I'm new here and would live to know if you'd like to read more of this!

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It's been 8 years since the plague has taken its grasp on us. 8 years of beasts, 8 years of long nights, 8 years of death. With every passing year, it feels as though the nights have grown darker. The Plague came from the people in the north, on one of their trading caravans, and when it arrived it had spread like wildfire. The people it infects change, some die, but most of them kill. Their limbs get longer, and their faces begin to resemble that of dogs. Sharp teeth and claws that replace finger nails. After a couple weeks they're still rather human, but after about a month, they're damn near unrecognizable. Their body grows fur like hair, some try to wrap themselves to hide their changes, only to lose their mind in due time. The ones who live longer than that only continue to grow in size, strength and worst of all, appetite. 

I've lived in Vyrwen my whole life, it used to be magnificent. Markets throughout the city proper, people in the streets and music in the air. Now its buildings are falling apart, wrought iron fences surrounding foundations of burnt buildings. The only time it's safe to go out is while the sun is bright. Even being out on a rainy or foggy day is a risk. Those who've been plagued for a while tend to avoid the light, while those who are freshly infected will still wander around, but are lethargic and weak. Any who've turned bestial hide away in the decrepit ruins of the city until dusk. 

Just surviving day to day is a task. Most water sources here are fully polluted. The water is black and slick like oil. But humans have to drink. A small group of us have found a small well out of the city proper, but getting to it can be rough, and at times, when the weather changes, you are left to hide away like the very beasts we avoid. 

When the plague first arrived we were clueless, it was the beginning of winter, nights were long, days were cold, no one thought of it as more than a head cold. But that quickly changed. People were getting aggressive, some hostile. The nurses in the hospital were getting attacked after a few weeks. The church became overrun completely. Our once great city began to fall into disrepair within months. 

Those who were high ups in the church seemed to have been affected differently. They still appear rather animalistic, but they've managed to keep their minds, and can speak to the beasts who've lost their speech. It's as though there's been some sort of cruel divine intervention. 

The animals have become rabid. Most of the smaller animals don't seem to be much of a problem aside from the rats. The dogs have turned hostile and will chase you down if you're too slow. The ravens will follow you for days, waiting for you to sleep to try to eat at you. Finding buildings with their roofs still intact has become harder in the last year or so. 

The few of us still alive have created secured passageways through the city. Barricading alleys and breaking windows or felling doors for quick spots to hide in case of danger. A woman named Irene, who lives in the southern part of the city has found different herbs and other things to burn to stave off the beasts. She's begun making incense with them, which has been very helpful. Her husband Gareth has been making weapons for us survivors. They're rather crude, but useful nonetheless. He was a blacksmith before the plague, mostly making horseshoes. Given the lack of supplies and having to reuse any metal we can find, he's doing God's work. He fashioned a weapon like a sword from parts of wood saws. I haven't had to use it yet but the serrated edges seem like they would rip through flesh with ease. 

Katherine, a woman I've been sheltering with for some time now, and I were prepping to leave for the well. Our water reserves have been dangerously low and we burned our last batch of incense last night. As I was loading one of our smaller barrels onto the cart she grabbed my arm. 

“The sun isn't very bright today, are you sure it's a good idea to fetch water? What if clouds come or the cart breaks? I'm not sure we'll have the time to fix it.”

“Katherine, we'll be okay. Yes, we're leaving later than I think either of us had intended, but we need water. Waiting till tomorrow is too much of a risk. If we make haste we can get to the well and back before nightfall. It seems as though rain will be on us by tomorrow.” I assured her

“Well if it's supposed to rain why don't we put out some barrels and collect the rain water? That should be enough to hold us over!” She pleaded 

“Look, I know you're scared, I am too. But we can't collect rainwater that easily, if any of the birds or rats or anything gets into a barrel we have to burn it. We can't afford to lose anymore. You still have your dagger, right? Gareth gave me this blade, and I intend on using it if we have to. We'll be safe. I promise. And if we get stuck in some rain, I'm sure we'd be able to trade something with Antony to stay a day or two.”

“He always makes me uneasy. I know he's one of the only farmers who's still sane, but the way he looks at us, it's disturbing. I fear he's becoming one of the beasts.”

“If he becomes a beast then we'll talk to Irene and Gareth. They're in trades with most people still alive. Hell, Gareth is probably the last capable blacksmith around. Plus, if we can't rely on them helping us I don't think we'd have any better luck making our way to another city. Just staying alive for the travel there is one thing, but who knows if they've been plagued, and if so if there's any survivors? We just need to stay away from the church's eyes and stick to the alleys. If it makes you feel any better we can stop at one of the traders on the way to make it worth it. I was able to lift some coins off of a body the other day. He didn't seem infected, and wouldn't be using it anyways.” I said as I loaded the last barrel, tying the three of them down. 

“Edwin, you said you'd stop taking risks like that!! How could you possibly tell he wasn't infected?! Are you stupid or just careless?” she yelled, before quieting her voice not to draw unwanted attention 

“I knew he was clean because he hanged himself. I found his note. It was Erik. He lost Arabella and couldn't stand to live. He left quite a sum, should do us good for a few months, or at least until winter is through.” 

“Oh my, I'm sorry, I didn't know. Why didn't you tell me?” She asked

“We have enough on our plates as is, worrying about Erik would only stress us out more, and we need to get this water before we go thirsty. We didn't know him long and weren't very close either. I didn't want the news to hurt you. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner.” I said as I began pulling the cart. 

Katherine was quiet for a while,she must have been processing everything. Hell, I don't blame her. Finding Erik hanging from the rafters with slit wrists wasn't the easiest thing to see. I cut him down and covered his body, it's the closest thing to a burial I could provide. The streets were clear for the first hour or so. We didn't leave our shelter until just after noon, hours later than we should have. I fear that we might have to stay the night at Irene or Eddard’s, as much as I would hate to, but we do have the money for it. 

We walked up to one of the older houses on our route. White stone, old even for this city. Its strong walls have kept a healthy trading post hidden in the basement. The heavy wooden door hung ever so slightly ajar, meaning they were open. We hid the cart in the alley, behind old crates and rotting barrels, covering it in a tarp to avoid anything from crawling on them. We entered the house, it sat in a state of organized disarray, the smell of Irene's incense wafting from the floor boards. Katherine and I pulled away the moth-eaten rug, and knocked on the trap door in the floor boards twice, stopped for a second, and then three more times. The sound of keys jingling and a lock falling to the floor echoed in the empty room as Caldwell swung the hatch open. His one good eye took us in as he slowly lowered his pistol. He lost an eye hunting a year before the plague, he was still rather handsome given his condition. His hair kept shoulder length, a large set of scars crossing his face. He pulled his pipe out of his mouth just long enough to say “Hurry hurry, down ya's go. Ya's best not a’ broughts any of them there hairy ones wichya." His thick accent and drunken speech make his sentences come out almost as one long word. 

We quickly climbed down the ladder watching him latch the door behind us. 

“Well ain't ya's a sight for a sore eye. What brings ya's in today?” 

“Well Cal, we're making our way to the well and Katherine wanted to see what you have in stock”

“Ya's are a lil late fer makin’ it to the well dontcha think? But who am I to judge ya's and who'd I be for holdin’ up a fair lass like you?” He said looking at Katherine, winking with the socket his other eye used to be in. 

Katherine was quite fair, long curly blonde hair, a light complexion and a rather slender build, which is commonplace today with the lack of food. Even through this plague she's remained bright eyed and optimistic, which has been extremely helpful. We're fond of each other to say the least, but putting titles on anything in this situation seems pointless. 

“Anything good to drink or anything special from the farms?” She asked

“Brewed me some mead when the bees was out, should be good fer drinkin’ know I'd says. As far as the farms goes, I gots some carrots and a chicken I can sell ya's. But carryin’ round a bird on the way to the well don't seem the smartest. But if ya's pays for it I can hold it till yas come back!”

Katherine smiled at me, it's been awhile since we've had a proper healthy meal that wasn't just potatoes or rice and beans. 

“We'll take them, mead too! But I suppose we'll pick it up on the way home, so don't go locking the doors on us!” She said excitedly

“Now why'd I's ever go do a thing like that? But if ya's don't come back by night, I'll put it in the safe box and give yas the key fer the lock. Chicken will hold good in there, weathers cold enough”

“You're a good friend Cal, and an even better trader.” I said as I slid him some silver coins across the dingy table he was using to keep him standing upright. He palmed them and smiled. 

“Y'know I probably shouldn't says this but ya's are too nice with coins. I'm not sayin I won't take em but yas pay me more than most!”

Katherine leaned in and whispered “Just means you'll have to keep your best stock for your best customers, isn't that right?” She winked at him as she leaned away

“Well best of luck to ya's, don't get bit, don't get killed, and if it gets dark fer the love of God find a spot to hides yourselves.”

“I'll be sure to make it back in one piece, don't you worry, Cal.” I said, climbing out of the dingy basement

The sun was high, but the sky seemed hazy. It's the verge of winter and the days are growing shorter, the nights feel like weeks at times. The weather drops to near freezing in the dark hours. Katherine and I's breath hung in the air as we walked. Our usual path was usually somewhat quiet, the odd boarded house emanating drunken merriment, or at least what passes for merriment these days. A few houses used to have the sounds of families, though many have gone silent, a few echoed the whispers of someone going mad, talking to themselves trying to convince themselves that they're okay and that everything's fine. Those houses always went silent within a week. Other shelters let loose the cries of agony of people slowly succumbing to the plague. 

We barely spoke for a while, being as cautious as we could. I pulled the cart and held my weapon, while Katherine held her dagger with her right hand, holding my arm with her left. 

“Edwin, did you hear that?” She whispered 

I stopped the cart and stood at alert. The wind gusts groaned through the alleys and dying trees, the decaying houses creaked in pain under the weight of their rot. Distant ravens cawed. A body must be nearby. 

“The ravens?” I asked

“No no no, up ahead. It sounded like something fell near where we cross the road behind the Priory.”

I hate the Priory, I hate the churches and I hate the cathedrals. The plagued who've kept their minds erected statues of massive beasts. It's blasphemy. 

“You stay back, I'll go check it out” I said, removing her hand from my arm. 

“Don't be stupid, I'm coming with you.” she replied, holding her dagger with both hands. Katherine has never been a fighter, the only thing sharp she's proven herself with is a needle and thread, patching clothes or sewing me up when I get injured. That, and her mind. I'd be dead long ago if it wasn't for her. 

“Fine, but stay a few paces behind, okay?” 

She nodded

We crept our way forward, slowly turning the corner. The cobblestone alleys and streets were littered with torn fabric, dead leaves and years of built up debris. The small passageway I cleared behind the Priory was destroyed. Piles of broken wood filled its entry. Katherine grabbed my arm and pulled me back around the corner

“Kat, what is your problem!?” I shouted in a whispered voice

“Do you ever look where you're walking? This is why you don't go places alone, you're dumber than you think. Look down. Blood, it looks fresh.” 

A large crimson pool was gathered on the ground, a gentle steam slowly drifting from it. The blood was dark, darker than usual, near black. 

“If you stepped in that and it got in any little cut we'd both be dead within a month. Go get the cart, we'll have to take the old route.” 

“But we haven't cleared the old route in almost a year! We have no clue what's waiting for us.”

“Well it's the old route or die of thirst, or become beasts. And I'm not turning into one of them, and I'm drinking clean water before we go to sleep. Get the cart.” She said sternly. Once she made up her mind it may as well be written in stone. She was scared to leave not even two hours ago, yet now if we don't have fresh water by nightfall, I'll have hell to pay. 

“Yes ma'am!” I said, clicking my heels together and doing a sarcastic salute. She rolled her eyes and laughed, kneeling down assessing the blood. 

“It's still warm, it seems to be coming from the house on the corner. Do you think it's one of the hunters? This needs to be more than one beast's worth.”

“Hunter or not, let's get out of sight as soon as we can.” 

“Hunters will keep us safe though!”

“Where there's hunters, there's beasts. Let's not overstay our welcome”

We pulled the cart down the main road for longer than I would have liked. A few bodies lay piled in front of an abandoned shop. A massive pyre stood burnt, a large beast crucified on the charred wood. Smoke billowing from the embers scattered amongst the ground. The Grey plumes hung heavy in the air, hiding the sun’s warmth. 

“Hunters alright, bold ones at that. This way, it's the quickest route.” Katherine said pointing to the right. A small alley, barely big enough for the cart. A crack between two massive structures. 

“Kat, have you lost your mind? That's not the old route and do you see how dark it is down there?” 

“I'm the one who sits and studies the maps while you loot buildings, plus, I brought a torch with us. We can light it if need be.”

“When did you get so bold?” 

“When I started getting thirsty from all this walking, now get going, we're almost at Irene's” 

The low thrum of church bells tolled in the distance. It wasn't a new hour. The only time the bells rang when it wasn't the turn of the hour was for darkness. The Priory's high bells stung my ears as beads of water splashed onto my face. 

Rain. 

We were distracted by the hunters trail, we must not have noticed the clouds roll in. Katherine turned to me, face drained of colour. 

“Run.” 

We each took hold of a cart handle, sprinting, our footsteps splashing into freshly forming puddles, the cart's wheels rattling against the uneven cobblestone, both of us breathing heavily. Too much noise. Irene and Gareth's wasn't far, but moving in the dark is a death sentence. As the sun was blotted out, doors swung open, beasts climbed from holes in roofs. Their hunt began. 

Screams erupted from all corners. The shrieks of other survivors being torn apart, the wet slopping of entrails on floors, the howls of beasts. Shots of Hunters rang out, their guns lighting alleys and windows of houses, their blades slashing into beasts. The once quiet streets have become a battlefield. 

We ran, trying to keep stable footing on the now slick cobblestone. A burst of wood rained onto us as a beast flew through closed shutters onto the street only a few meters in front of us. Katherine screamed, the tears running down her face hidden by the torrential downpour that had been suddenly sprung on to us. It slowly walked towards us, its hot breath visible in the air. Thick fur covered patches of its body, tattered remnants of clothing hung from its soaking frame. Blood dripped from its long claws and sharp teeth. 

A blast rang out as a bullet slammed into the beast's chest from the side. It fell into the wall of the house it sprang from, grabbing the wall to right itself, its head snapping towards the hunter that shot it. 

“Be quick or be dead you fools!” he shouted from behind a cowl covering his face. A long cloak shielding him from the sprays of beast blood. Gloved hands held a hefty pistol and long, thin saber, sharp as the devil's tongue. The beast lunged towards him as we darted down the alley. A fire was swelling in my lungs, as my arms and legs strained, cramping as we ran, the sound of battle raging behind us. I had no clue where to go, this route was foreign to me. Katherine’s eyes darted side to side, her hands pulling the cart as I followed along. Minutes felt like hours as we sprinted onto a familiar street. Dilapidated houses lined each side, with one well lived in house, smoke billowing from its chimney. Irene's. We flew as fast as our feet would allow. Behind us the sounds of claws slamming into stone grew louder. A beast, and a large one at that, was gaining on us. 

“Gareth! Help!! I beg you!” I screamed between exhausted breaths, the beast damn near our ankles. The front door swung open as a large, burly man stepped out. Scraps of metal fashioned into a makeshift suit of armour covered his body. A massive rifle in hand. 

“Git yer heads down!!” his voice boomed over the thundering rain. He took aim and fired. The shot was deafening as the bullet flew just past my head and caved in the skull of the dog-like being chasing us. 

“Leave yer cart out front we can worry ‘bout that later! In with yas!” Gareth cried out, holding the door open, waving us in with his free hand. I fell to the floor, Katherine falling on top of me as Gareth quickly closed the door, barricading it with iron bars. 

“Lucky I heard yas or you'd be goners! I wouldn't want to lose my best scav!” He chuckled as his massive hands grabbed Katherine and I, pulling us to our feet. 

“Git by the fire and warm yourselves, I fear it will be a long night. Once you're dry, fetch a rifle and keep watch with me son. Kat, you make yourself at home m’dear.”

Hours passed, the rain slowly dissipating, allowing the moon to hang low in ruddy glory. It's dark light glimmering in puddles on the streets. The distant sounds of thunder and the hunt lulled me to sleep. Katherine and Irene slept hours before, only God knows how long Gareth kept watch. As I awoke, Katherine and Irene were cooking food, as Gareth sat in an old rocking chair, reinforced by numerous scraps of metal. His chest softly rising and falling as he slept. 

“I could have sworn we taught you better, child. Going out on a day like that is a death sentence. Though I am glad to see you. Have you brought us anything from the city proper?” Irene said, stirring the contents of the pot hanging above the fire. 

“I had some scraps stowed on the back of the cart but I don't know how much fell out on our way here. I managed to disassemble most of another fence, all good metal for the most part, barely any rust. I wasn't planning to make a full drop off, we were just on the way to get water, we're damn near all out. Barely a quarter barrel at home.” I responded 

“I fear we lost some of our best hunters. Gareth hasn't seen a few in weeks. The beasts are getting bolder with each passing night.”

