A lingering scream echoed off the stone walls of the desolate temple hall as Paul stood before a darkened door, its wood crumbling and smelling of rot. He leaned his head against the cool door, the smell of the ancient decaying wood was strong in his nose. His eyes were unfocused and paid no mind to the cobwebs near the rusty hinges, the empty egg sacs left floating and discarded in the rarely used doorway. His fingers hesitantly explored the cold iron handle, bits of rust flaking away as he brushed away the cobwebs and dust before tightening his grip in anticipation. The temple door led not to freedom but to her.
She was the crone. A cursed soul who was the strangest of neighbors, less than friendly and deadlier than most. She could speak but it was a rare and terrifying thing to hear. Her long echoing screams that carried through the temple terrified Paul. Each time he heard it, he would stop in his tracks and freeze in fear when the sound reached him, wondering if she had somehow gotten inside the temple and was wandering the dark halls in the night searching for an unlucky soul to feast upon. Her intelligence was less a remnant of her rotting flesh than the dark magic that infested her, recalled her from the grave and set her out as a guard of this ancient temple. She was a mascot of sorts for this gathering of men so dedicated to the idea of death answering their beck and call.
Keep your eyes down, Paul thought. Don’t let your eyes wander. If you can’t see her, she can’t see you.
Such were the instructions from his Masters. This ephemeral creature captured in flesh whose powers were beyond mortal ability to understand or fight patrolled the graveyard beyond the door. Once, a peddler had come to their temple but had wandered too far in his attempt to gain an audience to sell his wares. The crone had caught him unawares and his cries had alternated between screams of pain and sobbing with the occasional pleas for help from the Gods or man to intervene and save him. Those of the temple had smiled and listened wistfully at the man’s cries before they ended abruptly. Paul had hidden under a bench as the screams echoed all around the temple, shaking and in tears. It had taken hours for the man to die. The spoils from his wagon had been considered a gift from their god.
Paul was a slave for the Necromancers of Colpus. He was the youngest son, one too many his father had always told him when dead sober and worse still when he was pissing drunk and chasing his own daughters around. Stuffed into a sack by his father, he had been dumped painfully upon the stones of the temple gate. Two men in dark robes had watched as the young boy tumbled out and lay shaking on the ground, hands bound and his mouth gagged. His father had only looked down at Paul briefly before taking his silver and going on his way. He could hear the soft clopping of hooves from his fathers horse as they faded into the quiet of the forest. Paul had laid there for several minutes as the hooded figures looked at him. The disciples watching him didn’t seem to see him as much as they felt his presence, taking in the essence of his being, the stink of his fear and the piss that had soaked through his trousers.
Several months had passed and few words had been spoken to him since. Quickly he learned he was a slave, made to toil for the hooded figures who courted death like a lover. Necrolins had no use for Paul as a person, only as a servant and occasionally, one to torture as they did now. The closest thing to amusement he had seen pass across the Master Ispan’s face came when he was telling Paul to fetch water from the well.
Now Paul stood near the door farthest from the temple center, his heart racing, mouth dry and hands shaking. He worked the key into the rusted lock, the squeal of the hinges brought tears to his eyes as he gave up any hope of a stealthy attempt to collect the water. Picking up the wooden pail, he took a deep breath as the first bit of fresh air and midday light peaked through the doorway at him.
He pushed the door open enough to squeeze through, hinges squealing loudly in the quiet of the day. Leaving it ajar, he hoped he could pass through it again quickly once he had collected the water. Stepping out into the dust of the courtyard, the warmth of the sunlight was a welcome change from the cool darkness of the temple. He listened for the sound of her footsteps but heard only silence. No birds chirped. No wind swayed the tree branches in the quiet dance of spring. It was as quiet as the crypt he slept in below.
Moss covered grave stones and larger vine ridden vaults in the distance obscured his vision as he made a furtive glance for the crone. Dropping his eyes to the ground while reprimanding himself for the foolishness of looking, he took fast steps across the yard cursing silently at the distance of the well. He sat his pail on the ground and dropped the chained bucket into the deep darkness, hearing a loud splash echoing against the walls. He grabbed the crank and turned it as quickly as he could. A full bucket was required upon his return. A half or three-quarter bucket of water wouldn’t do. He wished to avoid being sent out again.
