Friendship Letters
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on January 13, 2025
(( An off-season short horror story. I don't think I've ever posted this one, seeing that it's been sitting in my WIP folder for a while so.. Have at it! ))
A cold breeze rolls up the basement stairs as Zerathur stands by the doorway, dull blue eyes attempting to pierce the darkness. The whole house is silent as if holding its breath in anticipation, there is not a single creek from the wooden boards as he carefully treads closer to the abyss. Dread grasps at his heart, horror gnaws at his mind, an unseen hunger grins as it consumes his resolve.
The smell is the first thing to hit him as he reaches the bottom of the steps. Sweet, repulsive, rotten; The smell of death and decay, so potent that it fills the mouth with the taste of maggots. He grabs onto the cold metal handle and prepares himself before swinging the door open, but no preparation could ever help against a miasma thus strong. His eyes water and with his free hand he attempts to cover his mouth, but that does little to help.
With a twist of thought he conjures a cantrip, and for a second an orb of pale light flickers into existence. And during that one second, the very image of hell came to light. Walls painted in dry blood and feaces, debris of broken furniture scattered in a destructive display of force, the floor is carpeted with remains. Festering flesh and exposed bones, animal skulls stare at his soul, and so does the pale mass of limbs that scurries away from his field of view.
And then, there is darkness. The magical orb of light goes out with a loud puff, dispelled as his concentration falters. The visage is gone, replaced with the sound of naked feet treading over bone and stone. He can feel its eyes upon him, its warm and humid breath next to his head, the dripping of its saliva upon his shoulder. It tests him, it invites him to an embrace that would see him join the bones as a brand new effigy.
He throws forward the large plastic bag he's been holding onto, it hits the floor with a meaty "shlck". The creature instantly leaves his side and attacks the sack with voracity, gouging itself in the contents amidst gargled moans of pain and pleasure. Zerathur steps back and closes the door once more, climbing the stairs back up. With each step, its screams of adoration and dark desires grow ever fainter.
Back atop, he rests his back against the doorframe and stares at what is left of the carcass of an old lady. She had been carefully laid atop his dining table, a large meat cleaver still stuck to her one remaining leg. There is still enough of her for at least a week. He looks down upon his blood-drenched clothes and his tainted hands and takes in a deep breath before letting it flow back out. She deserved a faster death than that which the creature below would give her.
"Good night, dear." Are the words he manages to mumble out after once again locking the upper door to his basement, a hand gently resting against it.
Post in: Lore
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