Entries for Spooktober 2022

1.Portrait

Royal Reshuffle

The scheming king,
Of the Golden Realm,
Sits proud atop his throne,

The commoners,
They starve outside,
He’s evil to the bone.

When they protest,
They will be crushed,
Beneath his iron will.

But one day,
Foes from afar,
Will stab him till he’s still.

Upon the wall,
There used to be,
A glorious portrait,

Now it’s gone,
Thrown in the waste,
New royalty to hate.

The peasantry,
They think ahead,
Starving; forced to fast.

Because they know,
He’ll be overthrown,
The royals; they won’t last.

---

2. Vanish

Death Mark

In the dead of night,
You cannot trust your sight,
For here come some assassins,
And they’re prepared to fight.

Hiding in the dark,
Wielding the Death Mark.
They come to take their target,
Vanishing cometh daylight.

The seekers bring your doom.
Wish to put you in a tomb.
Wanting to tear your empire,
From your ruling right.

So watch from on your throne,
Or they’ll cut you to the bone.
Instruments of death and torture,
Bring to them delight.

---

3. Abandoned

Hunter’s Prayer

The metal doors clanked open with an ominous, metallic grating. His footsteps echoed, even as he tried to approach his target quietly. The old schoolhouse, now abandoned, was the home of a foul, twisted abomination. It wore the flayed skin of those it killed as trophies for its gruesome atrocities.

He muttered his hunter’s prayer under his breath. A victory was the best he could hope for. He entered the hall, revolver at the ready, a foul stench greeting his nostrils, forcing him to gag. The guttural snarl informed him that his target was here. He raised his gun, chambering a round, he fired away.
---

4. Enchant

The Fallen Mystic

There was a sound like rustling leaves, clattering bone, and sirens singing. The adventurers stood enthralled before the forlorn spirit. Once a warm-hearted mystic. A magician of the village they called home, who used to brew their hearty potions and enchanted their arms to guide them to victory.

Now she was not herself, just a husk, imbued by the same power she once wielded, turned dark. They had to end this; they approached, weapons raised, primed to kill. Then she wept, a soulless wail, a banshee song. A mysterious fog enveloped her, then smothered them as they moved in to finish her. The song ended with an abrupt screech.

The mist peeled away, revealing a group of fresh, soulless cadavers, animated, marching out with glowing blades, ready to serve their mistress and bring burning hell to their former home.

---

5. Misfortune

Cursed Caparison

There was a short man, with green clothes and red hair.
Amassing the peasants, about the main square.
Oh gather around me, All ye free men,
I'll play you this song, and your sorrows will end.
A soft melody, piping the flute,
And accompanied by a jangling lute.
The commoners shuffled, some starting to jig,
Ale aplenty, with so much to swig.
Hear me, yes hear me, please dance to my tune.
A promise to free you from your misfortune.
The merry bard finished with flourish and bow,
His onlookers drop face-first onto the ground.
He turned and left, the village no more,
Road-bound again, and off to explore.
To find a tavern with a vacant room,
Another township for him to bring doom.

---

6. Chasm

The Great Gash

The wound of separation was an immense gash in the earth, as if it had split half of the world open. A city once stood there. Shattered remnants of its foundation littered either side of the monstrous fissure. The roots of trees and bushes, which had pushed their way through the rocky earth, found new purchase upon the fallen stones, rubble, and concrete.

Beds of wildflowers sprang to life in the vacant lots as if they were reclaiming the city from unbound madness.The cracked earth was still wet with blood. Trees and shrubs rooted themselves into the quake abraded stones. A thick red fog filled the air, asphyxiating the living.

The chasm was an interdiction zone that disturbed the region, boiling violently, shaking the surrounding area into violent spasms. Even the bravest merchants, too guileless to fear the terrors of hell, were quick to veer away upon sighting the colossal gash, making them venture hundreds of miles away in the opposite direction to loop around and eventually reach their destination.

And something—a great darkness—was bound to come crawling out one day and would shake the world in a way far more horrific than any other calamity known to man.