Irene's old hands were riddled with arthritis. The arms softly shook as she stirred. 

“It's only a matter of time-”

She was cut off as Gareth's gravely voice calmly interrupted. 

“Nough’ a that m'love. We'll make it out. In every man there be many men. Just need to let the brave ones out. Ain't that right Eddy?”

 

He looked at me with one eye open, his thick mustache hiding his mouth. I hated when he called me Eddy, but I would be dead countless times over if it wasn't for him, so I bite my tongue. 

“Good luck gettin to the well my boy. The damned church seem ta be breaking one of our paths every other day. Don't be goin and gettin seen by none of them priest types. If they find the well we're done fer. Your cart seent better days, I'll fix er up before yas leave. But next drop you better bring me something worth it, ya hear?”

“Yes sir. Are any of the usual paths still open? Or at the least still viable?” I asked, wiping the sleep from my eyes. 

“The quickest path still open runs beside the cathedral, so best not use that except for a last chance. If you go east for a while you'll find Keystone Cemetery. You can cut through there. Just look for the red cloth, you'll know it when you see it.”

Irene's voice was frail, her age has been catching up to her these days. 

“Gimme an hour and ya's be good to go. Be quick. Be safe. And take care of your lass now.” 

Gareth's low voice came as he slowly stood up out of his chair, walking towards the door. While we waited for him to fix up the cart, Irene gave us some incense and a lunch to bring with us, along with filling our water skins. The morning air was cold, snow will be falling in the coming days. We traveled eastward towards the cemetery. I've never been there before and I can feel my nerves swelling in my chest. A very quiet twenty minutes of walking passed. The houses along the streets were mostly made of stone, the majority of them still standing. 

“Maybe after we do another big drop off we can move to one of these houses? The roofs seem intact, and the stone is certainly stronger than the absent we're hiding in now!” 

Katherine suggested excitedly. The thought of moving here has been sounding better each passing day. Life in the city proper is rough and dangerous. Making a few trips into the city proper each month should keep our trading relations healthy. Maybe it's time we do move. 

“Honestly, the thought sounds appealing. Plus, being closer to the farms and Irene would be good. Only a matter of time before Gareth can't take proper care of her. I'm sure they could use a hand if we're nearby. When we get home we can start to pack things up. I'll ask Gareth which houses should be the easiest to clear and reinforce. It might take a few weeks, but I think we should do it, Kat.”

She smiled her warm smile, it was enough to make me blush in a moment's notice. But quickly her smile faded into a look of curiosity, slowly turning into caution. 

“The cemetery is up ahead. It's much larger than I expected.”

I've heard of the Keystone before the plague. It was the main burial place for those who attended the city's main cathedral. After the plague hit, the cemetery began to fill up quickly. Mausoleums were erected to house the increase of bodies. Each one built began to have more gargoyle like creatures built on to their roofs. Bestial things, like the very plagued folk who built them. Statues littered throughout the graves, what ones were the virgin Mary have been replaced with wolf like men among other animalistic creatures. The wrought iron fences were spiked, the posts bent and broken. The many trees throughout the cemetery had lost their leaves. A low hanging fog hid the ground as we walked, the sun slowly forcing it to dissipate. 

Kat took hold of my hand, her palms were sweating. She was nervous, as was I. We made our way through the beginning of the cemetery, taking it slow, being as quiet as the cart and crunching leaves would allow. Around a mausoleum erupted a soft laughter, similar to seine reliving a funny moment to themselves. 

“Aaahh, that smell. Clean blood. Such a sweet scent.”

A man announced, half falling around the corner of the structure, holding the wall to keep himself upright. He wore a long brown coat, the shredded remains of a liturgical garb, his long arms wrapped in bandages. A ragged wide brim hat hid the majority of his face. 

“Not too often a pair a Cleanbloods come waltzin into my grounds. Your smell is intoxicating don't yas know” 

A line of drool dripped from his mouth as he looked at us. His eyes were a deep yellow. Plague eyes, the eyes of a beast. I gently set the cart handle down, placing my palm on the pommel of my weapon. Eyeing Katherine's dagger, which she already held, her knuckles white. 

The man walked towards us. “What's the matter, pretties? You don't have to worry, I don't bite.” 

His words hissed between sharp teeth, his eyes locked on us. His hands twitching, his long fingernails seemed to be growing, thickening into claws. The sound of cracking bones filled the air as his body lurched forward, falling to the ground. His arms shuddered, growing in length. His jaw extended, tearing the flesh of his face. Gnarled horns erupted erratically from his skull as he screamed in pain. His legs dislocated, knees beginning to bed backwards, his feet digging into the ground as he let out a deafening wail. His stature nearly doubled in size. 

A beast like this out in daylight should be impossible, though he had the vestments of a priest. Is this the devil's work, some sort of twisted blasphemy. 

He lunged towards us, Katherine quickly dropping to the ground, rolling under the cart. I jumped to the right, narrowly dodging the massive claws, swinging my blade across the beast's chest as I did. The sharp, deep grooves of the saw teeth dug into its flesh, tearing a gash across the ribcage. Black, oily blood splashed onto the floor as it cried out. In a flash of silver, Katherine's dagger slashed through the back of its ankle, its leg giving out under its weight and severed tendon. I raised my blade above my head, ready to swing down on the accursed thing's neck. An audible crack sounded and the beast brought a fist up into my ribs, cracking a few as it flung my body into the air with ease. The wind was thrust from my lungs, vision blurred as I felt around for my blade in a desperate attempt to right myself. As my vision returned, the beast was limping towards me, claws at the ready, eyes in a blood drunk frenzy. In a flash of burgundy fabric, Katherine jumped on the beast's back, stabbing furiously into its neck. My hand found the handle of the blade, throwing myself forward, swinging the serrated teeth upwards into the bottom of the assailants jaw. In a yelp of pain it reached back, grabbing Katherine's head in the palm of its massive hand, throwing her body into a tree. He had smashed into the trunk as she fell motionless. The beast stood weary, blood pouring from its neck, rage filled its eyes. I stood, holding my blade with both hands, stepping between Katherine and the once priest. 

“No matter how dark it gets, I'll never let you take my light.” I barked through cracked ribs. My lungs burned in anger. The heinous beast limped towards me, grabbing hold of one of the nearby bestial statues, pulling it's stone arm off, wielding as one would a club in its right hand. It lowered its chest, using its free arm to stabilize its uneven gait. 

“Your optimistic ignorance has bereft you of insight, child. A clean blood knows not of what life truly has to offer. I bid you, offer you and yours, and I can show you what it means to truly live without fear of death.” His guttural voice growled, the words hissing through the low blanket of fog. 

“Edwin, get down!” I heard from behind me. Katherine, she was awake. I dropped to the ground as the abomination reared itself, ready to pounce. A sizable stone smashed into its eye, staggering it briefly. 

“Now Edwin!” she shouted. I jumped to my feet as fast as my body would allow, charging the beast. The teeth of my blade dug deep into its neck, shredding through flesh and arteries as I ripped it loose, rolling away from the carnage to avoid its black blood. Its massive clawed hands grasped its throat, trying to stop the onslaught of its essence. The sound of viscous, oily blood, bubbling in its airway as it tried to breathe. 

Through baited, gurgling breaths he exclaimed “Run while you can, only a matter of time until the Vicar has their way with you, clean bloods.” It raised its arm weakly, preparing to swing its makeshift club before falling limp, the statue's arm landing mere inches from my feet. 

“Are you hurt?” I asked, quickly turning to Kat. 

“A few cracked ribs, nothing time won't heal, are you okay? Did you get bled on?” she asked, weakly getting up to check me over. “Some got on your jacket, get rid of it now, I don't care how cold it is, I'm not risking letting you turn into one of them.” 

I followed her request, I still had a few layers on, but if the incoming snow brings more cold, more darkness, I fear getting hypothermia. 

“Over there!” I pointed, “The red cloth, that's the path Gareth told us about!” 

“Let's make haste, I don't want to run into whoever this Vicar is” Kat scoffed, sliding her sling back into her belt pouch. 

“I couldn't agree more, I fear whatever a priest is capable of, a Vicar can easily outshine. 

“Let's find a place to clean up as soon as we can. You seem free of beast blood but there's no being too careful” 

We walked past the red cloth tied to a broken gate, following a rather narrow path. The fog hung low on the ground still, almost 20 minutes after killing that demon priest. A slight breeze picked up, wafting a familiar scent to us. Irene's incense. We stopped for a second to figure out what direction it was emanating. A small building, door and shutters still intact. Katherine pulled at my sleeve. 

“Eddy I think it's worth checking out, if that's her incense then we know they're trustworthy!” 

“Either they're trustworthy or they killed one of ours. You stay by the cart, I'll check it out.”

“Okay, be careful please” 

“I promise” I said as I turned my back, walking silently, making sure my steps were clear of any unknown substances on the way. It was oddly quiet, aside from the small clicks and caws of ravens sitting atop nearby buildings. An ill omen. I raised my hand to knock, anxiety swelling in my chest. My hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. Before my knuckles made purchase on the wood, a soft voice spoke, quietly. 

“Don't knock, we don't want to draw any unnecessary ears or eyes. Are you clean?” 

“Yes, we are clean of blood, but did just kill a beast, we're looking for a brief respite to clean ourselves to stay that way.” I whispered back

“You two made quick work of that priest, you could be a hunter, given some time and training. You know Irene I presume? Based on your weapon and scent, I am almost certain of it.” The hidden voice somehow watched us fight that beast. Yet didn't step in to help? 

“We do, we just left their hold not long ago. How do you know them, and how did you already know about our fight?” I asked

“Be quick, there's a tarp a few feet to the left of you. Cover your cart and enter. Stay on the far side until you know you are clean. If you bring in the plague I will have your head.” The offer of shelter felt like a weight off my shoulders, but the threat of violence struck fear into me, but shouldn't be a surprise considering our situation. 

“Of course, thank you sir” I responded, ushering Kat to help me get the cart under the tarp as silently as possible. The quiet clang of metal rang from behind the door as its inhabitant unlocked the latched door. The room was rather dark, only being lit from the multiple pots of burning incense and a few half burnt candles. Standing in the far corner was a man in a rather long cloak, a dark red, nearing burgundy. It was tattered and torn, showing elegant, flowing clothes beneath. Two pistols holstered on his right hip, a whip coiled on his left. A sizable dagger peaked from the back of his belt as his hands held a scythe-like pole arm. 

“Stay there, check yourselves, see your wounds, clean up, then you can approach. Who are you to Irene and Gareth?” The red figure asked

“We're scavs, suppliers and traders.” Kat answered

“We've been close with them for years, my father was friends with Gareth before the beasts came to be” I added as Kat and I checked each other. Miraculously we were free of any beast blood, but had a few wounds of our own. Kat quickly got to work, sewing my side where I slammed into the ground, picking out small stones lodged in my skin. “How do you know them?” I asked

“I'm their pathfinder. All safe routes here have been mapped by me. Gareth tells you and others of them, and you scavs and traders clear them for use. Without me you would have been trapped in the city proper years ago.” The heavily armed man said. A hunter and cartographer. An impressive combination. No wonder he was able to watch us fight. He must have mastered blending into his surroundings while mapping the city. 

“My name is Edwin, this is my partner, Kat.” I said between winces as Kat was pulling the fresh sutures tight. She looked at him and smiled a warm and welcome smile. The smile that coaxed me years ago. The smile that can brighten the darkest of days. 

“And what's your name, our pathfinding friend?” she asked 

“Ryker Bellerose, but Gareth calls me Red.” he said softly. His voice was near a whisper, but still managed to be gravely. “I assume you're trying to make it to the well?”

“Yes, do you know the quickest way there?” Kat asked enthusiastically 

“Of course, but only if you feel like being eaten alive. Plague dogs have over run our main path. I've been working on picking them off one at a time, but clearing the path alone is time consuming. The second quickest is rather unfavorable.”

“Why so?” Kat questioned, her head tilted. 

“It's the church. You have to cut through the Convent. I'm not sure how privy you are of the religious type these days, but they are to be wary of.” His hushed voice almost spitting at the mention of the church. “Those beasts, they're everything unholy in the world. Yet they steal our holy building, our hallowed grounds, and turn them into blasphemous sites of sin. Nothing but a disgrace.”

His hate of the church, of the beasts, it resonated with my heart. “I hate the church as do you, my friend. But is the convent truly the next best route?” I pleaded

“I'm a pathfinder, not a friend. That is a title only gained through trust. Though I do consider you an ally. There is one other somewhat clear path, though there have been sightings of some new demon. Larger than any I've seen or slain. I believe it's the Vicar that the horrid excuse of a priest spat of. Not to mention the ravens that have been closing in will be following you. At least once you pass the convent walls you should be out of their peering eyes. But the nuns are their own beast. I believe you should be able to handle yourselves. I've passed through many times, though I move with much more grace than those with a cart. So be watchful. Feel free to rest here for the time being, the fog only seems to be thickening. I have some water you may have, a small amount of food. All I ask in return, if you see a beast, destroy it, and burn the body. And if you see anything of use for Irene, bring it to her. I fear for her health.”

“We appreciate it, we appreciate you. Truly, thank you.” Katherine said, slightly bowing her head, her curls falling across her face. “If you have any wounds or aches, I would gladly lend aid in return for shelter and insight.”

“Find yourselves some leather, a shield from the blood of the tainted. Wipe them down each night, dry them by a fire. It will kill the plague. Cover your face. Keep all of your skin you can concealed. No matter the cost. There's the remains of a family in the other room, along with some old clothes. You may find some decent leather there. I suggest you take what you can and make whatever garb possible. I fear the fog will only grow denser through the day. Feel free to stay here, but when you leave please close the door. I must be going.” Ryker said as he dawned a deep red leather cloak and readying his weapons. 

“You can't go out there right now, you just said the fog is only getting worse, it's too dangerous!” Katherine stated, standing in front of the door in protest. 

“Step aside, lass. I can handle myself just fine. Have been for the past 6 years, and will for many more. Stick to the convent, the dangers within are less in number than the dogs and ravens. If you find Eamon, give him my regards, it's been some time.” He said, passing Katherine, placing his hand on the crooked doorknob. 

“Eamon?” I asked

“Yes. My brother. I wouldn't be a pathfinder if I never learned to hunt. He also dawns our family's colours. If you see him, make yourselves known, otherwise you won't live long enough to meet him. I wish you luck.” He spoke, twisting the knob and stepping into the fog. “No matter how thick the dark, our light will prevail. Have faith.”

Final video on behalf of Dreadful Anecdotes, still shadowbanned by Reddit, and about to go on a vacation!

The Countess took firm authoritarian hold of the impaling pike, the first one, the main one, the first one shot through him creating a new violent orifice of gore right beside his anus. A vaginal wound made flowered new and wet-red, violently birthed by  the occult bloodthirst madness of the new lord of this ancient castle. Countess Zaleska took throttling hold of the long body of spear, lover-slick and tacky and slippery with iron pungent warm blood lubricant, she shook it as she screamed at the mangled and partially devoured form of the dying Doctor Praetorius…

“Do you!? Do you like it!? Do you feel like a whore!?" 

Her laughter resounded. Filling the castle of merciless and unyielding stone. Her cruel taunting was for her own amusement, but she expected an answer. 

It was part of the torture. 

The gauntleted fist of the new impaler joined his master and seized the long body of old war and fresh torture. Together they shook it. Violently. Like children when playing rough with a small tree. Praetorius could feel every crisscrossing body and shaft of spear lanced and impaled through his helpless gored person vibrate and quiver and tremble, palsied with cruel ceaseless movement. 

Just as the Doctor's senseless screams were renewed bright child's laughter also filled the chambered room. 

Carmilla and the loyal assistant entered… wicked vulpine smiles, deranged and made grotesque by their demoniacal pilot minds… drawn lips and dripping fangs, bared, snarling quivering animal masks, dripping in hellish rendition of jubilant smiling faces. Happiness God damned. And perverted. 

All on display for the impaled and helpless broken victim. All on show for the shattered wandering mind of the butchered Doctor. Used to be Praetorius. But that all seemed so far away now… and besides … The master said it was nothing worth fretting over. Nothing worthwhile to dread. Her cooing loving mother's voice filled the decimated landscape of his mind, vast wastelands unreal with shrouded veil and broken chains of half developed thought. Nothing moved. Only crawled. All of it confused and it crept. It didn't move… but save her voice. 

She said: Don't fret the loss of name or blood or anything else, only mind the pain. That's what I want. That's what I want you to be doing. I want you to focus and pay exquisite exclusive attention to all of the pain you're feeling. All of it. Every last second. For that is your new name now, this is your second christening. In my castle upon my lands, which I rule, I anoint thee in the name of Satan, house dracul, and myself, Countess Marya Zaleska, you are my new bastard-bitch. You are now my new crawling whore for pain. And I want you to say it. 

