t expecting the rest of the boys to follow, but I guess the drink made ‘em a little bolder and besides, weren’t none of ‘em gonna want to stay behind.”

“So, we’re walking around right, and it’s dark. Real dark. Even with the torches can’t barely see anything but what’s right in front of our faces. Now we didn’t think the lad had wandered off too far, probably just got drunk, went for a piss, maybe fell down and just decided to call it a night. So we call for him, ‘Bill, Bill where are ya?’, that sort of thing.”

“And that’s when we start to feel it,” Peter whispered, his voice cracking as a visible shudder ran through his body. “And I mean really start to feel it. We were already uncomfortable there like I’d said, like we were being watched, but now it was really starting to creep up on us. Like some of the lads were starting to say they were feeling sick. I was feeling it too, like somebody had my stomach in a vice grip and was giving me the works. Amir started crying at some point. Didn’t even feel like laughing at him or nothing, honestly felt sorry for the bastard.”

“The further we got stuck in the more wrong It all felt. The more the trees started to loom in on us, the more the darkness just seemed to... seem to stick to us. Like it was trying to drag us down. We’d look at the trees and see them covered in mushrooms and lichen, crooked bark shaped like teeth bearing down. I felt something, in me head. Can’t describe it, not like a ringing but worse, just constant sharp noise that seemed to crackle and pop. Every bone in my body wanted to turn around but I just couldn’t, I had to keep moving, like I wasn’t even in control of my body anymore, like my body was a carriage and I was riding on the side but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t turn to see who was driving me.”

Peter paused for a moment, then with a sigh he dragged his hands down his face and placed them in his lap. For a second Arthur was stunned, Peter wasn’t exactly no spring chicken but, in that moment, he looked twenty years older, his eyes grey and listless as he stared into the flames.

“We heard the drums first. It was faint, an echo from far away, but as we approached it slowly grew louder and louder. Didn’t know what to make of it at first. Fuck, I don’t think I was even, well, thinking! Just had to get there. I didn’t want to, but I had to. Had to find out where it was coming from, had to find out what was going on. Wasn’t even thinking about Bill no more, wasn’t thinking about the rest of the lads, wasn’t thinking about myself, just the drums. Or, I guess, more what I was going to find when I got to where the drums were. Didn’t know what it was, just that I wasn’t going to like it when I saw.” Peter laughed a bit at that, but it was a dry mirthless cackle and when he turned up from the fire to look at Arthur there was a strange gleam in his eyes.

“Bit of a fucking understatement that,” Peter muttered darkly through grit teeth. “Words... words fail me lads. I’ve seen a lot since, but this? This was the stuff of nightmares. We’d stepped out of those trees and straight into Hell. When we saw the light through the trees, we, well, I thought... well, I don’t really know what I was thinking. Maybe it was the way out, maybe I was dead, not all that sure, memory’s a bit fuzzy. But then I felt the heat, heard the crackling of the flames, and then I realized that I really was dead. But that light? That light weren’t Heaven. No, it was well and truly Hell.”

“It stood before us, a parody in shape of a man but made of wood, an effigy of sorts to some dark and unwholesome ritual the likes of which weren’t meant to be witnessed in civilized lands. Towering and monstrous in form and purpose, purpose which to us became immediately clear when we spied the body of young Bill hanging from the branches of the wicker man’s torso. Not sure if he was dead or not, too far away to tell, and besides my attention would soon be divided amongst other, more pressing matters.”

“All around the clearing ‘neath the wicker man were demons. All of ‘em. Devils and demons and their witchy servants, horrible creatures and all their ilk, beasts twisted and scarred into the shape of men and other unwholesome designs besides. Unholy mixtures of rotted up men with mushrooms and lichens bursting through their greenish flesh, still moving though they’d been long dead. Women with the skulls of elk, gangly limbed and pallid flesh. Slack-jawed men standing ‘round but something was wrong with them, they didn’t look... there. Nobody was home but the candle weren’t blown out just yet, so to speak. All of these things and more exposed by the light of the torches they carried, and not normal fire neither, wytches fire, green like the lights you see floating atop the bog at night. And at the head of this blasphemous coven was a grotesque creature, bloated near to bursting, green flesh like a corpse, teeth glinting ‘neath a crooked nose, beady eyes glaring out from the empty eyes sockets of the deer skull she wore atop her head. The Hag took three steps forward and afore I had even time to think she tossed the torch in her hand at the wicker man. Cor, but didn’t it just burst into flame, just went right up. And from the crowd of beasts and witches came such a wild row I had to cover my ears to stop my head from spinning.”