---

7. Thorn

Fiend of Thorns

"You do not want to travel along that path alone at night." They had warned Eduardo. For what reason, he was unsure. But he wanted to reach the marketplace by dawn, so he had first pick of where to set up: vital for a trader to get the most eyes on their produce. This path was the shortest way there... His horses seemed a little uneasy. Eduardo shivered, tiny crystals of frost forming on his monocle, fogging his vision. He was quick to wipe it down with some cloth. Suddenly, the horses stopped.

He looked ahead, confused. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He ordered the wagon to press on, whipping his horses in agitation. As he approached some thick foliage, a hulking shape made its way out onto the road. Eduardo pulled the reins, his face pale. His horses stopped again, snorting and shifting their hooves. The form grew in size, then abruptly came into view, revealing a grotesque abomination covered in deadly barbs. It crawled forwards, rasping out a guttural snarl. He beckoned the horses to back away. The wagon shook as the horses bolted, then overturned onto its side. The horses tore themself free from the wreckage and galloped away along the path.

The injured merchant pulled himself from the destroyed wagon. His leg, now shattered, made him slow as a snail. He crawled away. He felt something grasp his other leg. It dragged him back towards the bushes. He looked over his shoulder, frantic with terror. He screamed the last words that would ever leave his mouth before disappearing into the undergrowth, never to be seen again.

---

8. Howl

Hunted

The greenery was frozen stiff. His breath steamed in the air like smoke from a boiler. The briars clawed at his face, drawing blood. "Those thorns are bad news, for they will draw them in even faster than my panicked flight," he thought to himself. He charged through the underbrush of the dying woodland, brushing past branches. "They're coming." He nearly fell over a jutting root.

The howling bounced through the trees and around the forest, darting at him from every angle. Its timbre filled his head, and he shook with terror, not knowing where to run. A nightmare could rip him to shreds at any moment. The forest was carpeted in a thick white layer that muffled his footsteps, but leaves popped like soft bubble wrap beneath him. Apprehensive at each rustle of the leaves, he knew a beast might be on him.

He smelled it before he saw it. The rank odor of an animal on the hunt. It was close. He felt its hot breath on his neck, staring in terror at the whites of its eyes as it bore down on him. Then, with a suddenness that took his breath away, he was on the ground.

The wolf lunged at him, sinking its teeth into his flesh. He screamed in agony as the creature tore at him, ripping and tearing with a savagery he'd never imagined. He lay there helpless in its grasp, the life draining from him as the dark forest closed around him.

---

9. Mirror

The Room

They had locked her in this room. How she had ended up here, she didn't know. What she knew, however, was that someone or something had trapped her here.

The room was as elegant as her grandmother's pearl earrings. It was octagonal, with an elaborate blue and gold mosaic on the floor. Each of the eight walls was covered in an ornate mirror framed by gleaming golden wood. The ceiling was a mirror, too. It seemed dark yet light, impossible, yet strangely plausible.

For Iris, the room was a tomb. Her death would be lost in their reflections. Their staring faces would silence her screams. She could feel the silver chain cutting into her skin, her blood soaking through her dress, her pulse quickening with each passing moment as she contemplated what was going to happen next. The clock made a single tock as time marched on.

She looked around the room. The center of the room held a device that was clearly designed to inflict the most possible pain a human being can endure, short of actually killing him. On this device sat a figure under whose curled body swarmed a myriad of roaches and other insects. The figure itself, in fact, was nothing more than a skeleton covered in dried flesh.

She plotted her escape. She leaned forward, examining the edges of the mirrors, looking for gaps. There was no door in the room, but there must be some way out. How else would she have ended up here otherwise?

Then she noticed something strange. She looked at the reflection of the gruesome throne. It seemed oddly empty in the mirrors. Maybe she had imagined the body? She looked back. No, it was still there, chained down, repulsing her away. Confused, she looked back at the mirror. It had vanished again. She approached the mirror, touching the cold glass.

She froze on the spot, afraid to turn around. The thunderous clank of metal echoed across the room. A shiver ran down her spine. She swallowed hard, her breath coming in quick gasps. Fear coursed through her veins.