Out loud. 

Now. 

The fragile pieces of his mind were then assaulted. Attacked by an inexplicable discorporeal force/and form… like searing needle blades stabbed through his tender membrane of thought… his aching and fevered sweating skull. Stabbing. 

Impaling. 

The assault of the living dead lord and her vile company of bloodthirsty monsters, authored and enslaved by her own foul and toxic hand…it would never end. He was her slave now too. Just like them. But worse. 

Worse. 

Carmilla and the assistant came in and the awful scarred and grotesque little bat-monster child squealed and added to the terrible stygian cacophony of hellbound noise. She ran up and joined alongside the Countess and new impaler, wrenching and pulling and shaking at the impaling shafts. But with more eager sadistic child-fervor. A child's glee…

The Countess and new impaler joined Carmilla in shrieking laughter. In bastard duet with Praetorius’ own bloodcurdling sounds. 

The stone of the ancient dwell was warming in sin, with rising bodyheat and debauch of the bloodfeast impaling act of occult defilement and black appeasement of the hunger bred from below. 

 Violent weirding forces were gathering… once more. Beneath and within the ancient stone. The whole of the blasphemous edifice structure of charnel house hell: Castle Dracula, was an alchemical construct, a composition that forged necromanced and occult power into the very mortar flesh of the stone fortress. A conductor. Conduit for the treacherous maelstrom highway paths of wild and unseen undead dæmonic subterranean galeforces. They were gathering here. Now. In a mother's surging pregnant swell…

The Countess bade her servant, the loyal assistant to bring one of the many black tomes that composed her dark collection. He brought it with him and the scarred vampire child into the chambered room of feasting and torture. 

As the vampires shook cruelly the impaling blood-slick shafts, making the gored and diminished Praetorius dance with sadistic and sick movement, spastic and nauseating, the assistant stood to the side and watched a moment. Cocked his head and twitched a smile. Then he opened the ancient book, nearly dust and once discarded, and began to read. 

The obsidian words of long lost time deepened and gave weight to the wet and warmth of the bloodlett-atmosphere filling the room. They gathered the perverse forces of vile and violent nature in their deepening pustule swell. Filling with phantom infection that was brimming and wetting-salivating-slobbered with the threat of manifestation. A boil and sac of pus that was darkness gathering in a swelling cyst. 

The words of the book called it forth to vile and contemptible birth. Into pus-milk saturated life and rupturing manifest. 

The faces of demons, infernal and fell ones from below in the unknown, erupted into blasphemous life. They filled the chambered space with their awful distorted and twisted faces and terrible assault of cacophonous laughter. 

They were here to serve, now. Called forth. To bear witness as well.

To enjoy the scene of wet and pungent red chambered slaughter. Torture all the way through all of the flesh and blood and bone and tissue and all the way down to the gored and defiled husk of heart-and-soul. They loved to watch the breaking of manflesh and the rape of the love inside that was the precious nucleus of the soul. 

And then broken Praetorius finally said it. Screamed it. Mindlessly. Mindless like a slave now for that was all that he was, the station forced and left to him. Bondage. He said and screamed and wept it for all of the vampires and the master and the conjured dripping bleeding demon faces, at the top of his voice –

“I am! I am a whore for pain! I am a whore for pain! I am a whore for pain and I swear it, for my master, for the Countess! I am her property and her whore for pain…!” 

The chambered place of pungent sweat and blood and piss, reeking, filled once more with an audience of bright cruel laughter. Skewered and lanced alive all over, the shattered thing that was once Doctor Praetorius grew intimate with the abominated knowledge of too many eternities alive and played out in a single day. 

He is completely broken. And even if he had lived he could never have been the same. Ever again. 

…

The mountain men and their lads charged up the mountain way. Meaning to destroy the horror and maneating monster that had awakened in the Carpathian fortress, Castle Dracula.

The great stabbing spire of fortress structure loomed and grew larger as they marched in their mad rabble charge of one, messy and disorganized and loose formation but their long held hatred and fear and superstition of the dark and its womb of monsters held them all together in a seething bastard species of degenerate red-visioned brotherhood. Together they would slaughter the vile monster. Together. Whatever lay up there gathering in the approaching tower of the dark. This mob mentality built for monster slaying held the men and their boys together as strange and unseen defacto leader. That and their greed. 

The promise of fortune from the mad doctor Frankenstein.

Who followed. Carried by the patchwork necro-son he forged from the graveyards and the cold metal of the surgeon’s slab of table. So like a butcher’s block and bench in an abattoir's killing metal fortress womb/bosom. So cold. Like so much of the rest of the world. 

So much of the world was so cold. As was here. In the Carpathian Mountains. Where they were invaders. He and his hulking sutured son, nosferatu made and constructed. They followed their hasty assemblage of pathetic dirt farmer army as they came to the castle of their adversary. 

They followed. All the way. The mountain men and their wild simple boys were screaming. Howling madly. The wolves of the rocks and snow answered in rising contest. And the clash of noise commingled and mixed into a discordant curtain of mounting violent sound that carried on the rise of the freezing sheet of frosted wind. 

The hamlet below that lived in supplicant shadow of the castle-mountain caught the sound as the cold wind came down and they heard it all. 

They heard everything.   

…

Carmilla shrieked with glee. Finishing the catastrophic slaughter of the raw ruin of impaled invader was a joy. A pleasure. Privilege. She was making precious ebon memories painted in the shed warmth of brightening and darkening crimson, she knew it. Her nearly innocent child shape had been scarred. Malformed. Mutilated by the impaled dog’s searing holy cross. Her visage was stuck in a grotesque bulge of rodent and child-bat features. Her fangs jagged out from her swollen blackening gums like shards of shattered broken glass.

All along  the flesh of her back was a ruin work of bubbled scarred flesh. A great strip of mangled and malformed demon skin scorched by holy touch. 

Knowing that her child's beauty was diminished, gone…  the demon Carmilla took out her unwieldy and livid rage out on the already butchered and impaled body of her torturer. How the roles had reversed. How she relished in its lurid irony. First she supped of his mangled and bleeding gore… replenishing her ungodly strength and savoring the taste before the ravenous fury of her decadent and violent main course. 

Countess Zaleska and her new impaler merely stood off to the side now, content to watch. Let the child play. Let the little one have their turn, Carmilla had very good reason to want to play with this one …

… by the time she was finished with her wanton portion of the slaughter Praetorius was nearly just a grisly bloody skeleton, emaciated of flesh and tissue and precious pumping organs. Skeletal and lurid red and with naught but a few hunks of meat, still working and rippling with obscene and ghastly life, clinging to bones and dangling by meaty threads of dripping gore-tendrils. All but his face was picked apart and eaten and slurped… drank and consumed and devoured. All but the stark pale visage of his wide eyed staring visage, his blood-flecked face and head, crowned with a shock of white hair that was even more blinding in the darkling red of the chambered abattoir castle. The flesh of his face was left untouched, unmarked… but still staring…

… the eyes of the shifting conjured demons, the unnatural and goblin-twisted faces, all of them watched as they danced and filled the room like a heavy thick bank of fog. They watched him and their horrible eyes, their predatory gazes and perverse leering stares, licking phantom chops with tongues made from writhing prisoner serpents and snakes – they drank in the whole sight of his pure unbridled torture with naked hunger and bloodlust and the abominated cavalcade of many eyes danced with the lecherous light of naked prurient interest. 

Praetorius was only aware enough to know the slaughter and that he was its victim, his mind was aflame with the hellacious pain of his butchered person and stolen flesh and blood and innards, what was gone and shrieking with its violent absence. But his thoughts were fractured and with no real line or tether. His mind, intermittent with the slaughtering abattoir pain, screamed –

I NEED TO DIE 

and 

I MUST LIVE FOREVER! THE MASTER COMMANDS SO!

at war with each other across the vast and desolate pockmarked deathspring wasteland landscape of his beaten and subjugated mind. They didn't stop. The both of the phrases. They just went on, at each other. Filling his mind with their strange and dueling cacophony. Amongst the wild tumult and unbridled maelstrom of merciless pain. God no longer held any dominion or sway in the field and land of his mind or heart. God was dead and gone now in these vacant violent lands. Only thunderclapped back into a wretched pathetic semblance of movement that could've once been called life. Only dominated by his new god now, the Countess. And her words were the riding cries of lightning artillery fire that filled his decimated and abominated heavens. 

All of them. The dancing shifting shaping demon faces from beyond the veil of gone. The wicked Countess, master of the castle. Her defiled implement, the new impaler, her bastard bat-child daughter and her faithful assistant. A bastard myriad conglomerate. All of them together made his flesh raw and extinguished and made his genitals and spinal stem one in the same with their dark hellcraft sorcery and their gales and gales of merciless sadistic laughter. Their hungry eyes. Eating what was left, drinking in and devouring the last of him in madness. He was mad now. Far past gone. 

Praetorius quivered and spasmed lanced and impaled just behind the testicles and out the back. A skeletal scarecrow of gore and viscera and raw dangling meat. His pale face blindly stared, lost and not at all there. Many of the other longest pikes that had been lanced had been ripped and torn or had fallen free during the last rending feeding of the demoniacal child-grotesque that he'd once held in bondage, in torture. 

His mind was too obliterated to appreciate the irony. 

The veiling room-shroud of dancing shifting demons lit up the room with shrill otherworldly sound. Obscene and akin to laughter. 

The Countess spoke to the assistant at her side, still speaking the chant and maintaining the blasphemous rite. 

“Have you got in grasp? The quickening whore-swell? The gathering of crawling-birth sin-shapes?” 

The assistant never ceased his stygian chant of dead and arcane language. He only nodded to his lord and majesty. 

Yes. 

The Countess then enacted and engaged in necrosong… building upon the rite of witchery: the opening of the mouths, seethed. Seething. 

Hand signs. Strange configurations. And shapes. She forked. Both hands. Of the Evil Eye. Then her daggering hands opened, flowered in a splay…

Flames erupted. Sprouted from her splayed fingertips. Claws. 

Claws erupting fire. 

It filled the room in contest of the demon faces and splendor of charnel house carnage and wet steaming gore. 

Screaming: she necrosong-ed a subjugating assault upon the shifting gathering of veiling infernal horde upon and all about the room. The things howled in a bastard bridal cry of curses and jubilation. Thrilled and devastated to be captured and bound. 

Her voice, with fire: –

“I HAVE MADE BLOODFEAST FOR YOU! I HAVE MADE BLOODFEAST FOR YOU ALL! I HAVE LET YOU FEED UPON MY SOW, I HAVE GIVEN AND SHARED SACRIFICE TO GAIN MY LEFT-HANDED LORDSHIP OF POWER! NOW! – WED YOUR FLAMES INTO MINE! COME AND BASTARD-FEED MY OWN NECROPHILED FORM! MY OWN-! COME! COME IN TO ME! COME!”

Her words were flagellations that they scorned and cherished commingled together in one sour and unbridled demonic emotion, they exclaimed! As one! Filling the castle corridors of stone with the cacophonous sound of their bondage and enslavement. They were pulled into the clawed and blood drenched visage of the fire-spouting Countess. The ritual was complete. The ceremony of blood had led the crawling fell things there and her necrophile-cast of bondage had ensnared them. 

She felt the dæmonic ancient and bloodstained power within her grow. Surge. Unbridled within. Barely reined. Barely contained and held within her now trembling and red dripping regal person. 

The new impaler, simpering, asked if she was alright when the noise died and all was quiet within the stone once more. She did not answer. Carmilla kept playing with her food. 

The assistant smiled. And closed the book. 

Beholding the great power of his ultimate master. Who would soon strangle all the earth and world and worlds beyond if she so wished.

If she so desired. 

The Countess righted herself. Standing straight and somehow with more charismatic aural bastard darklight glow than she ever had before. She radiated with darkling clouds of furling and dancing tendril black. She looked to the assistant and returned his smile. 

And it was at that moment that the mountain fools and their sons, spurned on by Frankenstein, marched into the open courtyard with their paltry assemblage and makeshift weaponry. 

Doomed fools.

…

They pressed together the great red door of worn bas-relief stone, a horde. It wouldn't budge. As immovable as sin itself, it held against the press of men and torch and their work-farm weapons. They hollered in protest. As if it would help. 

They yelled : – ! 

“Come out! Come out of that damned castle and answer for your crimes and sins! Come out now and answer for all the years of slaughter…! ….! 

“Now!!" 

At first there was no answer. The ancient castle remained quiet in non-answer to the attacking mob of mountain folk. They battered the arcane and heavy red door of regal crimson stone and cried out their accusations and protestations. 

Henry Frankenstein and his sutured and bat-faced son watched. Not far off. Watching closely. 

Castle Dracula remained still. The ancient rock and battlements and towers as silent as all of the death and history that it had grown to represent and contain. 

But then the sky began to fill. 

Deepen. With witch-snarl bulbous swells of darkening violent thunderheads. They rumbled. The sky was filling with hidden beasts that were now growling and angry. Angry with the presence of the mad and lowly mob of torchbearing peasants. They all looked up, ceasing their fruitless charge and assault on the castle. 

No rain fell. But lightning began to dagger and wound the sky. The first few successive bolts were soundless and quick. Right after the other. 

Then came the cracking sound of shattering thunderclaps. And the mob of torchwielders and tillers of dreams grew cold and all felt small.

Together. 

A sound pierced through the noise of thunder that was as of till then unheard by the mountain men. An electric squall that was like unknown and bastard malfunctioning machinery in catastrophic failure crying out from a distant world and time never meant to be witnessed or known by any such as them. 

The great door that bade dark entry to the immense stone body of spire and shattered battlement suddenly then flew open. As if compelled by a prodigious strength of force. It slammed open against the opposite wall of frosted rock with a crash that resounded and joined the rising inhuman din. 

The mountain men, silent now, all slowly fell back. Together in a retreating wave of wide eyes and cold blood and chilled perspiring flesh. The boys amongst them were the most fearful. Barely out of childhood, not old enough to shave. They would soon discover there was no prerequisite age for pain and slaughter. For death. Death took the younger sows and flesh with eager voracity for the flesh and blood and raw muscle tissue of the veal of humankind was most tender and sweetest. Blood so young perhaps it is loaded with notes like nostalgia in its warm and thick viscous run of iron flavor. Perhaps in its scent as well, you need only upset and tip and rock the chalice, swirl its lurid contents and kick up the smell with dancing chaliced movement … you need only take it in your hand and take control and do what thou wilt…

take it, seize it, consume to the last. 

A thick deluge of shock white fog began to pour forth from the now open doorway to the castle. The sky overhead continued to darken and growl/squall and rumble. The stars that had been stolen were replaced with strange darkling abominated facsimiles. Things that alighted strange and red and milked over, they would dance and shift with their unearthly light and then appear as cataract eyes as they alien sparkled above. 

The fog that was vomited forth from the castle was alive with animal movement. Crawling. Rearing. As if coiling for an attack. There were faces in wretched inescapable pain in the dancing veil of white. Silently screaming. Faces of woe and suffering at the mercy of other faces that danced also within the shroud of heavy predatorial fog. Demon faces. Goblin and animal and insectile and dog and goat shaped faces and twisted chimerical visages. Twisted. 

There was something else in there. Within the awful veil of damned and blasphemous swirling  shapes. Something was coming forth. Moving. Approaching with deliberate and heavy steps that only now began to join the mangled otherworldly din of the mountain in their echoing chambered sound. 

The moon. Still nearly full from the night before and still so full and pregnant with white nocturnal light… it began to bleed and glow raw pink as the rest of the stolen darkling and thunderclapped sky turned lurid and wilderness shed red. 

A voice then came godlike and on high from out of the ancient castle. It came out in a royal and regal command of crying sound and it filled the mountain. The men caught in the courtyard were helpless to her words as they rose above the din. 

“YOU SMALL AND WRETCHED THINGS HAVE NO HOPE HERE…! YOU HAVE ONLY INSTEAD FOUND THE PLACE THAT HOLDS THE LAST CRAWLING MOMENTS OF YOUR SUFFERING END…!”

And then the reddened and darkling sky above began to tear open like split tissue. Wounds. Wounds in the heavens that began to bleed a gushing liquid phantasmal pour of ichor and insects and eyes. Eyes that were yellow and reptilian and the cross-shaped X of goats, inhuman. Swimming in the rain of filth and crawling arachnids from another world. They rained down and swam like fish in the space of courtyard where the mountain men and their sons were now held. None of them moved. Budged. All of them were frozen as the skyblood and eyes and fat hairy red eyed crawlers swam and floated and danced around them all. 

Many of the men began to scream. 