The sound of shambling footsteps behind him caught his ear and his arm faltered on the well crank, his eyes shutting in fear. The old crone sought the eyes. Without seeing her, she wouldn’t see him, he hoped. He began to shake as he heard her steps stop behind him.
Her fast rasping breaths sounded loud in his ears, like she was hurrying to a fancy party and feared being late. Long moments in darkness became too much for Paul. He allowed his eyes to slightly open. Sunlight passed over his shoulder as he leaned against the well. The roof and crank stood out plainly in the light, his boyish form leaning against it, each outlined on the dry earth. Her thin shadow cast a dappled darkness upon the ground. Shoulders sprouted a thin neck upon which sat a knobby head with a few thin strands of hair floating in the wind. Yet, Paul could feel no wind. Her essence seemed to float about her as if she stood underwater despite her desecrated corpse damned to wander this forgotten graveyard.
Minutes passed as he stood watching the vague shadow, the head swiveling about, her eyes no doubt casting around for another set to connect with. Slowly she wandered, her shadow following in the afternoon light. Paul’s heart continued to race and it took all his courage to start turning the crank again. As he did, he could hear her wandering around the graveyard like a child barely up on two legs, exploring their world for the first time.
Paul tightened his grip on the crank, his hands sweating as he turned it slowly, the gears squeaking and jumping from time to time, causing him to flinch at the noise. The sound of sloshing water came to his ears as the bucket crested the stone edge and he lifted it up to inspect his haul. The water was rank and discolored with thick tufts of fur floating upon its oily surface, the smell of it nearly gagging him. Some manner of creature must have died in the well. Perhaps a cat or dog seeking refuge from the crone’s gaze had leapt to its death, scrabbling at the stone walls deep in the earth before succumbing to exhaustion and melting away into the sludge that now filled the bucket.
He pushed the bucket back into the well with a heavy bang and cursed himself for the carelessness of it. The old crone let out a shrill scream tinged with laughter as if she knew what he’d find in the well. Chill bumps covered Paul’s neck and back as the scream lingered in an unnatural way.
Paul knew to return without water, regardless of the reason, would be unacceptable. Considering the water in the well again, he wondered if he could clean it or boil it. Returning empty handed would surely result in punishment. He became lost in thought trying to think of a way to find water. He stood in indecision for several minutes before resolving to return and explain. His captors had to understand and believe him that this was beyond his control, though he had never known his captors to be understanding.
Pulling the pail to his chest, he listened for sounds of the crone. His eyes were still latched on the ground beside the well. He let his eyes wander slightly since he could no longer hear her movements.
He stopped breathing as he realized she stood facing him several yards away. At the highest point of his vision, his chin against his chest, he could see gray scaly feet with jagged yellow toenails bared beneath the frayed edges of an old dress, not unlike a wedding dress, he thought. As the thought entered his head, the crone screamed out a tortured wail that left his insides icy, forcing his eyes closed. He stood shaking for an interminable amount of time, sweat sliding down his neck. Had she heard his thoughts? Could the old crone be more aware and smarter than he had believed?
Her soft shambling footsteps edged closer. Barely breathing and his eyes screwed shut, he refused to move. A waft of rotted flesh floated to his nose and he could see in his mind eyes, her gray rotting flesh, wet with decay shining as her eyes tilted towards his face. Involuntarily, his head moved away from her, the gorge rising in his throat, the bitter taste of sickness upon his tongue as spasms deep within his stomach threatened to loose his meager breakfast upon the world. The old hag gasped in short excited spurts, perhaps feeling his discontent in some otherworldly way.
He bit his tongue, the pain and bitterness of the blood distracted him. He focused on the iron taste in his mouth, the stinging from his tongue, anything to distract himself from the overpowering smell of death. He could feel cold from her tainted flesh, mere inches from his face, her ragged breathing against his cheek, sending chills across his flesh.
Moments seemed like hours as she stood beside him before the crone slowly crept away. Dry wisps of her hair trailed across his cheek as she moved past him, her cold shoulder brushing against his. Her moans hinting of disappointment.