“And that’s about when Amir smacked me in the back of the head. Just like that whatever spell that’d been placed upon me, whether by foul witchcraft or my own terror, dissipated. I blinked and saw things as they were, the haze of terror shaken by fresh pain, and I turned to Amir to find sprawled out on the ground next to me, face deathly pale, eyes wide, and mouth open in a silent scream. He was pointing at something, horror on his face plain as day, and before common sense took hold of me, I’d turned to see what it was.”

Peter paused a moment to swallow, a thick, heavy sound that seemed to echo and Arthur was suddenly and acutely aware of how quiet it had gotten. How empty.

“It was a face,” Peter whispered, shaking his head back and forth. “There was a face in the tree. Part of the tree, like someone had taken a man and just... shoved him in there. Fused! That’s the word. I was paralyzed, not like when I was looking at them witches though; this was more like... like I couldn’t even understand what I was looking at. There he was, a face in the tree, what’s a man supposed to do with that?”

“Naturally, that’s about when it opened it’s eyes. They was empty, black sockets, and something like blood mixed with sap came pouring out. For a second, we just stared at each other, Amir by my side whimpering like a kicked dog and the rest of the lads hanging back.”

“And then it started screaming.”

“It was a horrible noise, ringing in my skull and making me dizzy. Reminded me of this one time I stuck a knife in some bastard’s gut, wheezy and harsh, only worse because that was done and over with quick and merciful like and this just kept on going and going, louder and louder. I think that’s when everything started catching up to me, I mean really started sinking in, and I started to realize the severity of what I’d stumbled upon. Coincidentally, it was also about then I realized that, aside from the screaming face in the tree, I couldn’t hear much else besides.”

“I felt something cold settle into my stomach as a sort of understanding fell over me, and I turned my head to the side to see that the entire possession of devils were staring at us, quiet as the grave aside from the screaming face and the burning fire. I chanced a glance upwards and saw that even young Bill were staring down at me through sightless eyes even as the highest flames started to lick the flesh from his face. I glanced back down to the Hag and she sneered at me with crooked, green teeth. She pointed a filth-encrusted wooden spoon at me and without so much as a word the horde converged upon us.”

“I can’t rightly begin to tell you the horror I felt when I first stumbled upon that sordid ritual. Even remembering it is hard, like there’s a fog in my mind that’s keeping me from seeing it properly, almost like a bad dream you wake up from and all you can remember is that feeling of wrongness in your bones. But I can tell you about the sheer, blind terror I felt when them monsters started running towards me, same as an angry mob out for blood, or when you’re cornered by a dog in some rich pricks yard and you’re out of bullets. That fight or flight them what know better than me call’s it, and brothers, I was running! I shot to my feet, hauling Amir up on account of the fact he was holding on to me tighter than a biddie to her purse, and started pushing some of the slower lads behind me forward. I’ll freely admit this was more because they was in my way than because I was trying to save them or anything, but it got the job done and soon enough we was taking off down the forest path.”

“At some point or another the torch had been dropped, and while it may be darker than the Devil’s puckered arse down here that forest weren’t no joke neither. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees in the dark, stumbling and bumbling like babes on the wood, tripping over every rock and stick in our mad little escape. Ain’t no way you could keep a cool head after what we’d seen, even after all this time I can still recall that terror, makes my heart race just thinking about it. That heart-pounding terror, that need to get away, and all the while I could just feel their hot breath on the back of my neck, their dirty nails grabbing at my cloak, savage teeth grazing my legging as I took each step. So yeah, I ran, ran like a damn child, ran until my breath was burnin’ and my lungs were set to burstin’ and my blood was runnin’ down my lip.”