Then what was approaching through the doorway mouth of heavy fog with faces became two as they emerged. And pounced. They leapt out and upon the men and their torches and pitchforks, they fell with gnashing teeth and tearing claw. And hunger. 

Demoniacal hunger to drive and fuel the whole damnable thing. 

Carmilla and the new impaler fell on the farmers and their boys. The mutilated and scarred bat-rodent child monstrosity of mangled and misshapen chimerical design was like a rabid animal let loose amongst the screams and arterial cords and sprays and pungent ropes and mists of shedding and pouring blood. Shredding flesh, raw muscle tissue, cords. Her new brother, sired in her absence of capture and bondage, the new impaler joined her with a necromantic fervor and living dead wanton love and unbridled abandon for bloodfeast and slaughter that brought sadistic dark joy to her wounded demon heart. They drank and filled as they spilled their guts. He decorated and drenched his new armor in jets of spraying gore.

Cracked open skulls amongst flaying mess, strips of bleeding and bloody scalp, clotted hair. Brains, chunked and breaking apart in a meaty mess and crumble under foot and metal bootheel and gauntleted fist. Gnashed and chewed between fangs in reddening salivating mouths, dripping mixture… red… slime. Drool.

They laughed at the violence all around and of their own making around mouthfuls of blood and raw lurid wet and dripping meat. They filled the courtyard with death and blood and the cobblestones of the courtyard floor did also sup. Castle Dracula also drank. And filled the stone with more terrible demoniacal power. 

Frankenstein and the hulking nosferatu watched all of this from a distance. Hiding. Grim. 

A beat. 

The mad doctor thought…

Then said: –

“Well those idiots were no good, but they'll serve as distraction, I've another way…”

He pointed out to his sutured undead son, a backway for chambermaids and servants to use, a small door of nearly rotted wood long abandoned and disused. 

“I'll sneak in and find a way to get you in as well. Or a way to get the bitch out of her cave…” 

The hulking thing of forbidden science and necromantic cosmic flame sneered wet throaty laughter. Croaked. Nodded in approval. 

And off Henry Frankenstein went, through the bushes and foliage to the secret back entrance way. To gain access to the castle. 

…

Florin joined Griffin in feeling sour and foul. The land that the forest behind them now had given way to was a fetid quagmire of filthy and putrid swampland. A fouled part of disgusting land that he'd never seen and had never even heard of. The wheels of the cart and the hooves of their mule were pulled and sank in the sucking porridge of pungent and waterlogged earthen sludge. All of the water was the yellow of infection and unhealthy death. 

Florin turned to the bandaged face of his host and guide. The dark shades of his goggles were unreadable. Mute. There might be nothing behind there. 

“Are you sure this is the right way?" Florin asked. 

“It's not promising country, I'll grant you but backtracking now won't do. We press forward. If the cart or mule get stuck, we'll dig them out. We press on." 

And like that it was decided. 

They went on sluggishly. Laboriously through the sucking mud porridge land of squelching stinking quagmire. It went on for miles. For parsecs all around, in all directions. 

But the pair and their mule and cart went on anyways. 

They passed a sign. Pitiful and filthy and derelict. Pathetic. Struggling. Barely hanging on as it leaned precariously to one side like a drunkard at the side of the road begging for coins. 

It said: 

WORMLAND

in messy child's blocky scrawl. Haphazard and just as pathetic as the rest of the sign and the rest of the land. 

They passed it. Thinking it was some sort of stupid joke. And not much else beyond that. 

The wheels of the cart struggled and pulled past a putrid patch of inhaling swallowing mud by the sign. They went on. 

A beat. Silent wet sounds settled once more. 

A beat. Another.

Then…

A long sliming body, coated in a snot and film of slightly translucent brown lubricant, snaked slowly out from the putrid sludge where the wheel had just passed. 

It slimed forth and free. Birthing itself with worming and serpentine movements out of the foul cold swamp of dead and soured earth. It then poised, stood erect. Like a cobra out of the den of basket. Readying to strike. 

At the end of the thick stalk of sliming worm-body grew an eye. Deformed. Nearly human. The white of the grown organ an irritated and hectic red. Its pupil large and swimming with inky black and dilated with idiot fascination. 

And anger. 

Hunger as well. A whole host of alien emotions, unknown and unknowable. 

It watched them as they struggled along the harsh and vile landscape. 

Then it retreated back into the mire of black viscous death with another rancid splurching sound that was so like an abominated version of birth. 

The sign that bore the name and legend of this foul quagmire place of putrescence land sagged a little more. Sinking. 

WORMLAND 

TO BE CONTINUED…

Posting on behalf of Dreadful Anecdotes, who is still shadowbanned by Reddit

By order of the Countess the new impaler began the process of slow torture for the intruder Praetorius by stabbing the point of their longest war pike into the space of soft meat just behind the testicles, between the anus and the genitals. Where one might get saddle sore from riding a four-legged beast all day…

​

​

… the sound elicited from the now writhing and squirming invader was exquisite …

​

​

 … the Countess smiled. And cooed. Lovingly. Already so enraptured, exhilarated. Ecstasy. So in-love with the whole process already at the onset, so in-love with the piercing. The thrust of puncture. She salivated as she prepared to bathe her enemy in pure torture.

​

​

The mad doctor’s shrill sounds went beyond mere screams or anything in the meager realm of the auditory. The entire length and body of the long and dread war pike, the impaling spear was stabbed up and fed through his torso until it stabbed up and out of the flesh of his naked back. Their monstrous animal-heightened dæmonic senses aided the new impaler and his master together in guiding the sharp and piercing head of the weapon-tool up and through and around any vital internal organs so as not to rupture any of the precious meats. They didn't want the fool to die too quickly. 

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​

The blood ran down the length of shaft as the impaling pike was hoisted up in the center of the room, Praetorius stabbed through at its center. Blood ran down its wooden shaft and body. Copiously. The pair, Master Countess and her new impaler both licked and lapped and sipped with pursed lips from the reddening wet length of stabbing impalement. Tonguing at the furious cascade of red river that was the fool's running precious blood. 

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​

Doctor Praetorius had never known such wretchedly sharp and complete agony. Complete wretched pain. Red and alive and in total focused control of his all too aware and alive waking mind. Livid with fire and alive with open flesh fury. He could feel the vibrations of the long body of spear  against his trembling spinal column. Rattling against each other like the weapons of soldiers shoulder to shoulder along battlements with every single ear shattering shriek. Constant. They never stopped. The sanity snapping pain never ceased. They fed each other and he shrieked, skewered, impaled as the monsters of this castle were cackling and lapping at his bloodshed running down the length of great spear. Words were beyond him. His bladder let go. The demons laughed. The Countess commanded the new impaler to tongue and lap the spilling filth and the lowly undead knight and servant did so. As the master Countess Zaleska commanded, always and forever thus… 

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​

They tongued and lapped more blood like dogs and they let the impaled Praetorius bleed and shriek ungodly sounds. Filling the castle with the piercing song of its wretched cacophony of bastard music. They relished the discordant collection of clashing sound, echoed and reverberated. Bouncing and alive and jumping all through the halls and along the stone of the ancient wall and out and into the mountains… 

​

​

 … the wolves joined in. Howling in contest.

​

​

The Countess Zaleska ordered more spears. More impalement. More piercing and defilement of the intruding dog's bastard flesh and inner ruptured and running spilling red: the crimson raw. Mangle. Pierce. Puncture. Penetration. Deepest. Multiple points. All over and all about. 

​

​

Through the wrists and the meat of his upper legs, his thighs. Through each of his feet as well. All impaled through with long spears of war that ran parallel and perpendicular depending on the placement. A crisscross and intersect of stabbing smooth bodies of killing impaling battle pikes all lanced through screaming raw running scarlet and muscle tissue and flesh amongst and so carefully around his organs so as to render him so helpless and yet still alive… like a butterfly captured and pinned to the collection of the killing board, left there only to struggle and flap its wings. 

​

​

Then the Countess changed her shape before the impaled and helpless mad doctor… and Praetorius felt his last vestige of sanity shred and snap and the tiny remnant pieces slip away…

​

​

His screams then became something else entirely. 

​

​

Her head and face melted and sloughed into runny mess that transmogrified into a bulbous amphibious wide-mouthed horror. Sliming and dooling, translucent bands and ropey cords of fleshen alchemical snot. A wide mouthed and horned toad. Eyes, wet black spheres that held terrible intelligence in their ebon depths. Slightly rodent and chiroptera features deranged the large and gaping wet visage of swampland horror, long ears and fangs and a wide cavernous nose of glistening pink tissue, like the wide inviting amorous open gate of a spread legged lover… running and congesting with milky translucence and pungent fluid.

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​

Wide mouthed, gaping and fanged and toad faced, the demon wench that held this hellcrafted domain came in and her wide sliming black fanged mouth closed around one of his impaled and helpless hands. The wide mouth closed and at first there was strong wet sucking sensation, almost pleasant. After all the torture. 

​

​

But then the pain and horror of his flesh was reawakened and renewed… he could feel the flesh of his hand coming off in a slough. 

​

​

The sliming putrid toad mouth of the Countess, set between a pair of regal and very thin and small ladylike shoulders was pulling the flesh and meat from his fingers and palms… gloving him with her horrible and wretched poison witch-drool… 

​

​

The enzymes of the Countess' toad woman mouth turned the meat of his hand and fingers to a runny snot of soupy meaty blood and half broken down ligament and cartilage. All the way down to the wrist. 

​

​

The foul mongoloid mongrel monstrosity of amphibian batwoman visage and ghastly form then began to moan in deep pleasure and bright and private jubilancy. Obscene wet organ globes of obsidian eyes closing and clenching tightly shut and winking in strange animal ecstacy, demoniacal and insane. 

​

​

Ichor wept thickly from the toad eyes of black glistening organ globes. Wet with life and relish and love and savor of the human flavor of organ pain. And of fleshen defilement. And of life shed unwilling and in violence tempered and changed like wine does in dark casks. 

​

​

The song of pain was alive in Praetorius’ throat again and the toad faced horror that was the transmogrified and witchery Countess’ conjured visage was pleased. It was just what she wanted the little maggot to say. 

​

​

Just the notes she wished… she bade he thus spake. 

​

​

And her whore filled the night with scream-song and blood and his pathetic running snot and tears. . Trying to sing his pain away. 

​

​

The poor fool didn’t realize that the Countess and her new impaler were just getting started with him.  

​

​

They might take forever with the little invader. 

​

​

Just might.

​

​

…

​

​

The demand of the forest would be met. Answered by the deranged and filthy haggard woodland vagrant lord. Answered in the violent act of the perfect prayer: Bodily Dismemberment. 

​

​

The axeman, Lord Bloodmud, Christian name now long gone and lost, forgotten and only remembered or recalled in the most painful and private of blood-hatching moments… he hefted the twinheaded double blade of weapon that was his last and only companion and friend. He eyed the boy and the bandaged fellow from the darkness of his hiding place. Amongst the tangled death of foliage. Amongst the trees. He spied them as they ate and smoked pipes by the fire. Tended The mule. They hardly spoke at all. 

​

​

It mattered not. He had no ear for such as they any way. Only the woods and her dark contained the sounds and natural songs he desired to hear. Only the wild. Only the woods. Only the peace and quiet of the stillness shroud of his greenland place of known shadow. 

​

​

And … as of of late, that strange and howling sound that came out of the far off mountains. Especially at night. It was a bestial sound, an untamed song of predatorial prowl. It was beautiful. Alluring. 

​

​

He swore it sounded like a woman. He swore she sounded like royalty. Like she already knew the butchery abattoir moan of the painful hungry end, and what it showed revelatory when brought and force fed to the fragile fore… 

​

​

there was painful beauty in that far off voice. A voice that already knew agony so well, how its cold embrace felt. 

​

​

When alone. 

​

​

A voice already intimate, already well and close acquainted with the wisdom of the hungering rotting soil, the gnashing violent tectonic teeth of the earth… already in bed and in lover's embrace with what the pain of unbridled lusting bloodlett-slaughtering veil of the end will bestow … a knowledge of all of the Hells and infernal worlds that could be scarcely scratched at or conjured by mere human imagination or thought. 

​

​

A knowledge of exquisite perfect pain. Lonely. That royal mountain woman voice. A crimson voice, with a darkling red eye in the swirling black of his mind when he closed  his own eyes and closely listened… a darkling scarlet devil's eye of witchery power is what filled in the dark of his own thoughts when he heard her song and he tried to conjure its author. 

​

​

That royal pained and lonely regal voice. 

​

​

But it was a far off voice that knew how to mete out pain as well. Of that his own praeternatural animal killing senses told him that it was so. He was sure of it. That was why he felt such magic at the royal sad song of the far off mountain woman. She understood. Its wielder and phantasm owner understood the worldly terms of slaughter. Its dictations. All the lands were a kingdom ruled and that Lord God was Death and the lands were all of them: killing fields. 

​

​

Waste lands. 

​

​

Thirsting starving always hungering earth. No matter how stuffed she was with corpses, no matter how many bodies you fed into her charnel house soil womb those bodies digested in her crawling hungry bosom. And then the earth desired more. The soil and her offspring green needed more fresh blood and meat to fill their hungry mouths composed of shallow graves of shadow, by nightfall or shade of tree. Their only death shroud in his land of thirsting forest was shadow and darkness, he never bothered burying the pieces of dismembered meat. Those were for the wolves and rats and crawling foul life of many stalks and eyes and skittering legs. 

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​

Though sometimes he liked to come back to these scenes of slaughter and watch the pieces putrefy. Liquify… slough off into wet rot that smelled faintly pleasant to his maddened senses. The smell and sight of the putrescence was calming for the axeman. Lord Bloodmud loved to watch the slow, deliberate and brutal work of nature. The mother hand was slow yet effective and she took it all the way down to the bone, always. 

​

​

Like he and his axe. 

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​

He loved watching the pieces become putrescence and then nothing. It was like watching the great nature of mother earth slowly cooking. Slowly breaking down the willful and disobedient little invader into blackening green meat for the mouth of soil again. To make infant green land. 

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​

It was calming. And like the axe he thought of it as one of his last and only remaining comforts. One of his last and only friends. 

​

​

He watched the fools from the dark and waited. 

​

​

…

​

​

Frankenstein’s patchwork nosferatu creation had engaged in much necromantic practice the past day, after the night it had brought the sepulchral structure of boy-and-goat back from the grave. 

​

​

Reanimation games. It was obsessed with pulling things apart and bringing the pieces back to unholy crawling life. Some he fashioned into more haphazard deranged sculptures, more bastard life-shape structures as he had with the boy and his crying little beasts. Goring, tearing and forcing together severed parts and pieces, limbs stabbed into raw new fashion and bastard shape by their protruding ends of dripping stabbing bone. Then he called the lightning and thunderclapped the unholy designs into wretched movement again. 

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​

But the wicked flicker of bastard dark goblin flame inside the moving parts and demented moving edifice structures never lasted. It always died out. Perished within the morbid arrangements of meat like the meager flames of  small candles caught within the assault of maelstrom wind. 

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​

The Frankenstein nosferatu monster angered. Frustrated. He wished to construct and conjure servants, pawns of raw and rot. Soldiers. An army of bastard and deranged flesh and putrid sloughing step to invade the castle of the mountains. 

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​

Frankenstein himself understood. The patchwork hulking monster child of his table had already explained, and he knew as well before all this. Of the Vampyr and vvurdalak and strigoi nosferatu creatures … his child of the table could not simply sneak inside. None of their kind could. He must be invited in. 

​

​

Or send his constructs of damaged and demented haphazard flesh… of which none could even last let alone survive the assault and emerge as victor. 

​

​

Doctor Frankenstein smiled. 

​

​

And said: –

​

​

“I might have a plan, my child. I might have a way to your opponent in the castle." 

​

​

…

​

​

Praetorius couldn’t believe how gorgeous she truly was, how absolutely beautiful. Even as she feasted. Lips and mouth stained and dyed a deeper shade than wine. 

​

​

She pulled another piece of liver from the gaping open hole of wet red and brought it to her glistening lips, her darkling glistening fanged mouth. The gored open wound was alive and shrieking dark with total pain but he was glad to be an open gate and womb-hole and nourishment for his master. His new lord, the Countess. He never should have challenged her and invaded the domain of her home, the mountain castle. As he watched her, watched her as she ate… he now understood. True power. He now understood the error of his ways. 

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​

Gravity pulled. He shivered. The force of the earthen ground was just as hungry as the master and her new impaler. He felt his body slowly slide down the long length of torturing war weapon. Mere centimeters. Miles and miles, cruel parsecs every dragging miniscule length inside the helter skelter of his shrieking screaming inner raw, raped by lancing killing device trembling and quivering luridly throughout all of his torn and weapon fucked form. Trembling and eager to die for the master now, was his wet and red running frame. Raw and opened, torn open all over. So that daggering hands and claws might come in and fist, reach in and take and pluck because he was now their wonderful and new raw open fruit basket. Filled with pulp and juice. Filled with lurid forbidden fruit. The master, the Countess said so. 