Paul continued to shake as his ears followed her steps around the graveyard, his eyes screwed shut until he was confident she was a good distance away. His feet moved before his eyes opened and then he sprinted directly for the door. He could hear her frantic breathing and hurried steps close behind. He slammed the door and could feel her pushing against it, her strength unbelievable to him. Her wails pierced the door and her sharp nails scratched at the wood.
He placed his shoulder against the door and turned the key in its lock, feeling the gears grind satisfyingly as the door shook with her efforts to gain entrance.
As the final tumbler fell into place, Paul sank to the ground, shaking and near to tears. Frustrated screams at the door continued but slowly abated into cooing sounds, like something you’d do to coax a puppy towards you.
With the door against his back, Paul looked up at the sound of clicking. The visitor slide had jarred open in his struggle to shut the door. Yellow fingernails were exploring the opening tenderly. Mottled gray fingers entered the slot, a gold wedding ring glittered upon her hand in sharp contrast to the filth and rot it adorned. Despite the obvious rot of her hand, he watched it explore the opening, thinking of how human and alive it looked.
Paul stared at the ring, bright shining gold with a single small gem set in the center glittered at him in the darkness. The old crone was one to be feared. And he did fear her, more than anything else in his young life thus far. Yet, he did pity her as well. A victim of fate, much like himself, cursed to an existence she didn’t choose.
Her soft moans moved away from the door, her steps sounded like the dragged feet of a moping child.
Paul stood and dared a glimpse through the peep. Her back towards him, he could see her clearly now. A circlet that could have once been a bridal wreath covered the crown of her head, long strips of wounds covered her back that never healed, from a strapping long ago, ribs showing through the shredded flesh of her body. The dress looked like it had once been made of a fine cut and material. Now it was stained, ripped and bloodied from years of her own personal torture.
He watched her amble away. She never cast a look over her shoulder. She never looked up, her eyes followed along the ground, searching and wandering forever. For the first time since being abandoned at this temple, he felt he had found a kindred soul. A tainted and tortured soul, much like his own. How typical of his existence to find the only person he could relate to, he thought, would be a dead bride recalled from the grave.
Paul slowly closed the slide. He stood a few moments then gathered his bucket to return to the lower levels of the crypt.
She was the crone. A cursed soul who was the strangest of neighbors, less than friendly and deadlier than most. She could speak but it was a rare and terrifying thing to hear. Her long echoing screams that carried through the temple terrified Paul. Each time he heard it, he would stop in his tracks and freeze in fear when the sound reached him, wondering if she had somehow gotten inside the temple and was wandering the dark halls in the night searching for an unlucky soul to feast upon. Her intelligence was less a remnant of her rotting flesh than the dark magic that infested her, recalled her from the grave and set her out as a guard of this ancient temple. She was a mascot of sorts for this gathering of men so dedicated to the idea of death answering their beck and call.
Keep your eyes down, Paul thought. Don’t let your eyes wander. If you can’t see her, she can’t see you.
Such were the instructions from his Masters. This ephemeral creature captured in flesh whose powers were beyond mortal ability to understand or fight patrolled the graveyard beyond the door. Once, a peddler had come to their temple but had wandered too far in his attempt to gain an audience to sell his wares. The crone had caught him unawares and his cries had alternated between screams of pain and sobbing with the occasional pleas for help from the Gods or man to intervene and save him. Those of the temple had smiled and listened wistfully at the man’s cries before they ended abruptly. Paul had hidden under a bench as the screams echoed all around the temple, shaking and in tears. It had taken hours for the man to die. The spoils from his wagon had been considered a gift from their god.
Paul was a slave for the Necromancers of Colpus. He was the youngest son, one too many his father had always told him when dead sober and worse still when he was pissing drunk and chasing his own daughters around. Stuffed into a sack by his father, he had been dumped painfully upon the stones of the temple gate. Two men in dark robes had watched as the young boy tumbled out and lay shaking on the ground, hands bound and his mouth gagged. His father had only looked down at Paul briefly before taking his silver and going on his way. He could hear the soft clopping of hooves from his fathers horse as they faded into the quiet of the forest. Paul had laid there for several minutes as the hooded figures looked at him. The disciples watching him didn’t seem to see him as much as they felt his presence, taking in the essence of his being, the stink of his fear and the piss that had soaked through his trousers.
