“Halt!” an archer called out. He aimed his crossbow from high atop the massive, front castle wall.
Several other archers strung back their bows, while lining next to each other’s side. Some archers aimed arrows from bows, and other bolts from crossbows. Still, Revekka calmly walked upon the dusty road and neared the stone bridge, which converged to cover the jagged gully. She stopped and gazed up at the battalion of archers, yet without a single word, she continued toward the castle’s main gate.
“I said halt!”
The commanding archers prepared to fire.
“No, wait!” a male voice shouted from inside the castle walls. “Put your arrows down.” The rigid man wore a long, black trench coat over black pants and a black shirt. “Revekka, is that you?” he asked hesitantly. His shoulders squared broadly, he physically pushed the archer’s weapons down and off to the side as he rushed along the thin, high wall causeway.
She nodded. “It is, Maximillian.”
“I need proof,” Maximillian shouted back.
“Here.” Revekka reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a scroll.
“Open it.”
“What? Here?” Stunned, she asked, “Are you crazy?” Revekka looked back toward the murky woodlands.
“Yes!” Maximillian cupped his hands around his mouth. “These are strange times. If it’s real, I’ll know you’re who you say you are.”
Revekka untied and unraveled the scroll. Her eyes full of wonder, it glowed, lighting her face like the sun. She then flipped the scroll around for the dozens on the castle wall walkway to see. “It’s amazing! Even like this, it’s still amazing,” she exclaimed. Revekka then pulled the amulet Acuumyn had given her at the ruins and held it up in the air as well. The amulet coin too changed, as did the Sphere Atlas moments earlier. Instead of strange markings etched along the coin, a picture of two equally balanced scales appeared. “The Reckoning is imminent,” she yelled.
“Go ahead!” Maximillian waved the archers past him. “Quickly now!” He upturned his trench coat collar over his neck. Atop the castle walls, the archers ran past him along the inner walkway at his command. “Open the gate quickly and let her in!”
Throughout the four corners of the globe, whether crowded cities, rural country towns, mountain top villages, or vacation island getaways, each night the Dwellers hunted with purpose.
The Dwellers slaughtered excitedly. Their derangement was without equal. They killed indiscriminately and were not bound by moral intellect. As hostile beasts of prey, the Dwellers murdered in sprees. Their blood thirst knew no bounds.
Like apparitions and phantoms, the Dwellers pulled people out of large, populated groups without so much as a sound.
Nocturnal creatures, they shuddered and renounced the light of day. They were the greatest, unknown harmful threat to the welfare of people everywhere. The rich, the poor, the famous, the infamous, it mattered not if it was man, woman, or child, the Dwellers took them all, but not all shared the same fate.
Through a single aperture along the coast of California, they were set upon an unsuspecting modern world, to eat, consume the appearance of, or gather new Dwellers from among the population of humanity.
No target was unobtainable.
The Dwellers snatched one walking on a city street as quickly as one sleeping comfortably in their bed. They took those fast asleep or wide-awake at all hours of the night, every night. Two things were sure, the Dwellers always hit their target, and the ones they marked, were never seen again.
Underground, in a maze of subterranean passageways bathed in darkness, Malum, with his bony, knuckle bent hands, held a lone wax candle, its flame wavering as the deep passageways seemed to inhale and exhale with a single breath.
A strong rush of air bellowed up and down the underground corridors. Farther, Malum walked through the restricted backend of his concealed kingdom, until he reached a large chamber with many random noises of gurgling, mumbles, and snorts.
A flash of the wick, and the candle revealed a sight of malformed, vile, decay, inspiring heaves in wretched intestinal pulls for the good and sane, yet it was a very pleasing thing of brilliance to Malum. Rotting flesh, putrid stench, with gruesome parts of mutilated bodies, culminated in monstrous, barbed profiles.
Huddled in clumsy groups, ambling in what appeared to be sleep, the Dwellers bumped off walls and into each other. They were slow-motion drifters without purpose, not rousing, not really sleeping, but unconsciously waiting for the sun to make its nightly retreat.