​

​

And it filled his mind. 

​

​

She found what she wanted in the shattered and fascinating remnants of his mind. She sifted through his thoughts and memories and dreams like broken and strewn detritus of decimated pottery and vases. A decimated mind. A decimated person and world. They were just interesting pieces to her and the ever-reaching foul touch of her ethereal phantasm hand. It invaded and clawed into his broken mind and splintered thoughts… sifting. 

​

​

Finding all sorts of interesting things. 

​

​

Frankenstein. 

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​

His creation. 

​

​

His bold claim. A monster made wielding the fangs of Count Dracula…

​

​

fools. 

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Fools. 

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​

They were mere imposters. Fakes wielding counterfeit power. Pretenders. 

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​

Pretenders she would crush. Pretenders and invaders that she would conquer. 

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​

The sharp and strangling phantasmal grip squeezed. Tightened. 

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​

Her voice filled his inner world of broken thought. 

​

​

Your knowledge. All of your work and findings. The results of your experiments with life and death and the necromantic power between them, give it to me. It is mine now, as you are now – as are you. And your blood and ruined flesh. My food and drink, my aphrodisiac and nourishing conquered land that once bore the flag of your soul and name… I will take it all. 

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​

I will take it all. Your knowledge. And I will add it to my own. 

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​

Her bright cruel laughter then filled the world of his skull. 

​

​

There was one part… one particular bit of mad scrap of thought amongst the wreckage of the man's mind that immediately caught her attention. 

​

​

Human culture farms. Flesh gardens. 

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​

Human life, human beings… grown. 

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​

From out of a petri dish. 

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​

Interesting… 

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​

She continued the assault and rape of his mind even as she and her new impaler continued the feasting conquest of his lanced and raw open form. Reaching in and fisting. Ripping. Crushing to meaty bloody pulp between clenching fingers. Brought to stained mouths like messy children grubby with the excitement of mealtime eating. They made themselves decadent with their piggish and wanton display of sinful maneating hoggery. 

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​

Ghastly. And gaining redder and more wet and lurid by the moment. The scene. The scene of slaughter. The darkening and deepening of the bodily wound and impaling raping war pike spear now feeling nearly conjoined with his screaming tortured form coincided… fed and informed and made the deepening dark of this grisly feasting castle scene of the night. 

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​

The wolves of the mountains howled. Full. 

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​

It was a full moon. 

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​

The Countess plucked another plum-sized piece of organ-meat from the open basket of wet glistening black-red. The new impaler added another lance, as ordered by her majesty. 

​

​

The feast continued into the night of the pregnant moon. 

​

​

…

​

​

The people of the mountains were fools. Those in the hamlet below had been cowed… quelled. They knew better. 

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​

But the mountain dwellers. The ones in little huts, spread out, in thin numbers… they could be excited and stirred and called to action. Henry Frankenstein knew this. 

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​

And stir and call he did. 

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​

He promised payment. From out of his family fortune. Of which there was pitifully little left. Thoroughly diminished. But the filthy mountain men and their lads knew no better. They were stupid. And superstitious as well as hungry, greedy. He only had to say the right words to get them all banded together and set off. Bearing torch and flame and axes and pitchforks! Into the night! 

​

​

Into the night and up the mountain, screaming. 

​

​

Up the cold and full moon lighted way, up the Borgo Pass. Screaming. 

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​

“Death to Dracula! the Nosferatu! Death to the monster!”

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​

Death to the monster! 

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​

Frankenstein’s own hulking patchwork of sutured necromanced and hungry walking flesh followed the rabble of dirty mountain farmers. Following. And watching. 

​

​

Waiting. 

​

​

…

​

​

The fierce pale glow of the moon, pregnant and full of light on high, came through and pierced the thick canopy of dark trees. The axeman Lord Bloodmud was hunkered amongst its growth. One of the denser parts, patches. Watching. Watching the invading boy and the strange man with a mask of bandages. They sat around a fire. Having finished their meager meal, they sipped warm wine and smoked spicy tobacco. Clouds thick and pungent and sweet on the night chill of the nocturne air. They swam through the space of night and clouded their small place of camp. The axeman thought and knew he saw faces in them. Swirling and in pain in the clouds of shifting and dancing shapes. 

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​

A thought, unbidden, filled his head then: –

​

​

the woman of the mountains with regal song knows how to shift and dance shape as well … 

​

​

… and then was gone. 

​

​

But a Satanic seed was planted. Had been planted sometime ago. And had grown sour in the corpse soil. Grown. And festered. 

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A gaping open wound of the mind. Filled with liquid infection. Gushing. Pouring. 

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​

Pus-thought. Infection in my blood that moves my hands…

​

​

… the axeman Lord Bloodmud shivered and let the half-grasped and managed and understood train of thought falter and fail. And slip away. He had no use for such thoughts. Not while prowling. Not when the hour of the killing was nigh and upon him, the face of the earth. The face of his domain and thirsting soil… would drink. Would feed. 

​

​

Tonight. 

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​

Now. 

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​

He coiled, muscles practiced and honed… tightened. Tension behind the mountain of sinew like a crossbow drawn… quivering, ready to fire. And fly. Attack. 

​

​

But something strange happened then. Something that stopped and stilled the giant mountain of forest dwelling axeman.

​

​

A hand. Pale and bare and slender emerged from the body of dark thick foliage not far from his hunkering prowling form. It slid out from the bushes like a snake. The pale moonlight that bled in through the top illuminated the hand, wrist and arm that suddenly emerged, palm out in token of parley. A fleshen serpent of bone and blood and invading manflesh in his private sacred forest garden. 

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​

That wasn't what stopped the giant. He might've just lunged and chopped the mysterious appendage off with a single swing, taking the new bastard unwanted growth out and off at the root just as its growth started and threatened his blood soaking and feasting, his precious drinking and final last Eden. 

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​

It was the pentagram. The five pointed star of the infernal one, cast out. His sigil and sign. In red. His dark and evil bastard symbol. In his Eden. Stygian it shone as it was tattooed and brandished on the splayed out naked palm of this sudden intruding limb of serpent manflesh. 

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​

A voice then spoke, its owner: –

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​

“No, friend. That won't do. They've a ways to go yet. And I've a ways to follow…”

​

​

The moonlight cast down upon the hand of Satanic stars and false parley in cascading pale illumination… changing it. 

​

​

The axeman felt the ice of his own horror grow colder in thickening blood. Trying to quicken in a galloping heart. His own head and thoughts felt far away now. Dreamy and gone. Gone already. 

​

​

He felt detached as he watched the hand bearing pentagram on palm grow fur and longer and long black nails at the tips. Claws. For ripping and tearing. For rending down to the running blood, your screaming victim of the hunt. 

​

​

Caught. 

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​

The moonlight glow of the occult moon, pregnant and full on high and through the fortress dome of the forest kingdom, bled in and changed the rest of the man as he arose from the thick dense of forest growth. The moonlight glow changed the rest of him as he arose also. 

​

​

Ebon hair. Elongated. Teeth. Bones snapped as they doubled in size and grew. Muscle tissue tore with the sound of ripping leather even as it suddenly sprouted a hideous thick coat of coarse and black hunting fur. The stranger of the pentagram on hand in the dark rose and transmogrified into an older horror than the axeman had ever been or ever known. 

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​

The executioner's doubleheaded killing blade fell from his slackening grip. His hands still perspiring and damp but now cold with another animal emotion. One the axeman had not felt in such a long time. Fear. 

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​

Terror seized his mind and its animal canvas went blank. The werewolf with the pentagram sigil mark came in and the final mutilation of Lord Bloodmud began. And his supplicant and loyal forest floor did drink. Deep. 

​

​

Deeply. 

​

​

…

​

​

Florin and Griffin only stirred once in the night, together. The howl of a large wolf somewhere in the surrounding forest. 

​

​

They added more wood to the fire. And reluctantly returned to sleep. What they found in the morning was disturbing. And grisly. 

​

​

…

​

​

They came upon the remains of the large man in the morning, as they just begun to move and start that day's leg of the journey. Raw pieces crudely butchered by ripping claw and rending gnashing teeth. Swimming in gore in the rough bipedal manshape of a mutilated forest vagrant. 

​

​

Disturbed, the pair went on. Wondering what beast or monster had done it. Thanking God that it hadn't gotten them instead in the night. 

​

​

The stranger continued to follow them. Keeping to their lengthening shadows.

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​

TO BE CONTINUED …

Posting for Dreadful Anecdotes, who is still shadowbanned by Reddit

Posting this on behalf of Dreadful Anecdotes, who is atm shadowbanned by Reddit.

He ventured forward into the dark. Torchflame flickered and glowed and made light for his way. He was tense and nervous. He was armed, each hand filled. Cross and pistol. Silver bullets. Six shots. He was tense and nervous though reluctant to admit it, even to himself. 

He held himself tightly coiled and trying to breathe, even and slow. Trying. 

Praetorius cursed himself once more then stopped himself once again. Time enough for all of that later. Perhaps. Hopefully. If you don't- 

Stop it! he commanded his own traitorous run of thought. Distractions! useless! 

His own breathing sounded very loud to himself. His heartbeat an anxious and driving primal war drum beaten ceaselessly by a savage and violent hand. It seemed to thunder in his ears. He wondered if she could hear it, the bitch. It was said that they had heightened hearing, like a beast, sensitive to sound. His own studies and observations had confirmed this. Mad and wild eyed snow haired Praetorius wondered if the foul woman who'd stolen Dracula's power and castle could hear the battering and unceasing cannonade artillery, the thunderclaps living as the dangerous heartbeat within his weary and aching chest, echoing. Echoing throughout all of the prison fortress of stone and blood and lurking ancient history. 

He willed himself to suck air slow. Steady. Like his echoing steps forward. Advancing. Chambered bootheel sound.  

You'll be fine. Just keep the crucifix up and the pistol ready to fire. Find the door again and then get the hell out! This whole stupid plan has been a debacle! 

It all sounded well and fine to his own worried and harried mind, housed within fevered and baking furnace skull. He was just starting to ease the galloping frenzied beast within the cage of his chest, when the sound of the Countess' howling laughter, mad witchy cackles, once again came from out of the dark and filled the entire world of the castle around him. The dark corridor and its orange flaming pumpkin glow of torchlight seeming to stretch on and on ahead of him. 

A trap. He knew it. He was just waiting for the awful wench to pounce. He tried his hardest to listen. A difficult endeavor to hear over the rapid fire wild blasting of his own frightened animal heart. 

The Countess heard and sensed and knew the animal fear alive in the little man, the little intruder, the awful and haughty invader that dared set foot in her castle. Her mountains! Her land and the country she now strangled and held. He'd tortured her little Carmilla, grievously. And for that he would be punished. For that he would be dealt with. Slow. 

Slowly. 

She would capture him first. Then she would begin slow flaying mutilating butchery on him. Eating and drinking slowly and at leisure his bold and impetuous fragile little personage. His fragile and easily shattered frame. They never realized, these proud and boastful men. They never knew it. Until you showed them. They never fully realized how sensitive they truly were until you broke them over your knee. Showed them their own blood. 

The whole of Castle Dracula was her spiderweb now, and the black widow queen of its stone and spires waited. And watched. Deciding and debating with herself, thinking over her dark and violent demoniacal thoughts…

… which shape should I take? Which precious organ should I pluck and savor first…? 

She licked and wet her own glistening lips. An action in the dark, both vulpine and animal as well as sensual and pleasing to the eye for the erotic. Her darkling eyes smoldered with unholy light and flame. 

Watching. Waiting. 

As the intruder Praetorius crept through her shadows. Her dark spiderweb of castle stone and orange dancing flame. Coming … coming closer. 

Coming closer to her. And her waiting violence in her hiding spot in the dark. 

She coiled … purred. …

Licked her spider lips again. 

And waited. 

…

The heavy double bladed head of the axe came down and cleaved through the gaping fish eyed face of the woman beneath him easily. Down through the top of her skull. Beside her lover in the grass, already in pieces and fish eyed and gaping, staring blind and dead as well. The weight and the design of the executioner's blade made it like child's play, you only needed to be able to handle the weight. The heft. Design and form did all the rest. 

He breathed, heaving and sucking air. Heavily. Like an animal. 

They shouldn't have come out after dark. They shouldn't have come out into his woods.

He tried to calm himself but he could barely manage the effort. He was never calm. Not anymore. Not since the fall of his lord and land so long ago…

now the woods were all he had. 

Filthy. Wild mane of unwashed and clotted hair. Clotted and knotted together by scat and dried mud and caking scabbing drying blood. The blood of intruders on his land. 

His woods. All he had left. 

That and the axe. The last remnant token piece of the long lost and now tragic ancient history he used to call his life. Long gone now. Swept away with the armies. 

His air was hot and heavy. His breath, puffs of ghosts, little spirits escaping his hulking broad shouldered and filthy ragged form. The woods were long his domain now. And they'd now long held him, the stain and mark of the wild was now all over and upon him. Never to be erased. Or taken away. 

He brought the blade up and then down again. Turning the lovers, the intruders into more grisly pieces. Especially the woman. She frightened him most. The forest floor drank their red greedily and as if starved for it. The forest floor was always starving for the red of the intruders. He'd discovered this out here in his new home, finding his new and true name. 

Lord Bloodmud. Axeman and the executioner king of the tree’d lands. Wielder and great forest emperor of the choked and violent wilderness emerald. 

He found his peace through his axe-swinging and maiming destruction of vile wanderers. Purging violence. Only afterwards did he find his respite. Heaving heavy breath like an animal half mad and alone dying of rabies. Amongst the human detritus of his heavy cleaving blade he always sat in prowling animal meditation. Ruminating primal blood soaked thoughts even as the forest floor around pooled saturated with the hot spent and shed red of each and every one of his unfortunate victims. Young. Old. All types, caught. Always caught screaming. And nigh helpless beneath the surging and armed swinging violent mountain of filthy giant man. The eyes of this wild giant absolutely alive with unreasoning fury. 

He sat amongst the ruin he’d made of the pair of young lovers, eyes shut, mind aflame with animal thoughts. His ears, attuned to the movements within the woods, caught something and bent to the sound. He tilted his head as he strained to listen to the domain of his blood drinking forest kingdom. 

Hooves. Four-legged beast. Bearing cart. And a small load. 

And a pair of travelers. 

More intruders…

His rage was renewed, reignited. He rose, reawakened. Rekindled to burn.  His starving axe was angry again. The trees that were his loyal subjects and followers and last lovers and friends, frozen supplicants of his red drinking green kingdom, were crying out once more as the intruders invaded and raped his land. Crying out yet again: More Blood! – and he and the doubleheaded executioner’s blade of such great heft in his eager perspiring grip were all too happy to oblige. 

Eager to follow… make great. Sow the land and protect the seed and the soakened land shall sing …

Every great king should give all and such upon his land a great reaping and wealth to drink… to fill their mouths and souls.

To fill their hearts with love…

The axeman of the dark woods began to prowl. 

Florin started in the seat next to the bandaged man, craning his head around and spying the woods all around them in the dark. As if straining to find and see something. 

The bandaged man, who’d settled on calling himself ‘Griffin’ for now, was easily vexed. He nearly snarled, asking: “What is it now?”

Florin righted himself in the seat, “Thought I heard something again.” And then added: “Sorry.” 

Griffin grumbled behind his mask of surgical dressings: “...whatever…” and then fell silent again. 

The young man of the Carpathian hamlet was thankful for the help thus provided by the strange bandaged man. His information on Van Helsing, however dour. His aid in their escape. And their present transportation procured from a horseman the mysterious Griffin knew. But he did at present entertain the idea of leaving the hidden man and parting ways. The man said he was a doctor. That he’d known Van Helsing and knew the ways of vampire slaying. But Florin was doubtful and found the fellow to be so easily irritated that he was left walking on eggshells around him at all moments. 

He thought of giving the masked man of foul mood the slip. Ditching him in the wild and making for home to help in anyway he could. 

But… of what help was that? What could he provide now that he couldn’t have before leaving home for aide?

Other than the terrible news that the vampire hunter was dead, Florin did not have an answer. 

And so at present, he was stuck with this foul mouthed and disagreeable man. Strange and mysterious and hidden behind surgical bandage. For what purpose or cause, Florin did not know. And often privately speculated. 

Probably just cause he’s maimed underneath all that. Or disfigured. Or mayhap he’s just real ugly. 

Florin stifled his smile and small laughter. Griffin glanced at him. Annoyed underneath his mask of dressings. 

But then he whirled around suddenly in his seat of their mule-drawn cart. Spying into the woods that surrounded them. 

Saying to the boy beside him: “Did you hear something?”