“More than once I almost got stuck, some witch leaning out from the trees with a knife fixing to shiv me, a demon reaching out for my legs set to trip me; I can clearly remember a twisted, horrible thing like a man and a swine stitched together come running out the bushes, wailing and carving with a cleaver ‘bout took my head off. But that weren’t even the worse of it, oh no. The worst was the trees, even running I took a look here and there, and while they looked terrible frightening in the dark now I could see them for what they were. Men and women long dead hanging from the branches, moaning faces stretching out from the great swaths of fungus growing on ‘em, entrails hanging from the boughs..."

From his seat by the fire Arthur dabbed his brow with the hem of his cloak, his eyes wide and staring off into the corridor beyond the light of the fire, only half-focusing on Peter’s story as an almost prescient sense of dread overcame him. Pounding in his skull, not like drums but louder, higher, more constant. A crackling noise that filled his skull as his breath quickened and his heart hurt with every beat and his skin tingled and burned and he could feel it.

How could they not see it? The hallway was closing in on them. It was getting smaller! IT was getting closer!

“...couldn’t even tell ya how long I’d been running, all I know is that when I finally came to, I was back at camp in the infirmary tent. Vvulf hisself was waiting over me, face grim as ever. Wanted to know what happened, so I told him. He said to tell him something different than the inane, feverish ramblings I’d been spouting for the past two days, I told him it weren’t no fever dreams and if he wanted me to go back in them woods he could just go ahead and kill me now.”

Peter took in a deep breath and looked up towards the ceiling, his eyes narrowed, and fists clenched and he spat through clenched teeth, “We lost some boys back there in them woods. That’s to be expected in our line of work, sure, but at least you get shot by a man, something respectable ya know? Not run down in the woods by witches and their pet demons, not damned into a tree to howl and moan forever. Amir won’t speak to me anymore, thinks I’m cursed or that it was my fault or some shit, I don’t fucking know. Dunham went missing that night and O’Malley ain’t cracked a joke since. ‘Course we lost Bill that night too, and then Connor offed himself a week later. Just slit his own throat in his bed, nobody even knew until he started stinkin’ something fierce. Wouldn’t talk to nobody either before that, weren’t nobody behind them eyes anyhow.”

Peter suddenly clapped his hands, the shock of it more than enough to send Reginald and Byron jolting back with nervous chuckles as the echoes of it cascaded down the empty, dark halls. Peter smiled at them darkly and shook a finger at them.

“So that’s my story then lads. But it weren’t no campfire tale though, every word of it was true, swear of me mum’s grave. But to make a long story short, ‘s why I don’t go out in the woods no more, and why Vvulf has sense enough to not send you chucklefucks too deep neither! ‘S also why I always, and I mean always, shoot first and ask questions later,” Peter said, his voice slowly losing that forced jolliness as he all but growled those last few syllables, waving his gun for emphasis. “Isn’t that right Ar- Arthur?”

Arthur was silent, gazing into the fire with glazed eyes and a dull look on his face. The other lads looked round at each other, confusion and a hint of worry on their faces. Peter gave a loud cough, and when that did nothing Byron clanged a sword against the cobblestone floor a few times. That seemed to do the trick and Arthur suddenly snapped to attention, his eyes flickering madly in the light of the fire before finally focusing on Byron.

“Huh?” the man drone, switching his gaze between his three comrades at random before settling on Peter. “Oh! Right. Yeah... I should’ve went after the thing... of course. I was an idiot.”

Reginald, Byron, and Peter all shared a wary glance before finally Peter leaned forward and nodded at the young man. “Oi, Arthur, you alright lad?”

“Huh?”

“Your nose is bleeding,” Reginald said softly, pointing at him.

Arthur blinked owlishly at the comment before slowly raising his hand to his face. His movements were slow, jerky, and his arm felt numb like he’d slept on it wrong and he couldn’t quite get it to move how he wanted. He felt along his face clumsily for a moment and blinked again when he withdrew his palm and spied the flecks of red on it.

“Oh,” he said dumbly, and turned his hand this way and that, inspecting it as if he couldn’t quite grasp what he was looking at, and completely unaware of the way his three comrades leaned back from him, Peter’s story still fresh in their minds as they reeled under this most recent display of abnormality.

“I think,” Reggie began, still softly but with an edge of finality to his tone, “we’ve spent enough time down here.”

“Y-yeah,” Byron hastily agreed. “Miasma’s gettin’ to us. Bit of sunshine’ll do ya good,” he said, directing this last bit to Arthur.