For as the sun set upon the world, the Dwellers rose from their state of inactivity. They hunted to kill, and to make many more in their image, longing lastly to take the image of humans, so that once again, for a short while, they could feel the warmth of the daystar upon stolen skin, which in their present form, the sun would liquefy the Dwellers in a matter of seconds.
Their dreams were a collection of confusing images. Too many to sort through evenly, they were more than just their own thoughts. Dwellers saw memories in random nightly terrors during their daytime drifting. The images collaged in a medley of bits and pieces from all whom they pilfered the souls of in times since past. No longer could they distinguish between who they were and what they are. However, they clung to a thousand thoughts, which overloaded and wiped their minds each day. This forged less of what was known before, causing the Dweller to accept a new reality. Subconsciously besieged and disturbed, Dwellers always desirous to morph with chaotic pleasure, lived for the hunt, joyously causing death to gain another life for themselves. They took solace that anyone else in their position would do the same thing to live.
What was a life worth after all? Humans slaughtered humans routinely. The Dwellers had a purpose for killing. It was nature. It was survival. Humans justified their murders, the Dwellers did not. Humans maintained the moral high ground when taking a life, and they also cornered the market on delusion. Dwellers knew what each human life was worth, and they were all worth the same.
A deep, crashing voice stirred from the tightly hollowed, murky passageways. “Rise, my children!” Malum waved his candle, the single flame whooshing through the air. “The day is over. The night is here, and so is your time to hunt.” He extolled them. “Make yourselves many. Feast on all you choose, but grow your numbers and become a great army. Destroy those who dare stand against you.” Malum’s face red, his throat gurgled, his words pronounced bitterly in a strict manner. “I said RISE!”
The Dwellers halted their mindless, jarring movements. Their backs arched forward and curved frontward with spiny vertebra spiked down the middle of two inverted, dislodged scapula. Their necks hung, bobbling on a swivel. Closed eyelids abruptly jetted open, with instant pull as if by a string, they released their black, reflective saucers, which were departed and ravenous, with a distant, lifeless reflection of the living world.
The air was musty and foul. It permeated even into the dirt walls. The ground crammed with roaches, maggots, and every sort of crawling, slinking critter from the backend of spider legs, which rapidly hastened from the light, to things with tails, their tips disappearing into holes along the three boxed, room wall.
Fwip, fwip. Some of the Dwellers shook like wet dogs, and each time swarms of eight legged insects dropped off their bodies. As the Dwellers gradually roused, stiff jaws snapped from side to side and up and down. Necks twirled around, and joints bent in directions they should not.
With a hive mentality, what was once merely a dozen or so Dwellers, now filled a large burrow from end to end, and close to a hundred, it seemed, all connecting on a level only understood by others of their kind.
A Dweller urged the others. “It is time to hunt, time to hunt.”
“Yes,” Malum proudly said. “I am sending you in groups of threes to many different parts of the world.”
The Dwellers’ black eyes, now affixed on Malum, perfectly
reflected his image, along with the rickety glow from his candle. Their oversized, black saucers were a gateway window of murky intent, yet zealously occupied in a hungry resolve.
“We are growing stronger.” Another Dweller flipped his long talons outward and flexed his arms and shoulders.
The once emaciated Dwellers had become bulky in size and weight. Exposed ribs and skeletal joints were now covered with beefy mass and brawny, lean, hard cuts of mighty strength.
“Yes, Slash,” an unconcerned Malum retorted. “That is why you…” He disregarded Slash, pointing at other Dwellers instead. “Recur, Killian, and Snare, you are my first generals.” Malum shook his finger at each one of them. “You will appoint the packs of three, and in return, they will report to you, and you will report directly to me.” He placed his finger to his chest.
Snare howled. “Then the hunt is on!”
“We will serve you…For now,” Slash muttered.
“It is an honor, an honor,” Recur added.