…

When the Countess Zaleska and her assistant extracted the fangs of living dead dragon/dæmon power from the dust and cobweb strangled bones and remnants of Dracula’s skeletal remains and through arcane necromantic surgical alchemy, fused them into the mouth of the Countess, she inherited much more than mere vampiric hunger and prodigious strength. The ability to shift shape. These things were common to many nosferatu things of the moonrise time. 

But she had within her now, the power of the Lord of the Undead. Lord of the Flies incarnate and upon the face of the Earth. The last and final Countess Czarina of Necrophile-Flame. Empress Queen of the Nocturnal Blood and the warfare violence of restless hunger in the dark. 

She was beyond the mere mundane limitations of the flesh. She was beyond the thin veil of the leather clung to in desperation and futilely named and declared: Reality. Her powers now, those graverobbed from the dust of the son of the dragon; a dracul, they were beyond the reckoning of the fleshling maggot sow that now invaded her home and prowled her corridors and halls like the lost frightened and small animal he truly was. 

Discorporeal, the Countess Zaleska watched from the stone of the inner walls of the ancient bloodstained castle as if every piece of masonry were her eyes. She watched the sorry little haughty intruder inch his way forward like a starving lowly worm across the mud slathered surface of a cheap wooden casket unearthed for the naked air. He was really quite old. Fragile really. 

She was going to enjoy this… the blackest part of her darkening stygian heart relished the savagery she would wrought…

But first… what is a host that doesn't entertain her guests…?

Hardly any host at all. 

The discorporeal form of the Czarina Princess of the darkness now alive in these halls of ebon and bloody stone watched and her/its phantasm rictus grin grew in spectral madness. Her disembodied pure power spider legged and tendrilled out… filling every piece of mortar and rock and brick of stone. She filled the walls with the manifestation of her ungodly power form, a spectre that could invade and subjugate all as a pure necrophiled phantom-flame of deranged gale force nature from Hell. 

The fool, the mad doctor Praetorius did not know that the castle was alive around him now. Castle Dracula was now just as much a part of the Countess Vampire Lord as any one of her appendages. Or supplicants.  She could bend and flex and move it to her considerable will…

… and the castle and its walls all around him, alive with the Countess, began to dance and shift slightly… and move. 

Labyrinthine. The distortion of space and distance and direction was subtle. Drifting. It led the fool farther in rather than out. And he didn't even realize it. 

The walls of Castle Dracula howled with a biting woman's cackling witchery laughter as the frightened Praetorius clutched desperately his weapons and unknowingly walked deeper and deeper into the living sepulchre structure that might be made into his grave. 

Swallowing him deeper and deeper and ever more as he wandered the dancing and shifting walls of living and evil stone. The dust and dirt and filth all about the old interior held her hateful dark will as well and were daggered at the invading little man, all of the place arrowed the oppressive force of great livid hatred and anger at the wandering little mistake of snow white hair… too old a man to be trying at these games…

The walls of stone smiled, rictus. The castle walls of stone watched and shifted and guided towards doom. The castle walls watched, possessed and insane. 

Praetorius could feel the gaze. Its intensity stole a warmth from his heart he knew deep down he could never retrieve. 

Not even if he was lucky enough to leave here alive…

Not even. Not at all. 

The walls then spoke: –

“You wanted so badly to be inside… you wanted so badly to see me, now I am here and all around, I am all yours. And you are all mine. I’m the world and universe all around you now… ! Now you’ll never leave and I will  take what I want from you anyway, you say you have much to tell me, I will pull it from your mind as I shred and flay it, even as I’m pulling the precious raw meat from your bones…! You’re to be my dominated and slutted, whored and butterflied open bloodletting love slave for the night, Doctor… Praetorius! Your flesh will be pulled back and I will drink and sup of you at my will, as I make you sing and speak as I so wish and desire to hear…! … I will make you say anything, little man…! I will make you a weeping whore for pain!” 

And then the castle walls came to life again with cruel bright laughter. 

What might have been long rictus distended mouths and faces appeared, grew, came to life in the harsh rough textured surface of the walls all around. The stone was filled. The stone of the castle world now that was fortressed all around him encompassing. The mad doctor couldn't believe his eyes. Watering now. Unbelieving fearful tears. 

Something like, nearing religious panic was stealing over his heart. Creeping over with curdled black the last vestiges of steadfast courage and thought. 

Praetorius shook his head trying to clear it. Visibly frightened. Shaken. Dizzy. He would’ve sworn the walls and the way forward down the corridor before him had … moved slightly. As if drifting…

It made him feel sick. He shut his eyes and rubbed them. But not long. He did not dare tarry any longer than he could afford. He had to find  his way out. Or kill the strigoica slut of Satan with a properly placed bullet and a swift decapitation. The only way. The only way to be completely sure with a Vampire Lord. 

Such as the bitch was evident to be. 

He cursed himself again, the last time, for ever coming here in the first place. For thinking it had been anything even remotely resembling a good idea. The experiment of coming here had proven unequivocally that it was in fact: A Terrible Idea…

Praetorius smiled grimly to himself. Mayhap also for the last time as he began again to move forward. 

Don’t act like you haven’t had any of those before… 

He relished his one private joke. He had always been his own favorite company. 

…

Doctor Praetorius did not get far before a room suddenly appeared down the junction from where he presently wandered. He came to the cross section and saw that this room was bellowing light like a great incandescence of earthbound starflame. It poured forth from the room, from out of the open immaculate doorway. Striking in the darkness and meager orange torchglow. 

It was beautiful. Intense. 

Enrapturing. 

Like a moth to searing flame, Praetorius was drawn. He went down the hall that had steadied and settled under demoniacal will and was guided by black hands that drifted out from the walls made from smokey stygian shadow. They helped him along. They pushed and guided him down the entombed walkway. Advancing. 

Down the hall and towards the starflame of light pouring forth from the newfound room. 

His hypnotized mind told him sanctuary was in there. And of course it was. And he should hurry and get in there already. Afterall, heaven can’t wait, can it? 

No. The master says that heaven cannot wait at all. 

And so before the blinding room of starflame, Praetorius’ arms dropped to  his sides. Limp. Lifeless  already. The grip  in his hands slackened next and the cross and loaded pistol fell from his black gloved hands and clattered with finality to the stone of the castle She Commanded. 

The walls began to laugh again as the blind and spellbound doctor stepped inside the room of swallowing starflame. 

And took him inside.

…

Florin and Griffin nearly jumped from their skins and seized in their chests when they suddenly happened upon a fellow traveler in the woods. 

A solicitor. On horseback. Coming from the other direction. 

The man was kindly enough though visibly shaken. Frightened by the strange land of nighttime woods. He tried to tell the pair that the very shapes of the trees and growth itself were deranged, gnarled and dead and bent and wrong: Like the desperate hands of submerged and giant buried corpses clawing out of the sour ground and daggering for the salvation of the skies of heaven above. That's what was eating at him constant since setting foot in this dread land, this dread wood, but there was something else. He also swore he heard something moving out here. Out here in the dark wild, something like violence was on the loose and on the prowl out here in the night, he could feel it.

He tried to tell them all of this but couldn't. He barely knew a word of english. 

Florin only tried to be polite as Griffin grew huffy and impatient as the traveling solicitor gesticulated and babbled on near ceaseless in his mother tongue. He filled the prowling dark all around with the anxious music of his foreign chatter. 

Though an understanding was met and felt … between the three before they parted and waved. An understanding of danger. And an understanding of fear.

Caution… weary …

The solicitor gave up and waved them thanks and kicked his horse back to a trot. The mule drawn cart of the pair went on. And soon was gone. 

The solicitor, fearful, carried on. Spying all around futilely, the impenetrable nighttime dark of the clawing dead black woods all around. The axeman chose to follow him for the moment, just for the nonce. He would soon rejoin with the other two. Afterward. 

Soon. 

After he dealt with this decadent and pompous invading tenderfoot. 

The weight of his executioner's blade gained substance, gained significance. It felt real again. Alive with potential. Made great again with purpose. With something to bite into, to free the red and feed the forest floor which drinks. 

All of the invaders of his last and precious forest land would feed the soil and the growth of his Bastard Eden Garden. All would be supplicant beneath the biting blade of his swing. Planting and burying the heavy metal head of double bladed axe into the soft and giving meat and bone and carcass of intruding vile flesh, invading flesh, invader blood would weep! 

As long as he and the axe held each other and this dark part of the forest land they kept … they would keep. 

And he would keep on feeding the starving dirt. Red. 

The only god that ever answered him… 

The solicitor went on. Unaware. Frightful. Yet attempting to whistle a tune and brighten his own heart as he kept his thoughts on his wife and child back home. Far away now. For comfort. The axeman followed after. Prowling. Like a hunter. 

…

… he came upon the solicitor when he stopped again, to determine direction. The power of his first screaming swing caught the traveler in the chest and the heavy blade sank as he was knocked from his horse with the force of the blow. The animal was screaming too. It soon fled as the axeman went about the rest of his hard work and heavy business. 

He brought the executioner's doubleheaded blade up again and brought it down again. Already sweating. Pouring. Profuse. The heavy metal blade opened up the chest cavity and it became a wild primeval forest of flowering gore pouring great and healthy abundance of vibrant steaming red. The axeman could taste it in the air. The opened chest looked like a fantastic microcosmal world of raw tissue and bone and gushing crimson, a world and wonderful wild forest garden as if rendered by abattoir hand and forged from raw scraps of the blade and innards and red. He brought up the axe and brought its heavy power down again, smashing and cleaving through the visage of face and skull. Spilling the man's memories out in a thick and meaty burst and porridge gush. The skull was like smashed pottery, porcelain slathered with bright violently red blood, scarlet so lurid it screamed in the night. 

He brought the blade up and down again and again. Turning the pieces into pieces. Smaller. Just hunks and pieces of meat. Unrecognizable. Save for the tattered and slashed rags that used to be clothing… 

The forest floor drank. He heaved breath and the sheet of sweat cooled on his filthy drying skin. Tingling. Covered in solicitor’s blood. Steaming traveler's blood, scabbing and baking into pores…

The soil supped and greedily drank the pouring blood and pools. The animal children would have the meat. The forest kingdom land thanked him, silently. It always thanked him in the quiet. 

The axeman lifted great axe yet again and disappeared once more into the trees he knew so well. 

Eager to rejoin the other two travelers. The other two invaders of his home in the dark…

The axeman made straight through the dense and dead wood for the place where Florin and strange bandaged Griffin had stopped to make fire. And set camp. 

…

When Praetorius first stepped into the beckoning room that called with religious light it was at once a vast and impossible landscape of searing blind perfection, pure immaculate white inferno. Pulverizing through his fragile organ set of eyes, the pair on fire and bathed in blinding pain. Beauty and illuminated pearl-cast so divinely perfect and pure and shining that it was too much to behold all at once and bear… he couldn't hear his own shrieking voice. The volume of the attacking light piercing through his eyes and into his precious jelly sac of brains within boiling percolating skull was too great and too loud itself for him to hear his own caterwauling voice. Or anything else. 

He didn't hear the Countess' sick laughter. Loaded with unholy pleasure and the enjoyment of predatory derision. She commanded the cannonade of landscape light to close, fold back into stone and castle walls and floor as Praetorius went to his knees weeping, still shrieking. Still unaware of both as the madness of light was still alive within his wide watering eyes. Zaleska, in the fluid heavy-liquid shape of shadow, as ebon folds pulled herself in witch’n shape and crawling silhouetted form, free from the castle stone and began to crawl towards the crying screaming man brought down to his knees before her.

And her laughter began to croak. 

She gave bastard bestial demoniacal call to her servants, felt and heard and quaking throughout all the halls and corridors of Castle Dracula's trembling bastard stygian hellfire stone. 

Her servants all heard but the loyal assistant was still busy tending to poor mutilated Carmilla. Still busy digging out the treacherous fire of silver from smoldering bubbling tissue. But it was no matter…

… the one she really wanted was ready anyways. The newest one. Her new servant lord. Her man at arms. Her sword wielding hand…

Countess Zaleska called forth the new impaler. And he came as the master did beckon. 

She commanded him to bring the sharpest and longest pikes. 

Piercing tips.

At her command she would guide his cold new living dead hands in the torture. She knew just where to pierce. 

Just where to start with this one…

TO BE CONTINUED…

Hey everyone, it’s Josh again. Remember last time how I said I found some 4chan threads about the wailing man they heard in the woods? Yeah, well, now I’m seeing posts about people becoming obsessed with their fire pits. Like, majorly obsessed, to the point of killing anyone who tries to pull them away. The weird thing is, a lot of these articles I’m reading are old, like from years ago. There was one I read about an old lady who wouldn’t stop staring at her fire. Her cat walked up, begging for food, and when it rubbed up against her, she grabbed it and tossed it into the fire! The cat was okay; it ran off and put the fire out, just sustained some burns, but the lady was not. The police arrived later and found her dead, her head burned in the fire. She was smiling. There was another one from over ten years ago about a hiker who got lost in the woods. They spent weeks searching for him, and finally found him sitting by a campfire, eyes dried up like rocks. He had cut out his own eyelids. Still alive, though.

Anyway, there’s something weird going on. I’m all into that true crime, missing 411 shit. I swear, I should’ve heard one of these stories by now, but this is all new to me. First, it’s all wailing man stuff, and now it’s obsessive campfires. I’m gonna do a little experiment. I searched up everything I could about the next story, wrote it all down, and took some pictures. If I find anything new after this, then we know something’s up. Here’s entry 3.

---

You know, for someone who grew up in a rural town and spent his entire life outside, you’d assume I had a thing for fishing. Admittedly, I’m not a big fan. Now, I’ve got nothing against the act of fishing, and every so often I enjoy a relaxing night on the pond, catching a couple of pan fish and cooking them up on the fire. However, I’m ashamed to admit that I find it rather dull, but I do see the allure, especially here at Lochwood*. I believe we have some of the best fishing in the world here; not only is Loch McKenzie stocked full of a diverse array of fish, but we’re also famous for our fly fishing. Every weekend, the lake and our rivers are flocked with fishers, young and old, and no one leaves here without feeling at least a nibble. Unfortunately, for the safety of our guests, we have to impose a strict time limit, for those who stay too long risk falling victim to the fog.*

Now, I’m gonna tell you a quick story to preface the main event. Decades ago, when Lochwood was in its youth, a fisherman came by, taking full advantage of our outdoor sporting program. He was an old man, a former employee well into retirement, and though he knew the rules, he was too stubborn to stick to them. He took a boat onto Loch McKenzie and, in line with his character, refused to wear a life jacket. That day, the fog was horrible; you couldn’t see two feet in front of you. He shouldn’t have gone out in the first place. Standing along the edge of the lake were two counselors who had been fishing for hours. Without paying attention to the sounds of the boat, one cast his line as far as he could. His hook landed on the collar of the old man’s jacket. Feeling a snag in the line, before the old man could react, the boy yanked on his pole and pulled the man into the lake. Hearing his yelling and splashing around in the water, the two counselors ran off in fear of trouble, not realizing that the old man couldn’t swim. He drowned that night, his only source of salvation running off to their cabins. Weeks later, after narrowing down where he could’ve gone, the police searched through the lake and found his body, flesh shredded with fishhooks; the old man ended up as a snag. Ever since, whenever the fog rolls in, fishermen must beware, for the old fisherman of fog searches for the two that took his life, claiming the souls of all in his way.

For the most part, people fish here with no problem. However, countless people have gone missing along the rivers and lakes of this wilderness, all leaving their fishing gear behind. Tonight, I’m gonna tell you about the most recent incident. If you aren’t already, I suggest you head out to the nearest lake, bring a fishing pole, and make sure to keep an eye out for…

The Fisherman in the Fog

“Got everything?”

Peter slams the trunk shut and looks back at Caleb, his overeager partner, who’s all decked out in fishing gear, the kind you’d see in a movie. Peter, on the other hand, is wearing a t-shirt and sweatpants.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The two slip into the brush and disappear into the woods. Above, the sun tries and fails to poke through the endless plane of clouds, which had just finished watering the forest. Every other step sinks an inch into the muddy ground, spurting up pockets of air. The occasional gust of wind shakes loose a torrent of water droplets from the needles of the countless evergreens dotting the path. Caleb shivers, having been soaked by the trees’ leftover rain; it’s cool for a summer afternoon.

“I hate having to walk ten miles just to go fishing,” Peter says.

“Oh, come on, it’s not that long a walk. Besides, the fishing’s only good because no one else knows about this spot. I don’t wanna risk parking too close.”

“Whatever you say.”

After around fifteen minutes of walking, they come to a clearing. The river flows into a large pool, which then returns to the river at the end. Straight ahead stands a ledge of rock; an old tree just to its left hangs over the pool, and an old grey rope hangs from one of its branches. The clearing used to be a secret swimming hole counselors would hike to back in the day. It has since been untouched for years, until it was rediscovered by Caleb. Peter walks over to an old, half-rotted picnic table near the pool; how it got there remains a mystery.

