I struck a final, dramatic note on the fiddle—and the walls answered.
With a hiss and a thud, a hidden mechanism sprang to life. A massive blade dropped from the ceiling, slicing down with murderous certainty.
"GAH!" My reflexes snapped awake. On instinct, I raised the fiddle like a shield.
The blade struck.
CRACK.
The impact shattered the fiddle in my grip, splinters bursting like wooden shrapnel. I staggered back—unharmed.
Physically, at least.
Emotionally?
Obliterated.
I stared at the remains of my beloved instrument. My arms hung limp, fingers twitching in hopeless denial—yearning to rewind time, to undo what had just happened.
"…"
Silence swallowed the chapel. Dust drifted through still air. My entire body locked, frozen mid-collapse. For a heartbeat, it felt as if the whole world had ended with that final note. My song silenced. My soul, crushed.
Ronette approached cautiously, as though a wrong step might shatter me further. "Louis? Are you... alright?"
Slowly—mechanically—I turned toward him, eyes wide and empty. "My love… it's gone. Broken. Shattered. Ripped to pieces."
And with the unhurried grace of a tragedy in motion, I sank to my knees, crumpling until my cheek met cold stone. The void welcomed me in its quiet, merciless embrace.
Ronette sank down beside me, words catching uselessly in his throat. The ruin held its breath around us: ancient traps, forgotten relics, and now the quiet death of an instrument.
Time passed. A minute. A heartbeat. Or a century. Then, when the silence threatened to turn eternal—a sound rose.
A hum.
Faint. Unearthly. Just there enough to prickle the back of the neck.
Ronette startled, hands shaking my shoulder. "Did you hear that, Louis?"
My answer dripped as flatly as falling ash. "I do. The sound of emptiness."
SMACK.
Pain exploded across my cheek. My head whipped to the side, jaw slack. "You slapped me!"
Ronette glared, breath still ragged. "Not that! The humming, Louis! There's someone humming! Listen!"
His hand hovered, ready to strike again.
"Okay, okay! I'm listening!" I flinched, scooting back as he lowered his palm.
He pointed into the dark, and I strained my ears.
There it was: a slow, melodic hum, floating up from the unseen depths below. Ghostly. Beckoning.
My eyes sparked back to life. "Ooooh! I have to find out who—or what—that is!"
Grief dissolved like mist in morning sun, replaced by a curiosity that burned wild and impatient.
Ronette sighed, shoulders drooping in quiet surrender. 'I don't know if I should be relieved Louis's not crying anymore… or terrified she's about to get us both killed.'
He stared down at his boots a moment, gathering the last of his resolve. Quietly, he mourned his common sense.
I skipped ahead, glancing back when I realized he wasn't following. "What's wrong, Ronette? Let's go!"
He looked up, resigned. "Oh, nothing. Wait up!"
And so, together, we ventured deeper—chasing the hum, chasing answers, stepping straight into the jaws of something we hadn't yet named.
The deeper we went, the heavier the air became. A coppery tang clung to the stone—thick, metallic, unmistakable.
"I think we're almost there," I murmured, nose wrinkling at the iron scent.
"Yup." Ronette's voice was low, wary. "The blood smell is getting stronger with every step."
"And so is that eerie sound," I added. The hum had shifted—no longer gentle. Now it throbbed, slow and sorrowful, as if someone was singing to the dead.
The passage ended at a stairway spiraling down into deeper shadow.
"A stairway?" I arched an eyebrow. "Again?"
But Ronette wasn't looking at the steps. His gaze had dropped. "The ground's different here."
I followed his eyes. The stone beneath us had darkened—almost black, porous, as if stained by something old and stubborn. It didn't reflect the light. It swallowed it.
Then Ronette's hand latched onto my arm. "What do we do, Louis?"
I flashed a grin that was equal parts bravado and recklessness. "Isn't it obvious? We go down."
Before he could object, I tugged him toward the stairs.
Ronette exhaled the sigh of someone who knew this was how stories ended badly. "Why did I even ask…"
At the stair's mouth, I snatched a torch from the wall. With a practiced flick, it caught flame. Shadows stretched and danced down the spiraling steps.
Torch in hand, heart beating wild, I stepped into the unknown—Ronette close behind.
The stairwell felt endless—carved stone giving way to earth, walls slick with age. The air thickened, soured, until breathing itself felt wrong.
Our boots squelched into damp soil at the bottom. The torchlight flickered wildly, throwing trembling halos on walls veined with dark, pulsing patterns.
Then… the chanting began.