She needed to turn and look, but she didn't want to. Maybe a passage had opened that would offer her escape. As if in a folktale. "Most of those have good endings, right?" she thought to herself.

She spun around. Just in time to face the cavalcade of teeth and limbs that tore into her and left her dead in a pool of bright red blood.

---

10. Broken

Retribution

It had stumped the investigators. This case was impossible to comprehend. Forty-Seven people had been brutally slaughtered, but there wasn't as much as a clue to explain why.

The scene was a nightmare. What had been a church in a thriving village was now smouldering in ruination. Splintered wood, blown glass, and burnt remnants of wood lay on the ground. Five decades spent as an icon of worship, reduced to rubble in mere minutes. The most apparent thing was the shattered stained glass window; broken as if by a huge object with violent force. Now the autumn wind howled through the open portal, chilling the air and scattering ashes across the rubble.

The interior was even more distressing. Shattered glass, wood, and bloodstains covered the floor. Smog had blackened the ceiling and upper walls to the color of coal.

But it was the pews where the genuine horror was at its worst. Splintered as if a savage power had struck them, atop the rubble were bodies; twisted, malformed, fused into a writhing mass of flesh, as if they had been melted and then made solid again with their limbs melted together as if by hellfire. Splintered like twigs, charred black and twisted in a hideous mockery of a human shape. The scene looked as if demonic and barbaric hands had painted it.

It was as if someone had smote them down with some kind of sick divine retribution: as if the righteous, burning fist of an angered god had struck bulldozing through the building, crushing and immolating those inside.

One thing was for sure: it was the bleakest mystery the detectives had ever found themselves within.

---

11. Escape

The Bestiary

The bestiary’s entry for kobold: a short, yellowish hued being of cunning and trickery. Skurkig had this memorized for many a year.

For Skurkig was a kobold. A kobold who could read.

The militia had beaten him up, interrogated him, then thrown him into this dingy cellar to rot. “Tell us where you hid the gold,” they asked him, their demands unmet.

Skurkig was nonplussed. He didn’t care about gold or riches. No interest in playing a man’s game. He’d seen many stabbed or clubbed to death on the street in tragedies over a single coin.

He was, however, very unhappy about being locked in this dark cellar with only the rats for company.

But that would not be a problem for long. Not long at all, in fact. For he had read a second bestiary.

A reptilian smile formed on Skurkig’s scaly, yellow face. “Kobolds: masters of deceit, thievery, and expert escape-artists.” He got to work. He’d be outside again in no time.

---

12. Slime

What Could Go Wrong?

The job description was outright bizarre. But the pay was great, so that made up for it. Thomson was a middle-aged farmer, lumberjack, carpenter; a doer-of-many-things. He was experienced with doing strange work, so it didn’t phase him in the slightest. After all... what could go wrong?

He arrived at the farmstead. It seemed mostly abandoned. A rickety windmill towered above. A once beautiful house, now decrepit. He brought his knapsack of tools inside the front room and prepared to get to work.

The woman who was paying him had told him that this was her deceased grandfather’s farm. And strangely; that he was not so much a farmer, more of scientist and tinkerer. The circumstances were unclear, but she had stated in quite a firm manner that there was an “infestation problem.” As to the details of this, he was unsure. He had brought gas canisters, poisoned food for bait, various traps, and, just in case something was truly terrible, his trusty double-barrel shotgun.

The house seemed empty, so he crossed the yard, venturing close to the massive three-story barn. The doors were sealed with heavy wooden crossbeams, but odd noises came from within.

This must be where his contractors needed the work done. He went back to the house, assembling a variety of his contraptions outside the huge shed. The noises inside were enough to alarm him, and so, loading his shotgun, he walked up to the double doors. He rapped his fist against the wooden door. What he was expecting to be a loud, reverberating sound sounded dull and dampened.

He went to lift the wooden bar, but it was stuck firm. No issue; he had tools for this. He holstered his shotgun on his back, grabbed his trusty saw, and went to work. It only took a couple of minutes. It was as if the wood closest to the door was rotting in a sickly, tainted fashion. He noticed more marks on the door. Something was strange. Before cutting through the last of what held the door closed, he put down his saw and retrieved his gun. He’d bash through what remained.