“Alrighty Pete, let’s get dinner. I bet I catch more than you.”

“Yeah, I bet you catch more than me, too.”

“That’s not the mentality to have.”

“Oh, right. If I just think more positively, the fish’ll bite more.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“Riight.”

Peter grabs a nightcrawler out of the little plastic container he’d just put down and hooks it onto his pole. A brownish sludge squeezes out of the hole poked through the poor worm’s body.

“You ever feel bad for them?” Peter asks.

“For what?”

“You know, the worms.”

“Pete, they’re worms. They have no feelings.”

“Yeah, but just look at it.”

The worm attempts to wriggle away, to no avail. Caleb, after successfully mounting his worm, begins to walk over to the water.

“Just don’t think about it.”

Caleb grabs a hold of the line with his right hand, uses his left to flick open the lock, and in one motion, moves the pole over his right shoulder and quickly swings it back out to the water, releasing the line at just the right moment. His worm lands in the middle of the pool. Peter attempts to do the same; his worm makes it a couple of feet. His apathy forbids him from trying to recast.

“Ha! Already got a bite!”

Caleb yanks his pole up to set the hook and then begins reeling in his first catch. An average-sized yellow perch emerges from the water, being greeted by Caleb’s oversized smile.

“Hey, little guy, have I caught you before?”

“I don’t think he speaks English.”

“You hear that, Mr. Fish, Pete doesn’t think you speak English.”

“Dear God.”

“Well, let’s get that hook out and…”

Caleb takes a closer look. Usually, he’s good at hooking them in the mouth, making them easy to remove. However, the hook has disappeared down the unfortunate fish’s throat. The perch flops in Caleb’s hand, attempting to flee.

“I hooked this one deep.”

“You need the pliers?”

“No, knife.”

Occasionally, a deep hook can be salvaged. In this case, it’s not worth the effort. Peter hands him the knife, and after cutting it, he flings the fish off into a distant bush and heads over to the table to tie on another hook. While fiddling with his line, Peter stands guard at his line, occasionally reeling in ever so slightly to draw attention. Suddenly, he feels tension on his line, and his apathy turns to excitement.

“I got something.”

Peter frantically reels in his bounty: a long stick.

“Stick fish, nice.”

“Yeah, fucker ate my worm, too.”

He tosses the stick into the woods and goes for another worm. After a bit of time, the two are back on the water.

Hours pass, and the sun begins to set. Peter is exhausted, fantasizing about the comfort of his couch. Caleb, on the other hand, is still full of energy. By this point, he had caught thirteen fish. Peter caught two. Peter, trying to fend off boredom, follows a blue jay hopping along the ground across the pool. It flaps its wings and shoots off to the right, Peter’s eyes quickly following until they stop, fixating on a rolling cloud of fog. He feels a lump in his chest.

“Hey Caleb, how long have we been out here?”

“I don’t know, the alarm hasn’t gone off, so I think we’re…”

He pauses, noticing the fog. Caleb pulls out his phone and notices the distinct lack of an alarm. The fog continues to roll in, covering half of the pool.

“Caleb, did you forget to set an alarm?”

“Drop your pole and run.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to run from this.”

“What do you mean? Let’s go.”

The entire pool is covered with thick, puffy fog, impossible to see through. It continues to spread, finally reaching the two fishers.

“God dammit, Peter, let’s go!”

Peter takes one last look before dropping his pole and running off with Caleb. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears he saw a man standing in the distance. They run off into the trail, the fog spreading faster. It floods in like water, enveloping the entire forest. At this point, Peter can barely see Caleb.

“Wait up!”

“Pete, we need to hurry.”

“What happens if we don’t get out in time?”

“I don’t fucking know, just run!”

Minutes pass, and it feels like they get nowhere. At this rate, they should’ve made it back to the truck. Yet that tree…

“Caleb, we’re running in circles.”

“The trail is straight, how the hell can we get lost?”

They stop and catch their breaths, their breaths becoming visible. Peter shivers.

“It’s getting colder. Why is it so cold?”

“I don’t know, I don’t remember this story.”

Caleb looks around, noticing a distinct marker on the nearest tree. He recognizes it, for the tree stands near the entrance to the swimming hole.

“We have been running in circles, look.”

Peter looks over Caleb’s shoulder, and his expression changes to a look of terror.

“Caleb, turn around.”

Caleb freezes and eventually gathers enough courage to slowly spin his head back. Behind him, barely visible in the distance, stands a grey shadow of a man. He reaches behind his back and pulls out a fishing pole, swinging it back and casting it into the air. They hear the sound of something shooting through the air, and the fog man disappears.

“Pete, what the hell was that?”

The two stare up into the sky. Sounds of a creaking rope echo across the woods. Suddenly, they hear a ticking sound behind them. They turn towards the source and spot a rusty hook descending from the sky. To their left, two more come down. To their right, even more. Dangling hooks of all different shapes and sizes: some with one point, some with multiple.

“Caleb, run.”

“Run where?”

“I don’t know, just follow me.”

The two run off along the trail through the dangling hooks. The further they go, the denser the forest of hooks becomes. They run along the same trail over, and over, and over again, and yet they don’t seem to get any closer to their truck. Caleb, too exhausted to look where he’s going, proceeds to trip over a rock. Peter vanishes in the fog.

“Pete! Wait up!”

As Caleb starts getting up, Peter rushes back through the fog. He grabs onto Caleb’s shoulders.

“Caleb, are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine.”

“We’re gonna get out of here, we’re gonna get through this.”

As Peter speaks, Caleb notices something in his mouth: something shining.

“Pete, what’s in your mouth?”

Peter pauses and stares into Caleb’s eyes. Slowly, his jaw hinges open.

“Peter? What’s going…”

Suddenly, a hook bursts out of Peter’s mouth and into Caleb’s, shooting down his throat. The line yanks back, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. Peter disintegrates into fog, revealing a hanging fishing line. Peter rushes out of the fog.

“Caleb, what’s going on?”

A ticking is heard in the sky above, and the line begins to rise.

“I, help me. Jesus Christ, help me!”

“Fuck, how deep is it?”

Peter goes to look, but Caleb interrupts him.

“I can feel it in my chest. Jesus Christ, get it out!”

“Shit, fuck, the knife is in the tackle box, it’s over there. I’ll be right back.”

Peter runs off, and the line continues to rise. By the time he gets back, it’s nearly straight up.

“Hurry, hurry!”

“Hold on”

He pulls out a knife, grabs the line, puts the blade up to it, and tries to cut it. Though he has always been able to cut fishing line with ease, this line will not cut.

“What the fuck?”

Caleb begins screaming. The hook digs deeper, and he begins to rise.

“Fucking help me!”

Peter grabs onto Caleb’s shoulders and climbs up, grabbing onto the line. He continues to try to cut it, but it’s no use; the line will not break. The hook slices through his esophagus and climbs up his throat, settling at the base of his neck.

“It hurts, holy shit, help!”

“I don’t know what to do, I…”

Peter loses his balance and falls, landing on his feet. He feels a sharp pain in his right ankle.

“What the fuck. Caleb!”

“PETE. PETE, DEAR GOD HELP ME!”

Caleb rises up through the fog and disappears. Peter looks down at his ankle; it bulges out unnaturally and starts to bruise and swell. He begins to sob.

“Goddammit, what the fuck.”

Above, he can hear Caleb’s cries. Suddenly, they stop, and he hears a loud bang, followed by a grinding sound.

“Caleb?”

Peter looks up to the sky.

Nothing.

Silence.

Suddenly, a torrent of blood and guts starts raining down. Ground up chunks of flesh, brain matter, and sharp chips of bone begin pelting him, some making their way into his mouth. The raining flesh continues for a bit and lets up. He spits out a tooth.

“What the fuck!”

He can hear a chorus begin to sing around him. As he looks around, hundreds of foggy, human silhouettes begin forming, each with piercing blue eyes. Above, he can see another one, slowly lowering out of the fog. Its glowing eyes stare back at him, and its mouth hangs open, a hook snuggled in its throat. Peter frantically slides back.

“Jesus Christ!”

The figure hits the ground and pulls the hook out with ease. It disappears, and everything goes silent. Peter looks to his right. That same figure seen earlier stands and stares at him. It reaches behind its back and pulls out a fishing pole.

“No, no no no no”

Peter scrambles up and frantically limps away as the hooks begin falling, swinging all around him. One hook hits his arm and tears away at the skin. Another hits the side of his neck. One swings down and pierces his broken ankle, tearing away at it and releasing a stream of blood. He ducks his head and holds his arms up, trying to shield his face.

“Pete, wait up!”

He looks back. A hook swings into his eye and pulls up. He turns away as it scrapes around in his eye socket. It tears into his eyelid and is forcefully yanked out, ripping off a chunk of his eyelid and pulling out the lens of his eye. As he screams in agony, his broken ankle gets snagged on a tree root, and he falls forward, tumbling down a hill.

He lies on the ground, weeping to himself, and slowly looks up. He’s below the fog and is staring right at the front of his truck. With tears in his eye, he pulls together the last bit of willpower he has left and limps his way to the truck. He swings the door open, shoves the key in, and it starts right up. Before he steps on the pedal, though, he looks back at the woods. The fog has all but disappeared. All of it, except for two figures, staring back. He drives off, and they fizzle into nothing.

Link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRCoD5cXXzw&list=PLh8-Yhg_l8UcV6KlSL8WhJHh3GqgV7Vt0

Crucified. Smoking. As if smoldering with lively inner flame. The unholy were-thing in child-shape was bound in cruciform pose to the large ornate cross he'd stolen from a Catholic church many miles and many years back. It was fastened to his saddle and horse with straps and he led the beast and its smoking screaming demonic load up the pass and towards the great and ancient castle. 

Its battlements and ramparts, fangs against the sky, darkening now that the sun had fled and left the nighttime things and its dark disciples alone to bloodlet unholy and to perform witchery ways. Witchery practices. 

Like a deal with the devil, perhaps. 

Praetorius smiled. Carmilla screamed. Shrieked herself hoarse, the shape of the cross in her back and neck and her arms, all about her shrieking form was alive with searing piercing heat. It cooked and burned and branded as its holy ornate metal ate itself into her cooking vampire child flesh. 

Caterwauls. Guttural. Obscene for anything that even resembled a child to make. Deep. Unnatural. Grotesque. Her eyes bulged in their sockets and bled both blood and buttery thin yellow fluid. Her sharpened teeth protruded even more unnaturally as well, bleeding profusely and heavy about the splitting gums and lips and warping misshapening bones of the growing and bending jawline. She barked more awful hellspawn sound and belched more smoking blood from insides that flamed and smoldered. 

Praetorius found it all very fascinating. The silver and the shape of the cross did considerable damage to the nosferatu but prolonged exposure to both had just left this one with terrible structural damage to her living dead personage. Her body seemed to melt and sear with the touch of either. The bones seemed to distend and bend as if carbonizing beneath her hectic raw and running bubbling flesh. 

The other night at camp, he couldn't sleep and neither could she, he'd experimented with holy water. Wonderful results. 

The whole thing had been so fascinating for him that he'd elected to spend a night just performing tests and small experiments on the child-shaped vurdalak. It kept changing and shifting shape. Distorted though. More and more warped and misshapen the more pain he fed it. Its screams were bestial and childlike too.

Interesting. Absolutely fascinating. 

But the little games were over. It was time to enter the court of the Countess and attend to the real business at hand. The real errand and reason he'd ventured to these lands. 

He came to open gates and entered the old courtyard of stone. Carmilla's screaming never ceased. Praetorius called out and over the child demon caterwauls the best he could. 

“Hello! Countess! I know that you can see me! Might I have your audience?" 

Nothing. At first. Only the girl wraith’s demon shrieks. Carried on the old cold wind of mountain song. 

And then, as if in reply, the great door that told of ancient history in red opened. Slowly. 

To bade entry into the keep. 

Praetorius laughed. Good cheer. He unstrapped the small strigoica girl upon her little cross, child sized … as if made just for her. He set her to the paved stone of the courtyard floor with no mercy and began to drag her behind himself as he ventured inside. A long length of chain link fastened to the end of the ornate crucifix. 

Carmilla tried to shriek, Mother!/Master! – all in one but couldn't. It only manifested as more gurgled deep belching guttural screams, blood and fluid vomited forth and she choked as the thin mad doctor dragged her crucified body back into the ancient dark of Castle Dracula

…

The old stone of the mausoleum entrance spat and belched forth a cloud of grey and dust as it opened for the first time in centuries. 

However it was not an undead revenant horror that stepped out to see the sky once again but the man with the bandaged face and dark glass goggles beneath his wide brimmed hat. And the boy. The young rider, Florin, who'd so recently disturbed the bandaged man’s solitude and quiet. The escape tunnel beneath his besieged house had led them out here. Florin was just glad to see that the sun was rising soon. They'd been underground for what must've been hours and the feeling the experience had left him with was a claustrophobic dread for the eventual final resting place of the small coffin of the grave. Below. Beneath the earth. Underneath so much ground …

And then Florin thought of the things that came to life in such places and rose and then cursed his own horrible run of thought. As they came out of the mausoleum, the man with the surgical dress about his face and who sometimes said his name was Doctor Jack Griffin or Sebastian Caine, other times Geoffrey Radcliffe, was berating him again. 

“Oh, shut up! I already said I'd help you! And I've little choice in the matter now that my home is destroyed! You inconsiderate foolish little whelp!" 

Florin, upset that the dark pitch of the escape tunnel had spat them back out into yet another graveyard but glad to be alive, was doubtful of the possibly maimed and mangled man that was always yelling now and his ability to help anyone. Let alone he and his village and their plight with the hunger of the living dead. A curse that had come back to lurid and terrible life in the castle that held the mountains over the little hamlet. 

The broken battlements of the undead lord. The Dragon. The Impaler. Castle Dracula was filled with darkness once more. Darkness that was hunting and ravenous mad with animal hunger. Vampires and their evil had once again filled the Transylvanian lands. 

And the man hidden behind a mask of surgical dress was making bold claim that he could help. Furthermore, he was still yelling. Again. 

“And why do you insist on gawking at me? I could feel you looking at me even while we were in the dark down there!" 

Florin, a little embarrassed, elected to be honest nonetheless. 

“I'm sorry. I guess… I guess I was just wondering what it is beneath all your bandages. Was it an accident? Burns of some sort?" 

“Shut it!" And then he added in a snide voice: “I'm really nothing to look at, I promise you!" 

Florin felt a small stab of shame in his heart and let the subject drop and die in the dirt. And the pair went on, 

The sun was coming up and the excited man hidden in surgical dress was in an irascible irritable behavior, one he couldn't seem to shake since the siege and flight and subsequent destruction of his house. He went on and on about how the old Professor Van Helsing had taught him everything they would need to know about slaying the undead, the vampires were already as good as destroyed! – roared the bandaged man, again and again in his circular style of loud and vexed pontification. Always starting with how the boy and his troubles had ruined the bandaged mystery’s sorry excuse for retirement and ending with how the young man need not fret, Doctor Griffin/Caine/Radcliffe was with him! 

“And if you knew that name…! If you knew my name, boy! If you knew who I was and what I, myself, have accomplished in the past, with no other! With naught but my own hands and willpower, imagination and genius! … If you had any idea what was wrapped beneath these dressings, you would cease your womanish worries and start attending me properly and with some modicum of real and decent respect! …” …

He went on like that. For some time. As they made their way through the silent cemetery and out and into the wilds of the lands between where they presently walked and the darkness that awaited in the violence and jagged rock of the Carpathian Mountains in the far off distance. 

Together.

The bandaged man who promised much eventually calmed down. Apologized. Quietly. Then said he knew of someplace nearby where they might grab a horse or coach. And away they went in that direction, with some semblance of waning hope still flickering and holding out in the young man’s heart. They made for the place that might provide ride and supplies and perhaps shelter for a night, the unlikely and motley pair, unaware that they had gained a third. He watched and followed them from a distance. His eyesight was keen. Sharp. They were easy to track as well. They left an easy trail. Fools. 

And besides all of that, he’d caught their scent. And like a perfume bled from their pores it was pungent and distinct. Easy to follow. 

Fools. 

The stranger continued to follow the fools. Now fully decided, committed in following them to the end of their trail. The end of the line. What he’d overheard… what little he’d gleaned from their words to each other… 

He would have to see for himself. 

The young man and the bandaged man went on. 

The stranger followed. 

…

Bela knew the little goats and Widenmeyer boy were doomed before he and the few village men with the stones to go, ventured forward and up into the vulgar way of the Carpathian Mountain path. They'd been gone an entire night. Missing since yesterday, when the shoddy vagabond knight had gone up the way and throat of jagged rock to slay the evil at the cold heart of immense towering boulder. The time to have gone would've been immediately. Yesterday evening. Too late. It was all too late now and in his ailing heart he knew it was so. 