Several months had passed and few words had been spoken to him since. Quickly he learned he was a slave, made to toil for the hooded figures who courted death like a lover. Necrolins had no use for Paul as a person, only as a servant and occasionally, one to torture as they did now. The closest thing to amusement he had seen pass across the Master Ispan’s face came when he was telling Paul to fetch water from the well.
Now Paul stood near the door farthest from the temple center, his heart racing, mouth dry and hands shaking. He worked the key into the rusted lock, the squeal of the hinges brought tears to his eyes as he gave up any hope of a stealthy attempt to collect the water. Picking up the wooden pail, he took a deep breath as the first bit of fresh air and midday light peaked through the doorway at him.
He pushed the door open enough to squeeze through, hinges squealing loudly in the quiet of the day. Leaving it ajar, he hoped he could pass through it again quickly once he had collected the water. Stepping out into the dust of the courtyard, the warmth of the sunlight was a welcome change from the cool darkness of the temple. He listened for the sound of her footsteps but heard only silence. No birds chirped. No wind swayed the tree branches in the quiet dance of spring. It was as quiet as the crypt he slept in below.
Moss covered grave stones and larger vine ridden vaults in the distance obscured his vision as he made a furtive glance for the crone. Dropping his eyes to the ground while reprimanding himself for the foolishness of looking, he took fast steps across the yard cursing silently at the distance of the well. He sat his pail on the ground and dropped the chained bucket into the deep darkness, hearing a loud splash echoing against the walls. He grabbed the crank and turned it as quickly as he could. A full bucket was required upon his return. A half or three-quarter bucket of water wouldn’t do. He wished to avoid being sent out again.
The sound of shambling footsteps behind him caught his ear and his arm faltered on the well crank, his eyes shutting in fear. The old crone sought the eyes. Without seeing her, she wouldn’t see him, he hoped. He began to shake as he heard her steps stop behind him.
Her fast rasping breaths sounded loud in his ears, like she was hurrying to a fancy party and feared being late. Long moments in darkness became too much for Paul. He allowed his eyes to slightly open. Sunlight passed over his shoulder as he leaned against the well. The roof and crank stood out plainly in the light, his boyish form leaning against it, each outlined on the dry earth. Her thin shadow cast a dappled darkness upon the ground. Shoulders sprouted a thin neck upon which sat a knobby head with a few thin strands of hair floating in the wind. Yet, Paul could feel no wind. Her essence seemed to float about her as if she stood underwater despite her desecrated corpse damned to wander this forgotten graveyard.
Minutes passed as he stood watching the vague shadow, the head swiveling about, her eyes no doubt casting around for another set to connect with. Slowly she wandered, her shadow following in the afternoon light. Paul’s heart continued to race and it took all his courage to start turning the crank again. As he did, he could hear her wandering around the graveyard like a child barely up on two legs, exploring their world for the first time.
Paul tightened his grip on the crank, his hands sweating as he turned it slowly, the gears squeaking and jumping from time to time, causing him to flinch at the noise. The sound of sloshing water came to his ears as the bucket crested the stone edge and he lifted it up to inspect his haul. The water was rank and discolored with thick tufts of fur floating upon its oily surface, the smell of it nearly gagging him. Some manner of creature must have died in the well. Perhaps a cat or dog seeking refuge from the crone’s gaze had leapt to its death, scrabbling at the stone walls deep in the earth before succumbing to exhaustion and melting away into the sludge that now filled the bucket.
He pushed the bucket back into the well with a heavy bang and cursed himself for the carelessness of it. The old crone let out a shrill scream tinged with laughter as if she knew what he’d find in the well. Chill bumps covered Paul’s neck and back as the scream lingered in an unnatural way.