He raised his leg, slamming the door with his booted foot. Again and again it crashed against the door. There was a sudden splintering sound, then a grinding creak, and the doors burst open, knocking Thomson to the floor, winded. He didn’t have time to get up, however: A split second later, a tidal wave of gelatinous purple slime washed over him. Highly corrosive, it made the ground sizzle as it sloshed over it. The farmer was even less lucky. Within seconds, all that was left of him was a stained skeleton, and within minutes, even that was gone. Thomson and all of his gadgets disappeared without a trace.

---

13. Haunt

Herald Of Death

A creature of myth, the stuff of your worst nightmares, the Banshee, the Herald of Death. Her hollow-eyes gleam red, her black hair long, stringy and matted.

She is a spirit who will not stop moaning and keening, an eternal weeping song for her lost child. She passed away during childbirth and now appears as a ghost of herself, still wearing her bloody nightdress. Her hands, now crooked, are bent backward. She carries the reek of death with her.

Her voice is like ice shards scraping together. She is a foul creature that preys on the living. Her arrival heralds the death of someone near.

She haunts the living; a screeching apparition until her own destruction. For that is the only way to be free of the curse that she afflicts upon the living and those soon-to-be-dead.

---

14. Ruin

To Dust

Where once stood a bastion of hope in all its magnificence, now all that remains is a ruin.

Its beautiful marble spires, which had once gleamed in the sun like diamonds, had now crumbled to dust and scattered by the wind. The once gorgeous halls, where an emperor had walked, were smoldering heaps of splintered wood, broken tiles and cinders.

Strewn haphazardly within the desolate graveyard were the shattered monuments of the past, once reminders of glory, now symbols of desolation.

No longer the home of a king. Now, the grave of one, and of all of his people. A place of death, sorrow, and loss.

---

15. Mist

Lost in the Fog

The prisoners rushed forwards, jostling each other. Their hands were still cuffed, and the sharp steel edges made them quicken their pace. The ground was uneven, winding over bulges of earth that collapsed and crumbled beneath the feet of the guards and their horses.

A dense mist was setting in as the night wore on. The earth beneath them was solid and then it wasn't; turning to mud and water, sucking at their feet and making each step a struggle.

A glimmer of hope shone before them, the dull reflection of a feeble moon in the marsh water. It was not much, but it might be enough to save their lives. The shouts of their pursuers had faded into the distance, drowned out by a deathly silence. They waded through the marsh, trying to go as quickly as they could while staying on drier land.

The prisoners headed further out into the marsh. They sloshed through muddy water until they could go no further. They sank into the muck to their ankles, then their knees, then their ankles again every time they took a step forward.

The mists grew thicker and thicker, infusing the air and weighing down on the prisoners' souls. They lost sight of each other, becoming lost in the claustrophobic fog. The mist swallowed one prisoner until his sudden muffled screams punctured it, rising into the air like a soul begging for release. With hearts racing, gasping for breath, they tried to flee.

The others saw a monstrous creature emerge from the murk as they stumbled backwards. It was a hideous beast, with tentacles and splayed claws that grasped at them. Their escape had led them straight into the jaws of death, a fleshy mass that hungrily reached for them.

With one last cry, they were all dragged down into the depths of the marsh.

---

16. Whisper

Voices In My Head

The voices invaded my mind as serpents slither through thick grass. Softly, with no sound, then they wait till the prime time to ambush.

I stood at the top of the highest tower, surveying the city below. I felt a sense of pride as I looked out over its twisting streets and plazas, able to see them all at once. A place of prosperity. Our hard work was paying off, with more bustling life and commerce than ever before.

The grand cathedral was topped by golden spires that threw back the rays of the sun, reflecting them over the city and dazzling onlookers with their light. Carriages rolled through the streets, powdered footmen in white and gold livery waiting for their passengers outside of the mansions.

Below, in the market district, vendors sold sweetmeats and trinkets from stalls draped in colored fabrics, ringing tiny bells to attract customers. Shopkeepers stood beside their window displays of foodstuffs and baubles for sale on polished plates of glass held up on wooden stands.