“Right then,” Peter said, clapping his hands. “Enough teatime in Hell then, time to leg it boyos. Next shift has to be soon, right? How long we been down here anyhow?”

As the three conversed and went about their duties of cleaning camp Arthur sat stock still on his seat and looked at his red hand, silent and cold as a statue. The strange sound was getting louder and louder, coming from the darkness around them. This noise, which had been almost inaudible to begin with, had been steadily increasing so as to all but drown out all thoughts in his own head and now it was beginning to flicker between the border of audible sound and ultrasound, slowly and imperceptibly gaining strength and intensity. It reminded him of a crackling whispering more than anything – incomprehensible and unnatural.

Arthur quickly glanced up at the others. They were all moving rhythmically and silently, they were talking but it sounded faded, as though they were speaking from a great distance away. Peter and Byron speaking amicably, smiling and laughing, and Reginald was calmly looking forward, having stopped his cautious backwards glancing into the tunnel.

They didn’t hear anything. Nothing! Arthur became scared. The calm and silence of the group became even more conspicuous against the background of static in his skull, which was getting louder and louder – and it was incomprehensible and frightening. There was something there, how could they not see it? How could they not hear it!? It was here now, peering through the veil, pulling its way through, ready to-

CLANG!

Arthur shot to his feet and unsheathed his swords. The other lads jumped in their seats and stared at him in surprise, wide-eyed and alarmed.

“What are you doing?” Reginald questioned, his great scarred hand already reaching for his flail.

“You don’t hear anything?” Arthur asked in bewilderment, and the fear in his voice made Reginald’s face change. Something in the man’s eyes flickered there, but Arthur pretended not to notice for fear of what might happen should he bring it to light.

And in that moment a foul sensation crept into Arthur’s very soul, that maybe there was no noise and that was why only he could hear it. That maybe he was going mad, that he was imagining it out of fear...

Peter grunted and sat up straight, staring directly into Arthur’s eyes, his own grey eyes sharp as ever and bespoke of nothing but a cold, hard edge. He sat motionless and tense, listening, eyes fixed squarely on Arthur and one ear pricked and primed towards the tunnel.

The strange noise was right there now, Arthur could hear it distinctly even amidst the sea of static. An even clanging, like metal on stone, even and undaunting as it mad its way towards them, and the clearer the sound became the more attentively Arthur peered at Peter’s face, waiting for just the faintest suggestion that he too could also hear what was filling Arthur’s mind with ever-strengthening agitation.

But alas, Peter’s features gradually smoothed out from tense fear to his usual easy-going irritability, and Arthur felt a great overcoming sense of shame and disgust well up in his stomach. Neither Reginald nor Byron could hear it either and in the case of the latter this disbelief would manifest in a question of spiteful mockery:

“Hallucinations?”

“Fuck off!” Arthur shouted, shame and pride, and fear fueling his voice. ‘What, are you all deaf or something?”

“Hallucinations,” Byron concluded smugly, turning to glare at Peter. “Your stories done gave him nightmares.”

“Shut up,” Peter snapped, glaring right back at the cutthroat before turning back to Arthur with a look annoyance and supplication in equal measure. “Look, nothing’s there. You just thought you heard something, alright? Sounds echo down here. You’re feeling a bit down that I yelled at ya before, and the stories spooked ya, no shame there. ‘S a right hell hole down here, you’ll feel tip-top soon as ya get back up top, alright?”

“The fuck I don’t hear anything!” Arthur shouted back, his voice distorted by the echoes across the walls. With a bound the man leapt over the fireplace and began marching into the corridor.

“Oi! The fuck are you-

“Show yourself!” Arthur screamed, teeth bared and pupils so wide his eyes were almost black. “C’mon, I know you’re there! Won’t get away from me again!”

“Off his bloody rocker!” Byron snapped, gesturing with his knives. “Bring the whole damn place down on our heads!”

“I’ll go shut him up,” Reginald agreed, slamming a ham-sized fist into his palm as he made to stand up.

Arthur ignored them all, too caught up in his sudden rage to notice anything anymore. The sound was all-encompassing now, his skull pounded like a drum and blood ran freely from his nose and ears as a waterfall of sweat pirouetted down his brow. His fists were clenched so tight around the hilt of his blades they glowed white, and held them with purpose and a ready tenseness, like a coiled serpent ready to strike.