Killian just shook his head in slack agreement as he reached for M’s hand. “Come, it is time to learn.”
The Dwellers began to march from the large burrow, but Malum had not finished.
“Know this, Dwellers.” Malum raised his nose and chin into the air. “Do not fail me. For the penalty of failure is not what is promised you, which is your humanity, but a fate worse than death, and then, I will let you die. And even then, it will not be a release, but it will be torturous with an agony that you, even in your debased state, cannot imagine.” Malum straightened his arm and pointed to multiple small apertures, each swirling with haze, lightning, and churning colors. “Now go!” he shouted an imposing boom.
In packs of three, the Dwellers jogged on all fours. “Aroo!” They yowled like baboons and galloped as hyenas. Wearing only a loincloth, they had neither shoes, nor shirts, or clothing of any other kind, but their skin was dense and resilient. With a sort of supreme confidence, they traveled the apertures to their nightly hunting grounds.
Under cover of darkness, the unreasoning Dwellers prowled. Obsessively lurking about, their hunger grew harsh along with rumbling gastric pains to fill such needs.
The fear of daylight fueled a simple desire to be human again, and walking in the sun’s warmth without threat of bursting into blisters, boils, and blazes, appeared an impossible dream. Yet of all these, the black tar, a sick blood that made them sicker, they longed for above all else. Its copious, dark, molasses like sludge, made decay feel like life at times. The black tar gave them superhuman speed, strength, and extra senses, yet cursed the Dwellers with a kind of rotting immortality.
The Dwellers were closer to death than life. With an undying appetite, night was their day. Insanely unpredictable, they consumed humans in order to temporarily morph, taking the shape of their victim as a reward.
Dwellers craved their portion of humanity once again, but it was forever aloof, just out of reach, close, yet distant. Each night they hunted and multiplied, eyeing those humans who already fit a mentally corruptible inclination for the black tar to take hold, thus becoming a Dweller without the chance of systemic, bodily rejection.
There was only one thing they wanted more than their humanity, and that was doses of black tar, which Malum provided from his apothecary in sealed, glass ampules.
The black tar tormented their souls, mutilated their spirits, and corroded everything else, leaving only an aberrant presence of what used to be. The intense pain caused by partaking of the oily goo, was well worth the short-lived spurts of euphoria, the next never as good as the last, but like the hunt, it was the only thing worthy of chase in an everlasting death without an apparent end.
In the dark corners of rooms, behind doors, and misshapen shadows inside closets, the Dwellers waited and watched. When the time was right, they pulled bodies from warm beds, creaking out windows with their captured prey. The Dwellers were bold, believing no one was beyond their reach.
The windows in an old farmhouse flared like signals in the rural, countryside night. Each light glowed brightly with life, but the barn was in the dark portion of the property, and at some distance away from the farmhouse.
The air murky and chilled, and as the wind swirled, it was a night neither fit for man nor beast. Tlot-tlot. The horses clipped and clopped their hooves inside the barn stalls. Neigh! The horses were spooked.
Hearing the ruckus, the farmer begrudgingly left his warm fireplace and loving wife, grabbing his shotgun. “It better not be those damn coyotes again,” the farmer said to his wife.
Upset, the farmer made an unexpected, late night trip out to the barn. A gust of wind blew his hat from off his head. The large red door to the barn flew open on its own as he approached.
The farmer peeked inside.
Hay rustled in bunches above the stalls. The farmer scanned the commotion, shining his kerosene lantern, while hooking his shotgun in his elbow’s crook. Click, clack. Click, clack. Animal paws ran around above. The farmer shooed the wild animal off. Uneasily he peered over at his horses. The farmer had never seen them startled like this before, so slowly he began loading his shotgun.
The farmer stepped inside the barn. “Go on. Get outta here!” he demanded in a loud manner, shaking his lantern hard, rattling the squeaky parts of rusted metal.
Swoosh. A large critter ran on the planks high above. A cyclone of exploding straw erupted, with hay floating down to the barn floor, and covering the tops of the farmer’s boots. Suddenly, one critter broke into three directions, circling the farmer.