The gale-force wind whistled through the cracks of the stone walls, the moon's light disappearing as a cloud passed over it.

The whistling of an icy wind shook my bones. In twenty minutes, I would be on my way back down to the barracks, grab a hot meal from the kitchen, and be off to my warm bed for a good night's rest.

The wind picked up and seemed to huff and puff at me. It was as if I could hear whispering... chanting voices in the wind. I couldn't tell if the sound was coming from behind me, or just inside the wall's stone. It grew louder and louder.

My head throbbed. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten out of bed. I felt strangely compelled to step further out, towards the edge of the parapet. I looked down at the houses below. It was a long way down; maybe fifty feet, give or take. The houses were so small. The carriages looked like toys and it occurred to me that if something happened to me, nobody would even know about it.

Then I convulsed, as if having a sudden seizure. I tried to regain control, but it was as if they had banished me from control of my body. My body threw itself off the parapet's edge. The ground rushing toward me was the last thing I saw. Then; the void.

---

17. Shadow

Dark Mimicry

Have you ever seen your own shadow suddenly quiver, lurch and stretch on its own? I have. That was the day my torment began. My shadow stalking me, following me at every turn... until now. Maybe I was haunted. Why did it play with my mind? It happened at random, as if out of nowhere to mess with me. I didn't know what to do with myself at first. It perplexed me. Then it scared me. I needed to find help, fast.

After chatting with the pastor, I made my way to the next town. I had contacted my brother: he called me a fool and told me the inquisition was out hunting for my head. He directed me to the Deepwood, for that was a place these holy fools would fear to tread. I found a small rustic cabin he had mentioned. This would be my haven and I would camp here for the week.

My shadow was not content to stay in one place. It seemed to have a will of its own, and it was consuming me, little by little. It seemed to take on a life of its own, slithering and stretching until it was twice the size of me. First, it started with little things. I would say or do things I would never normally do. As the days passed, the shadow seemed to gain more and more control. I would black out for hours at a time, only to awaken to find that I had done things I couldn't remember. Things that filled me with horror.

I would catch glimpses of it out of the corner of my eye, stalking me. Then, one night, it attacked. I was asleep in my bed when I awoke with a pain in my chest. My life-force was being sucked out by my shadow. I tried to rise from the bed, but I was paralyzed.

The shadow seemed to laugh as it forced its way into my mouth, down my throat. I could feel it slithering through my veins, pumping a thick, black ichor through my body. I could feel myself changing, transforming into something else. Something dark and terrible.

The shadow laughed as it took over my body and mind. Everything went black.

---

18. Spirit

The Spirit-Box

The house wasn't haunted. That's what I said to myself. For I didn't believe in ghosts, at least until today. A week ago, I received a suitcase of vintage gear from my late grandfather's old career as a paranormal investigator. I was rooting through the collection when I found a strange object that reminded me of a vintage walkie-talkie, or a satellite phone.

I asked Aaron, a good friend of mine, if he had any idea what it might be. He identified it as a spirit box. I was perplexed.

"It lets us living communicate with the dead. They can speak to us through its voice. Come to the Beverly family house tonight and we will try it out."

Those were the exact words he had said. I thought he was joking, but he was dead serious. The house was the site of a gruesome murder six months ago. The whole family had died in one night, with zero evidence of what could have caused it. Investigations were closed due to lack of evidence. If my grandfather had been well enough, he would have loved to have helped, but the detectives wanted nothing to do with an eccentric old man, particularly one ridden with a deadly disease.

So against my will, earlier this evening we clambered over the back fence and sneaked into the house. It was raining heavily, with a damp mist, which made it even easier to get in unnoticed. We climbed the creaking stairs and headed up to the master bedroom. This was where the husband, wife, and two young children had all perished.

"Is anyone there?" Aaron asked in a goofy voice. I scowled at him. Then he jumped in surprise, dropping the Spirit Box to the carpeted floor.

"You fool, you could have broken it!"

"It said yes!"

Aaron's face was pale as a ghost.