Low. Slow. Rhythmic. A guttural hum that crawled along the spine and coiled at the base of the skull. Ronette stiffened beside me, breath caught, eyes wide.
We crept through a corridor that felt alive, every step sinking us deeper into something ancient. And then, without warning, the tunnel yawned open into a vast chamber.
And there they were.
The Red Robes.
A dozen, maybe more. Faceless beneath heavy crimson hoods, they swayed around a raised stone altar. Their robes crawled with sigils that writhed if you tried to look too long—marks that made your mind itch.
Cold red fire lit the chamber. No smoke rose. Only the rank scent of blood and rot.
Suspended above the altar by black iron chains hung a corpse—or what remained of one. Its limbs twisted into obscene symbols, skin stretched until it nearly tore. Blood didn't drip. It spiraled upward, slow and deliberate, into a vessel hanging in the air like a black, pulsing heart.
Ronette's grip tightened on my arm until I pinched him back before he fainted.
Then, as if on cue, one Red Robe raised a blade.
Not iron. Not steel. Obsidian, jagged as a nightmare, edges drinking the firelight.
The chant swelled—not music, but a sound dredged up from a place older than the song. A droning, hungry hymn that scraped at the bones.
No melody. No harmony. Just raw, crawling sound. Voices too high or too low, twisting between shrieks and whispers, echoing from mouths unseen—or perhaps too many mouths. Some hissed like insects, others howled like wind through graves.
The words themselves weren't ours. Wet syllables clashed with bone-snapping consonants, stringing curses into something alive.
Their bodies moved in ritual: step, turn, bow, lift. A dance older than memory, bound to the pulsing of the black vessel. The blood rose faster, spinning into a vortex.
And behind it, barely audible—
The Hymn of Crimson Return
(sung in low, droning harmony, echoed by the cavern walls)
"Varn-ekh tal'Varkhail,
Kael mor'eth din thaar.
Sennakor, vaash'tel renn,
Ulthak varra, ulthak saar…"
"Blood be bound to Varkhail's name,
Open wide the thirsting star.
From the deep, your children sing,
Rise again, as is, as are…"
"Esh-ka mora, dosh vellek,
Ruun da-threk, na'thel maruun.
Lassh'un vekh, dor'mor ek,
Shaal krev Varkhail!"
"Shadow spills, the flesh undone,
We give the gate, we break the seal.
By the lightless eye, by the broken sun,
Come forth, O Varkhail!"
As the final lines faded, the chamber trembled. Stone groaned. Dust sifted from above. And then—a voice, deep as earth and cold as grave soil, whispered through the air.
Ronette's panic cracked into words. "Wh-What's going on? L-Louis?"
I shot him a serene, foolishly casual smile. "Let's just hope the ground doesn't collapse."
As if insulted—or amused—the floor beneath us shuddered, cracked…
…and gave way.
We fell. Dust, rock, and terror tumbled with us. Air turned to stone, stone to blur, and breath to a silent scream.
I slammed into the floor hard enough to see sparks, stray rocks pinning me for a heartbeat. I shoved them off, chest heaving.
When my eyes cleared, they locked onto a dozen hooded figures—The Crimson Choir—now staring directly at us.
Motionless. Soundless. Like statues carved from dread.
Slowly, I raised a hand, voice light as brittle glass. "...Hi?"
They didn't react. Didn't breathe. Didn't even flinch.
"…Need some company…?" I offered weakly.
BWARGHHHH!
A shriek exploded behind me. Ronette shot upright like a corpse yanked by a puppeteer, eyes squeezed shut, arms thrown wide.
"We're dead!" he howled, voice cracking. "Oh, Louis! She must be so disappointed she didn't get to write a song for the townsfolk! Oh! It's all my fault! I should have been more vigilant! Oh! Louis!"
"I don't blame you, Ronette," I muttered, breath still ragged.
"I can even hear her now…" he sobbed, voice wobbling. "Her voice! So vivid… Oh, Louis…"
"We're alive, Ronette."
"She lies even in the afterlife!" he wailed, burying his face in his hands. "I only bring hassle!"
Something in me finally snapped. I snatched up a loose stone and hurled it at his head. "Open those eyes before I pluck them out!"
His eyes flew open, blinking in shock. Recognition dawned—and in a heartbeat, he lunged forward, wrapping me in a crushing hug. "Oh, Louis! I'm sorry for killing you!"
I sagged against him, arms dangling like useless cloth. "Sorry for dragging you into this..." I sighed, patting his back with the weariness of a parent comforting a melodramatic child.
Behind us, the Crimson Choir still hadn't moved.
Still staring.
Unblinking.
Waiting.