C’mon, he willed, speaking into the darkness, speaking to the ever-louder echoes of trooding metal that grew in volume, grew in urgency, grew in rapaciousness. C’mon then, this is what you want, isn’t it? Want to kill me? Well you’ll have to come get me first. So C’mon then, I’m right here. Let’s do this. Let’s do this! Let’s do this! Let’s do this! C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, c’mon, C’MON ALREADY GOD DAMN YOU!

There was a groan from the tunnel, as though the very corridors themselves heaved out a sigh, and a shadow suddenly loomed forth from the darkness. With a wild, primordial shriek Arthur fell back, swinging his sword in a great overhead arc with all the strength he could muster, fear and fury fueling his muscles.

With a plaintive squeak a rat the size of a particularly well-fed cat came leaping out from the inky fog, ducking underneath and between Arthur’s stumbling feet and over towards the fire. With gasps of their own the men by the fire shrunk back at the movement and watched, wide-eyed, as the rat leapt over the campfire and continued running deeper down into the ruins, the pitter-patter of its paws echoing in the darkness until even that faded away.

For a moment there was only silence as the men stared at one another, shocked beyond words and even emotion as what just happened played in their minds over and over again.

And then, suddenly, there was laughter.

Peter, Reginald and Byron all turned and stared at Arthur, who had dropped his swords so as to hold onto his sides as he leaned against the wall and laughed his ever-living guts out. He was laughing so hard his face was a red, tear-stained, sore mess, he laughed until he was doubled-over and gasping for breath. He laughed until he was choking for just one more breath.

And then the rest of the lads joined in as well and for the first time in no doubt many long, hard years the halls of this ruined place were echoing with the sound of genuine merriment.

“’S just a rat,” Byron wheezed, “just a fucking rat. You ever heard ‘o that? Cor!”

Reginald was near about to fall out of his seat he was laughing so hard and even old gruff Peter couldn’t hide the smile on his face as he spared a chuckle here and there, shaking his head and calling the rest of them a bunch of chickens.

“Women and children,” he said, though without so much as a hint of the usual venom. “That’s what I’ve got to deal with, women and children! Buncha fucking idiots you lot!”

Arthur watched his comrades laugh at his expense with a wide grin that stretched nearly from ear to ear. Oh, he’d be getting a ribbing for this later, a right laughingstock he was. Acting like this over nothing. With a rueful smile and a sardonic shake of his head Arthur turned back towards the dark tunnel and sighed.

About 2kg. of stainless steel came sailing out of the darkness and collided into Arthur’s head. Inch long spikes pierced the skull and rendered the brain therein to bloody mush as fragments of skull went flying in wide arcs. Propelled by the force of the blow Arthur’s body went careening backwards, landing in a heavy heap with an unceremonious thump.

“Arthur!” Peter shot to his feet and held up his gun. “What the fu-

There was a sound of thunder and Peter screamed and twisted, a fountain of blood spurting from his chest as he stumbled backwards and fell over into the fire. The sound of crackling, burning skin and a man’s desperate screams soon filled the air as Peter thrashed and rolled amidst the burning coals.

Reginald and Byron stared dumbly at the display, slack-jawed and eyes shining with horror.

From out of the darkness stepped a demon in full-mail armor, cuirass shining brilliantly in the flames. A single eye like a burning coal glared balefully out of its shadowed face and from the beast’s throat there came such a wild and powerful shriek that it shook the men to their very cores.

“Light preserve us,” Reginald moaned, raising an arm in a feeble attempt to shield his face as the demon approached. In three steps it was upon him, roaring like a lion and swinging its terrible weapon down upon his head in three quick strikes. With heavy blows it fell on him, rending flesh and hewing bone as it scoured all blood from his body.

Byron watched this happen with mouth agape and eyes shining. He looked onwards, to Peter, lying still in the fire. Then to young Arthur, a crumpled heap in the corridor, from which Byron could already see two more demons emerging from the darkness.

Byron threw his swords down and with a howl of wild abandon turned and fled into the darkness.

He ran through miles of twisting tunnels and cobblestone corridors, under long decrepit arches of stone and marble, through rotten libraries full of forbidden and forgotten tomes and hidden libraries of arcane and mysterious design and origin he ran and ran and he never once looked back until his lungs were in agony and his legs were numb and every breath felt like a stab to his chest.