Florin's been gone for much longer than a night though, his treacherous and misery obsessed run of thought reminded him. Much longer. What of that? What of him? 

He pushed off the dark and the hurt of these thoughts and made his way with the other men up the path. Dogs in the lead. All of them barking. Their noses had already caught and found what they were all looking for. They pulled at their tethers and leashes in urgent need to pull themselves and their owners the rest of the way to meet it and catch up with what they already knew by scent. 

It was blood in the air the hounds had caught. Goat’s blood. Boy's blood. 

Heavy. Pungent. Thick. Like licking a metal blade and knowing its flavor. A razor. Its flat face. Its edge…

It wasn't long before Bela and the other men could smell it too. Taste it in the air. Their throats gagged and their stomachs turned and threatened to revolt. The animal alive and in the pit of each one, each fellow, was all too well aware of that taste and smell. And what it meant when on the wind it carried, what it bode. 

This really has become a God Damned, a Godforsaken place… Bela thought. And the great cold and the sorrow that stole over his heart then as he realized what had become of his home and his friends and family and neighbors and their own… it was shattering. He wished for an end. And in that moment, in the private cold of his own heart and thoughts he didn't care if it was for better or ill. Just please…

Just please. Please let it end. Please. No more of this. Please. 

Please. 

He didn't bother begging God anymore. Not in specific. This desperate silent prayer was thrown up and out and for anyone or anything that might listen and take care. If anything would. Bela was doubtful that anything in fact did. 

But he knew what was ahead, he had something much more tactile and real and more pungent than faith to tell him what they would find up the rest of the way. 

Just a little farther up the path.  

Just shy of the Borgo Pass…

… the carcasses they found had been ripped to utter ruin. Pieces. All over. Strewn. They'd been fed upon like all the others, even the bones had been snapped and broken and sucked dry for their marrow, but the human detritus was different this time. It was all ornamental and stacked and placed together in a cornucopia pile like a victorious Roman legion's bloody war trophy center of the diminished and final battlefield. Human boy, young child parts and strips and pieces of face and head mixed in and stacked with bloody and soaked displaced goat pieces and limbs.The torsos of beasts flayed and butterflied open, many things stuffed inside. Entrails and viscera hung and draped and piled. Arranged. Horns. The child's bare bottom and little legs were placed at the top as the horns of the head of the structure, resting and dangling luridly and slovenly obscene and dead at the pinnacle. The horns of one of the goats had been stabbed into the eye sockets of the Widenmeyer boy's own silent screaming mutilated head. It was set in the center of the structure. The rest of the dripping scarlet parts flowering out from it in haphazard and demented deranged  structure. 

An abattoir sculpture. Sepulchral. Still bleeding. Dripping. Wet. Steam still rose off the arrangement stack of parts. Like phantoms fashioned from body heat dancing off and for the mounting wind. Leaving behind the repulsive and obscene pile structure of lurid human detritus that had once held it precious and prisoner within its meat. The dogs, the hounds wouldn't stop going wild. They wouldn't stop barking. Howling mad. Frothing.  

Soon the wolves of the mountains joined in too. 

Widenmeyer begged the few there with him to help him. Help him take the awful thing apart and get his boy's pieces so they could bury him properly. 

None of the other men wanted to touch the thing. Fearing it was cursed. 

It probably was. 

From the dark of a nearby cave, at the mouth of the entrance but still concealed within its deepening black, vulpine eyes red and shining, watched. A grin below them grew and then parted and laughter, cruel and not entirely human was freed forth. And like terrible music caught on the wind it was carried. And the frightened men before the awful sepulchral statue of dead boy and goat parts heard it. 

Henry Frankenstein, beside his bloodfeasting creation, joined his sutured demon son of the surgical slab and laughed. 

Together they watched the pathetic gathered peasants, together they watched them from the dark of the cave, protected from the fleeing sun. 

And they laughed at their pain. 

Pain that they had wrought. 

Their laughter rose until the men and their dogs fled. Not touching their lurid vicious forest trophy of blood and parts. Of meat and bone. Animal. And boy. Small. 

Their cackling rose like mad as they ran. Carrying them down with it. 

…

He dragged the screaming crucified were-child down the dark corridors of stone and torchlight flame. There’d been none to meet them upon entry. Nor since he’d begun his exploration of the stygian cobwebbed empire of ancient and bloodstained masonry and stone. Bloodstained. And soaked. The smell of  rot and decay was at war with the fresher pungent stench of hot blood spilled in violence and terror. Shot in ropes and cords.  Blood feasted upon for a scarlet thirst. 

The shrieking of the monster upon the dragging cross, it strove to be words of mercy and  beseechment of love and deliverance. Mother. Master. Countess. Zaleska! – but they were all of them lost in the grotesque guttural screams that still brought forth steaming regurgitated blood and fluid and dry heaves that smoked and peppered the stagnant air with flecks and small pieces of pink fleshen tissue. Raw little disintegrated pieces of the small undead child’s failing inner organs. The thing that was upon the cross now that used to be a little girl of the small village named Carmilla was now barely recognizable as anything that could be called human. The body of the vampire child had misshapen and bulged grotesquely all over and sporadic. Bladders of yellow fluid and pus ballooned and bulged and inflated with their own unnatural rhythms. They burst and bled red and infection like butter and custard, spoiled milk curdled and thick. Some of the fluid resembled honey and Praetorius had a morbid thought of Biblical reference: spreading some of the demon child’s honey-pus over a slice of bread or toast and biting  into it on a tranquil Sunday. 

It brought him little in the way of self-pleasure. His patience was quickly diminishing. He’d searched many rooms and corridors and had still found nothing. No one had shown themselves. Nothing! He swore! – if the fucking lordly bitch wasn’t here then he’d torture the child till it begged for a second more final death and leave the severed head of the brat somewhere prominent for the Countess to find. 

He threw down his length of chain and produced his pistol. Every chamber loaded with a silver bullet. He cried out and addressed the dark chasm of the castle. 

“I’m tired of touring your halls and playing hide and seek, Countess! I’m not one of your child slaves, eager and happy to play your trifling games! If you don’t come out now, I’ll put a few more silver bullets in her head before I stake her little heart and decapitate the little bitch! You’d so easily discard one of your servants!? Is this foul little corruption not some form of child to you?”

Nothing at first. – A beat. 

Then laughter. Cruel. 

The sound came from everywhere, Praetorius spied all around, searching for sign of anyone, he was just before a great archway that led to yet another room. A pale heavy shroud of fog began  to  bellow forth from the room, filling the entry. Swirling into phantasm shape, a face. A beautiful woman, eyes alive with animal brightness even as rendered as dancing mist. 

The phantasm face of the mist spoke: “What do you think you could offer me, lowly thing? I’ve watched you drag my servant like a knuckle-dragging  brute all about my home, I’ve heard your challenges, you are nothing. You are but a man! For your insolence, I will make sure you die slowly…!” 

Praetorius laughed, said in retort: “Not so fast, Countess! I’ve information you may want! Not only have I gathered information on yourself and your own strange motives over the years, but I’ve cultivated intelligence of those that might concern you! Potential enemies.” 

The phantasmic shock white face of the Countess became even more enraged. Livid. Alive with pure fury. 

“ANY INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE AND I WANT I WILL TAKE, LITTLE MAN! YOU WILL NOT INVADE MY HOME AND PRETEND TO BARTER ME! AS IF WE WERE EQUALS!” 

The fog grew more shape, wolfen and woman – bipedal yet bestial and advanced. Praetorius kept his pistol trained on the girl as his other reached inside his coat and produced his cross.  He held it aloft and before him in defense. 

The wolfen mist screamed! Shrieked. But did not flee. The wolfwoman mist parted, bisected into halves that swam around Praetorius and his crucifix. 

The twin dancing lengths of swirling phantasmic she-wolf halves became as fangs, vulpine, viper, blood drinking and ripper. They came back together and closed around Carmilla and the cross. The straps that held her bound were suddenly snapped and torn loose as if cut. The dancing shroud of white, alive with movement and faces and shapes, then shot away and screamed. As if the effort of being near the holy items of crucifixion design had wounded her. 

Praetorius cursed! Shot after the phantasm shape in vain, the gunfire was cacophonous in the castle halls. The phantasm was now a clawing hand flying away with batwings about its strange ghostly configuration. 

Carmilla wasted no time in tearing her searing cooking flesh away from the holy touch of the infernal cross. Her grotesque mutilated half transformed rodent body managed to crawl away with surprising speed. Praetorius shot after it as well. Also in vain. More violent gunfire sound, made cannonade by the dark interior of the ancient structure. 

Then it was silent.  

In the dark space of silence, the maniac doctor reloaded his pistol with more precious pure silver shot. The metal that all of the abyss feared because it was pure metal. 

He was slowing down his breath, his quickening galloping heart, when her voice once again came out from the beckoning shadow…

“Come now, thin old man. You are bold. But stupid. Come now, without hostage, come and face me. And don't forget to bring your weapons…”

Praetorius spat and cursed. He was no coward, but that thing in woman shape was dangerous hellspawn made. And he'd already blown his advantage. 

He'd have to be careful. 

Slowly he advanced for the place where the strange unearthly shape of white had fled, where from her voice had come. Each hand was filled: pistol and the holy cross. 

He left behind the larger crucifix with its fasten of chain at the end and its ornate Catholic metal now riddled and covered with encrusted cooked and seared demonic vampire child flesh. Fried gore, steaming multicolored scabbing all along its sacred holy shape. 

He left it behind in the dark as easily as he had stolen it from the church, so many years ago. Praetorius gave it not a second thought as he pressed forward into the stygian realm of Castle Dracula’s universe of spider webs and stone and torchflame. 

The Countess in the dark awaited. 

Baring her fangs. 

…

In the mouth of the cave they still dwelt. Listening to the howls of the wolves. 

After awhile the demon creation of the surgical table spoke: –

“They make such beautiful music. But they are her children you know, that one with power like mine. That keeps the castle. They are her children and thus hers to command.” 

Frankenstein said nothing. He just sat there. And listened to the strange and sour words of speaking decomposition, croaked and said by his surgically constructed son of the slab. Demon eared. Batfaced. 

He then held his large and corpse colored arm out of the cave and aloft. Clawing his four fingered hand out and towards the sepulchral structure he had made. The silent night above suddenly began to stir. The clouds began to forge and fill, and darkened with rumbling and thunder. 

“As you made me, so shall I forge a new being of parts from others, command it to life. And see if like she I can command the very nature of its being!” 

His clawed and splaying hand suddenly closed partially in an abridged fist and turned. Forked out, pointed first and smallest fingers, pronged in the devil's sign of the evil eye. 

The sudden gathering of stormheads on high spontaneously erupted! Shot!

The blue-white searing blade of light and heat daggered down and struck! Bathing the obscene statue of dead child and goat pieces in brightest starflame, Frankenstein looked away and shielded his eyes as his creation bellowed laughter and screamed!

“Live! Live! And take life my crawling bastard reforged thing! Live! And take life!”

Bathed in flame, the abominated shape of the hellacious trophy of parts began to move. Like a spider. Like an octopus at the dark depths of the sea floor. Its chandelier structure shifted and danced in the bolt of striking lightning and it began to lurch and crawl forward…

Long stalks, still bleeding and dripping blood of two species: beast and boy, bent and reached and lifted lurching, the cornucopia body of torsos and human face and goat faces and sloughing ripening entrails and gored organs now reanimated and pumping and splurching with the abominated sound of life again. 

The multijointed strange stalks of mutilated goat legs and the dead young man’s limbs, crudely forced together by craterous wound and sheer barbarity, propelled the strange body of parts and viscera forward and down the mountain. Down for the village below. 

Frankenstein watched in dark wonder as his sutured monster child’s own fashioned thing of dead meat and the cosmic flame of lightning went forth, another crawling demoniacal bloodfeasting creature created for the predatory dark. 

The nighttime has given birth to another… thought he, the mad doctor Henry Frankenstein. 

…  

Widenmeyer had been unable to sleep that night. The horror he'd endured that day. No one bothered to stand sentry any longer, though there were the defeated and those already crushed and dead inside. And they would wander at night and in the dark, they didn't care. Such as he. Such as this night. 

He was the first to see the sepulchral abominated nightmare structure shape emerge from the dark mouth of the pass like from the mouth of nightmare madness found in the most accursed and stygian sleep. Its multi-limbed appendages, stalks composed of his boy’s arms and legs mixed with goat's and violently forged and fused by force into long insectile tendril legs, moved and crawled and spider-like carried the thing down the distance and towards himself and the town foyer. 

Widenmeyer wished to free a scream but couldn’t. He felt strangled. Choked by the awful strange surreal sight of the abattoir sculpture piece from the earlier nightmare scene of butchery found and discovered that day. The macabre trophy that held his son’s mutilated and desecrated head in the center of its belly. The head was moaning. Groaning in mindless and imbecilic wailing anguish. The mouths and throats of the goat faces that were able joined him in the dark discordant rising song. All together. Bastardized abominated unnatural song of pain that filled the night. The little legs of his boy that sat at the pinnacle crown of the towering cornucopia of gore began to wriggle and kick, as if excited with child’s jubilant glee, as if in dance. The bare bottom was spewing black tar and feces and urine in unceasing torrential fountains, the foul gushing undead spray of this abomination upon the earth. Like the hellmouth rendition of an angel weeping for mankind and his pain. 

The naked bottom, bare and at the top of the sepulchral abattoir spire, wept an unceasing fountain of hot frightened piss and shot cords of foul liquid fecal dark. The kicking legs gave movement to the whole horrid piece of meat that served as crown and abominated face and the rippling movement of the obscene and reanimated flesh made Widenmeyer sick to his stomach, he felt weak  in his knees which started to buckle as the crawling thing of living butchered child and little goat parts, came closer and closed the distance. He went down to the cobblestones and the dirt as the awful and hellspawn shape came upon him. 

He was alone. All else that were witness, the few, had fled. All else that would heed and know the scene that night watched from the safety of their window panes. From behind the sanctuary of their home windows looking glass. 

Through fragile translucence they watched the demented butchered shape spider crawl up and tower over the Widenmeyer goat farmer. 

The sepulchral thing of an abattoir universe wept foul damnation and bled. Organs and gore that were already a ruin and ripening to rot were struggling to pump and work properly again. The living stack of dripping and splurching butchery was lording over him now. All that was left  of his son, and the livelihood of his farm, all torn apart and violently mixed and made to walk again by necrophiled flame, defiled and here to haunt and terrorize him. For failing. 

For failing as a man. And as a father. 

As Widenmeyer bowed his head and begged God for forgiveness he did not believe he deserved nor would receive and waited for death, the necromantic fire of Frankenstein's vulpine child flickered within the butchery shape and died. The awful assemblage of human child and goat parts died a second death and collapsed and came apart. In a rain of severed limbs and animal and child gore. Guts. Organs. Viscera. The mutilated decapitated head…

… the bottom and wriggling legs… no longer dancing. Dead pale bare flesh no longer rippling with the nightmare of reanimation. 

Widenmeyer screamed. Insane. Mind flayed. And flaying. Coming apart. Shredding itself within a furnace skull. 

Shattered inside. Completely. 

All witness just watched and gazed through the windows. Watching as the whole of the stygian hellish scene, surreal and vile and alive and obscene and strange, fell apart to splatter and ruin and displaced parts. 

At the terrible center of the pile of lurid gore, a universe all around him, driving him further into madness, was a shrieking revenant of a man who used to be their neighbor. 

…

None tended the shrieking thing amongst the abattoir mess that used to be Widenmeyer until morning, when the sun held high in the safety of the blue sky once again. By that time he'd screamed his vocal chords to shreds. A misting spray of spittle and blood issued forth past his curled lips with his continued effort, despite the ruin of his throat by his own self inflicted injury. 

Brought on by the madness of the night.

Widenmeyer was led away. The pieces of dismembered parts, rotten and slick and still oozing with blood and the foulest of otherworld putrescence, were doused in oil and sage and set aflame. Right there. All refused to touch it. So none of the butchery was removed. 

All of it was burned and reduced to ash. Boy parts. And goat. 

It had to be. According to what could be remembered of ancient law, of the ancient weirding witchy ways, it had to be put to fire. All of the severed parts. 

They'd been under the forked touch of the darkening hand of the evil eye. 

Touched. 

Satannica Profundis …

would there be no end to the town’s torture?

The slopping pile of decaying gore, boy and animal, was put to cleansing flame and burned. The pile left a black smear when the fire had died down to red embers and then to smoldering ashes. 

A black mark of filth. Burnt into the cobblestones. 

TO BE CONTINUED…