Paul knew to return without water, regardless of the reason, would be unacceptable. Considering the water in the well again, he wondered if he could clean it or boil it. Returning empty handed would surely result in punishment. He became lost in thought trying to think of a way to find water. He stood in indecision for several minutes before resolving to return and explain. His captors had to understand and believe him that this was beyond his control, though he had never known his captors to be understanding.
Pulling the pail to his chest, he listened for sounds of the crone. His eyes were still latched on the ground beside the well. He let his eyes wander slightly since he could no longer hear her movements.
He stopped breathing as he realized she stood facing him several yards away. At the highest point of his vision, his chin against his chest, he could see gray scaly feet with jagged yellow toenails bared beneath the frayed edges of an old dress, not unlike a wedding dress, he thought. As the thought entered his head, the crone screamed out a tortured wail that left his insides icy, forcing his eyes closed. He stood shaking for an interminable amount of time, sweat sliding down his neck. Had she heard his thoughts? Could the old crone be more aware and smarter than he had believed?
Her soft shambling footsteps edged closer. Barely breathing and his eyes screwed shut, he refused to move. A waft of rotted flesh floated to his nose and he could see in his mind eyes, her gray rotting flesh, wet with decay shining as her eyes tilted towards his face. Involuntarily, his head moved away from her, the gorge rising in his throat, the bitter taste of sickness upon his tongue as spasms deep within his stomach threatened to loose his meager breakfast upon the world. The old hag gasped in short excited spurts, perhaps feeling his discontent in some otherworldly way.
He bit his tongue, the pain and bitterness of the blood distracted him. He focused on the iron taste in his mouth, the stinging from his tongue, anything to distract himself from the overpowering smell of death. He could feel cold from her tainted flesh, mere inches from his face, her ragged breathing against his cheek, sending chills across his flesh.
Moments seemed like hours as she stood beside him before the crone slowly crept away. Dry wisps of her hair trailed across his cheek as she moved past him, her cold shoulder brushing against his. Her moans hinting of disappointment.
Paul continued to shake as his ears followed her steps around the graveyard, his eyes screwed shut until he was confident she was a good distance away. His feet moved before his eyes opened and then he sprinted directly for the door. He could hear her frantic breathing and hurried steps close behind. He slammed the door and could feel her pushing against it, her strength unbelievable to him. Her wails pierced the door and her sharp nails scratched at the wood.
He placed his shoulder against the door and turned the key in its lock, feeling the gears grind satisfyingly as the door shook with her efforts to gain entrance.
As the final tumbler fell into place, Paul sank to the ground, shaking and near to tears. Frustrated screams at the door continued but slowly abated into cooing sounds, like something you’d do to coax a puppy towards you.
With the door against his back, Paul looked up at the sound of clicking. The visitor slide had jarred open in his struggle to shut the door. Yellow fingernails were exploring the opening tenderly. Mottled gray fingers entered the slot, a gold wedding ring glittered upon her hand in sharp contrast to the filth and rot it adorned. Despite the obvious rot of her hand, he watched it explore the opening, thinking of how human and alive it looked.
Paul stared at the ring, bright shining gold with a single small gem set in the center glittered at him in the darkness. The old crone was one to be feared. And he did fear her, more than anything else in his young life thus far. Yet, he did pity her as well. A victim of fate, much like himself, cursed to an existence she didn’t choose.
Her soft moans moved away from the door, her steps sounded like the dragged feet of a moping child.
Paul stood and dared a glimpse through the peep. Her back towards him, he could see her clearly now. A circlet that could have once been a bridal wreath covered the crown of her head, long strips of wounds covered her back that never healed, from a strapping long ago, ribs showing through the shredded flesh of her body. The dress looked like it had once been made of a fine cut and material. Now it was stained, ripped and bloodied from years of her own personal torture.
He watched her amble away. She never cast a look over her shoulder. She never looked up, her eyes followed along the ground, searching and wandering forever. For the first time since being abandoned at this temple, he felt he had found a kindred soul. A tainted and tortured soul, much like his own. How typical of his existence to find the only person he could relate to, he thought, would be a dead bride recalled from the grave.
Paul slowly closed the slide. He stood a few moments then gathered his bucket to return to the lower levels of the crypt.