"Don't play games with me!"

"I'm not playing games." He ran to the door. As if on cue, it closed with a loud clunk. I ran to him, grasping the handle. Locked, it seemed.

"What the hell is going on?"

Aaron was breaking down in tears, and I was close to the same state as myself. The room was freezing, as if that cold mist was seeping in. I had one last idea.

"Can you let us out?" I asked, picking up the still active spirit box from the carpet. Nothing. I was about to hurl it at the wall when I heard a muffled voice from within.

I lifted it to my ear again. "Can you repeat?"

The voice came again. My heart missed a beat.

"Kill." It had said; one word, plain and simple.

I turned to Aaron and noticed he had turned purple and was gagging, waving me away. Behind him was a freakish abomination that would scar my mind for the rest of my life. There was a loud crunch. It dropped Aaron to the floor, neck broken.

I hurled the box at it. But it was as if it passed straight through the spectral creature without phasing it.

"It's a ghost, of course, that's how it works...".

"Shut up, mind!" I said out loud, my voice raw with anger.

I ran to the window, but it was as if it had predicted my exact move. It lifted me up from the floor, then slammed me down with a sickening crack. I was dying, paralyzed. That was the last sound I ever heard.

---

19. Relic

Chalice of The Gods

It stood upon a marble plinth. The gleaming metal chalice, ornate bronze chalice, adorned with metal rings of glittering silver and gold, cast a golden light over the red plush carpeting where it sat. The chalice gleamed with a beam of light, as if it was a relic of the sun itself.

But this—the museum itself, the very heart of the city—had left it vulnerable. Not even a glass cabinet had been erected to protect it. This would be too easy. The nameless thief grasped the chalice in both hands.

A soft ringing filled the air, as if he dabbed a tuning fork against the rim of the chalice. The thief froze for a second, in place.

No alarms rang, no wires tripped, no sirens wailed. He lifted it up. It was a little heavier than he imagined, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

He carried his prize across the museum floor and down a dark hallway, the blue carpet and red walls forming a surreal strip of color in front of him. He exited via a back door and surveyed the streets outside: empty. The thief’s work was done.

The sun had set; the streets were free of pedestrians. They had already gone home for the night. Tall, silver buildings lined either side of the street, fading into the dark.

This had been the perfect day. The only thing left now: to disappear.

The sky was dark and clear and a beautiful full moon beamed down from overhead. The thief looked up, taking a moment to gaze up at the sky. He noticed something unnerving.

A single ominous storm cloud, swirling in the breeze, had appeared overhead. It drifted slowly in his direction.

“Storm’s coming, better find cover soon…”

He hurried along, carrying the chalice down the deserted street in a rush.

He hadn’t made it fifty-feet further down the road when there was a sudden bright flash, and a monstrous clap of thunder. A precision-guided strike, as if by an all-seeing eye in the sky.

A chalice lay on the sidewalk, untouched. Underneath it, a pile of fine ashes.

Nothing could explain this find come morning. The storm cloud borne from the wrath of a god vanished, as if it had never existed.

---

20. Unquiet

Wrath of the Thunder God

The garrison would get no sleep tonight. Rain and hail lashed against the roof, the wind howling like a ferocious pack of wolves moving in for the kill. It was the sound of an ominous thunderclap, however, echoing across the valley and shaking the very building they slept within to its foundations, that shook the men the most.

The commander had assigned the garrison to this small hamlet in the foothills for two weeks now, ever since the strange incidents had begun.

At first, it was just animals acting bizarre. Cows going mad and attacking people, chickens with their necks wrung, that sort of thing. Odd and grotesque occurrences, unsettling to even the most hardened veterans. The village might indeed be cursed.

Their captain had ordered them to remain on alert, clothed and ready to move out at a moment's notice.

It was a long night, made worse by the knowledge that there could be an attack at any moment, obscured by the brutal cacophony outside.

The hours dragged by, each one like an eternity.

Even soldiers, used to being awoken in the most violent circumstances, would enjoy some level of comfort. Not tonight. It was unquiet: a malevolent tempest, as if the roar of enemy cannons were tearing their bastion to splinters.