Haah-haah-haah. A panting came from all sides. Gurrhr. An animal growled. The farmer’s face struck a nerve of terror. He dropped his gun and turned to run for the exit. Erreekkk. The large barn door slammed with a screech, banging against the frame two times before resting firmly shut, and trapping the farmer inside.
The farmer’s hushed screams muffled in among the wind’s cold, blustery wails. The horses jumped on their hind legs, blowing large puffs of air from their nostrils. Neigh! Neigh! The horses watched, they snorted and squealed, as three beasts pounced on the farmer. The horses’ eyes reflected this new predator’s ghastly form. NEIGH! The horses tried to jump from their stalls while the three beasts ripped and bashed the farmer’s body. Blood spattered the stable as the beasts dragged what was left of the farmer off into the night.
One of the creatures turned toward the horses, and opened its fangs wide enough to fit a head inside. Gshaaaa. It spit a hiss, quieting them in shivers as the horses huddled against the stable walls.
The farmer’s wife sat and crocheted, watching television loudly. She glanced toward the barn, but continued with the farmer’s new sweater, humming while waiting for his return.
Five friends waited for a cab at two in the morning in downtown Miami. Outside the Mynt Salon, two of the girls, despite objections from their friends, decided to walk toward the beach, hoping to sleep until the morning. Staggering with a broken high heel, one girl took her shoes off, following suit, so did the other. Giggling and laughing between the patches of orange streetlights, the boulevards were hectic with activity and events all around.
Boys whistled and stopped their cars to give them a ride, but the girls smartly avoided all potential danger, for as with Spanish moss on trees, in a place like Miami, at two in the morning, danger hung on every street corner, and spread as wildfire upon parched brush.
Nevertheless, some dangers are just unseen hazards waiting insidiously to destroy lives. These hazards are not to be spoken of, and through evil spirits, they plunder both body and soul.
Two normal young adult females, both just out having a good time, neither looking for any trouble while out with friends. Two pretty girls, with bright futures, talented, well employed, having street smarts, with the cusp of the world at their fingertips, were unknowingly stalked since they had left the Mynt Salon. Down one wrong street they accidently turned, o
nly stopping and giggling long enough to realize their mistake and return from where they came.
The lights on this side street were lowly lit and dim. The main drag was up ahead, and teeming with activity, but the two pretty girls had veered slightly off course, just for a second, yet enough time to be caught off guard.
Laughing one moment, the girl turned toward her friend. Poof. She was no longer there. They had just been holding hands, but now her own hand was empty as if her friend had never held it at all.
She chuckled, and turned all around, calling out, “Liz, where are you?” Frustrated by silence, she called out again. “Come on, I wanna get goin’!”
Still, no answer, yet the silence had been broken, with a growl, and a few angry words. A gravelly, demonic voice spoke from the hidden places between the dim streetlights.
“Your friend is gone, is gone. Now there is only you, only you.”
Her laughter instantly turned to tears. “Who said that?” Then she wised up, or so she thought. “Liz, stop it. I know you’re just trying to scare me. Well, it’s not working.”
Silence resumed, and though she could see the people up at the dazzling end of the street, she felt so far away from them now.
“Oh, girly, girly,” the voice in the shadows repeated.
“Listen creep, I’ll scream unless you let me and my friend go,” she looped around in a circle, yelling into the air.
Her weight tensed in her quads and calves. She suddenly ran, hurrying up the avenue. Kata-kata. The strides of a four-legged animal drummed on the pavement from behind.
A creature—a grisly, visceral monster—bounded from the air and down in front of her from high above. It planted itself, straightening its curled beastly appearance slowly upward, until it resembled a human. The beast blocked her path to the main boulevard. Moreover, with every inch of new flesh uncovered while straightening its curved spine, a hellish atrocity, the likes of which no one should ever see, exposed the true nature of life and death before the girl.