Only then, somewhere in the darkness, did old Byron stop, his only companion the sounds of his wheezing and gasping. He slapped a hand across his face and stifled a sob that threatened to tear his very throat at the seams. He couldn’t see anything, the darkness surrounded him, suffocated him. That dreadful, awful, all-consuming blackness that stung his eyes and crept into the corners of his mouth no matter how tightly he grit his teeth.

A sudden surge of panic mixed with an odd sense of relief washed over him. He had escaped, he had gotten away, but he couldn’t see, and with shaking hands Byron made for his side pack and rummaged about blindly for a moment or two till his twitching, nervous fingers clutched fervently to their prize.

With a triumphant cry Byron pulled out his matches and, chuckling to himself, he struck the match. Once, twice…

Snik!

A flame was born, a tiny star shining alone and radiant amidst the night. Byron smiled down at it and looked up.

A gleaming white skull stared back at him through empty, black eye sockets.

Byron tried to scream but bones as cold and strong as iron wrapped around his throat and stole his breath away.
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“You didn’t have to kill them.”

Lori Loud stared down impassively at the mangled form of the bloodletter. His face and head were a wreck, his mangled torso lay open and bare, intestines spilling onto the ground. Her auric armor, not so long ago pristine and untainted, was stained with his brackish blood. With a ferocious scowl the young woman wiped the spittle from her lip and spat contemptuously onto the carcass at her feet.

“Did you hear me?” Luna asked, her voice cutting into sister’s mind with all the alacrity of a red-hot poker.

Lori took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, the let it out with a sigh. With a roll of her eyes she turned to her sister and fixed her with a glare. Luna already had her own waiting for her, and the little rocker spread her arms out wide as she demanded an answer.

“Y’know, as a matter of fact,” Lori started, the irritation in her tone plain as day, “I didn’t think to ask if they’d be willing to just let us pass. I mean, maybe you want to give the same guys that literally almost murdered you once a free pass for another go, but I’d rather keep you alive!”

Luna narrowed her eyes but lowered her gaze all the same as she bit her bottom lip and crossed her arms; it wasn’t her way to admit defeat openly, but Lori had lived with her long enough to understand all her little habits. Lori regretted bringing up her sister’s near demise, but she had to get her to see her way. Luna still believed that there could be other ways, she couldn’t quite see that the truth that Lori had embraced.

There was no mercy down here, only survival.

“You don’t know that,” Luna said, but her voice lacked true conviction. “They might’ve been different, might’ve been willing to even help us. You can’t just kill everyone you don’t like Lori; it isn’t right.” Luna looked up at her sister and stood her ground, forcing an edge into her voice that only wavered slightly as her eyes rested on the eye-patch wound around her eldest sister’s scarred face. “This isn’t a videogame sis, these are people!”

Lori snorted at that, shaking her head as she turned away. She walked over to the dying fire and wrenched out a burning stick from the embers, kicking aside the still smoldering corpse of the fusilier.

“No, they’re not,” Lori simply stated, and continued her way into the ruins.

Behind her Luna sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head slowly. A tender hand placed itself on her shoulder and Luna turned to behold the smiling, cherubic features of her second eldest sister, Leni.

The lass offered her younger sister a smile, but that was about all she could do. Luna took it all the same and returned the favor, though hers lacked the energy. With a silent nod that conveyed perhaps a bit more than she let on Leni gave her sister a quick pat and marched onward behind Lori, eager to keep pace with the fading light in the distance.

In the growing shadow Luna stood and watched the light grow fainter and fainter, the smile on her face following suit. She turned to her side and stared down at the body of the young man her sister had ambushed, his head smashed in and brain leaking from his concaved skull. He didn’t seem so bad now, she thought, lying there. He’d died laughing...

An odd feeling settled in Luna’s stomach then, one that twisted up her tummy into tangled knots. As the last of the light faded away Luna turned away from the corpse and towards her sisters; one hand resting on her midsection and the other grasping her pistol tightly as she raced along the stone halls, following the dismal beacon that marked their passage.

And all that remained were three bodies left to fester in the darkness.

{End of Chapter}