One thing was evident. Someone, or something, had angered the Thunder God. They would all remain awake until his seething rage subsided.

The thunderclaps grew louder and more frequent, a deafening barrage as lightning bolts crackled overhead. The rain continued to pummel down, battering the walls and floor with unrelenting fury.

Nothing could withstand the wrath of the Thunder God. And as the bombardment continued, the garrison realized that their fate was sealed. The shrill wind ripped the ceiling off of the barracks, the pounding hailstorm and sizzling thunderbolts merciless to those within.

---

21. Shatter

The Bonemass

The black monolith loomed over the valley like a sentry's fist, a silent bastion against the scavengers of death. The stone's surface was glossy and uncannily smooth. Beneath the monolith stood a tomb, and inside the tomb stood an abomination, as if from the depths of hell itself.

A wretched creature, a mass of mismatched bones, warped and twisted, animated by the tormented souls of those massacred and dumped in a secret mass grave. It clattered around the cold stone halls like the twisted skeleton of a battle-weary hunchback. Its arms reached forward, dragging its useless legs as it tripped through the stone halls, seeking an exit or a victim.

The Bonemass was left to exist peacefully by the local village, for it gave ample protection against grave robbers.

For it was the bane of the living: it would tear them limb from limb, flaying their skin, shattering their bones, and adding them to its gruesome collection, to become one with the Bonemass.

Blood and gore and viscera would be added to those who had gone before them, those who had been torn limb from limb, whose skin had been flayed, whose bones had been shattered, and added to its selection of gruesome trophies that seemed insurmountable.

The pile grew larger every day, a testament to what the creature did to those who opposed it.

---

22. Lock

Discovery

The archaeologists had achieved the impossible. They had discovered a way to decrypt one of the biggest mysteries ever to have plagued mankind.

“Code Cracked: secrets of the Rosetta stone revealed.” This story was on every newspaper, every website, and every TV channel. It was heard in every conversation. People called into radio shows to talk about it, sent it to their friends via text message, and plastered it across social media.

The writings were written in three languages; Egyptian hieroglyphs, Egyptian Demotic, and ancient Greek. Scholars had long since deciphered the Egyptian hieroglyphs, but they were baffled by the Egyptian Demotic script. Then one bright student turned it on its head and saw that the entire thing was a map in picture form.

Beneath the map was a hidden writing that carried both ominous and intriguing meaning. It was a verse so simple and lovely, so perfect and satisfying.

Find the lock, turn out the lights.
Verse of the void, you will recite.
A hidden find, you will delight.
Releasing beings of the Night.

The next day, they planned an expedition into one of the deepest, most treacherous tombs. No lock made by a mortal or by a god would stand in the way of scientific breakthrough. They set out the next day to find the truth, whatever it may cost.

---

23. Door

Behind the Door

The bright golden sunlight created an abyss engulfing tunnel, leading into darkness farther than they could see. The glow from the cave entrance lit up their path forward, but did not add to the light gathering in the dark behind them.

They headed deeper into the tomb. Their mission; to uncover one of the greatest mysteries of mankind. Careful not to disturb the relics of the past, the archaeologists headed further into the tunnels, watching for scorpions and other deadly surprises.

The temperature dropped as they continued their descent and soon they found themselves at the lowest level of the tomb. There, in front of them, was a mysterious door.

But they had to keep going; they had to know what was behind this door. They reached the door and stopped. It was made of a metal that they couldn't identify. There was no handle, no knob, nothing to show how to open it. They pushed on the door, but it didn't budge. They looked at each other, not knowing what to do.
"This must be it!"

The lead archaeologist exclaimed.

"Recite the verse now."

The assistant read out the verse, parchment lit by the light of her head-mounted flashlight, slow and careful not to make a mistake. She finished her recital. Nothing seemed to happen. The archaeologists turned off all their lights. Then there was a loud metallic groan, as if the whole earth was shifting. The door opened.

They found themselves within a room of gleaming gold. Walls covered in intricate carvings and hieroglyphics, ancient relics and treasures, lay scattered across the floor. It was as if this room had been preserved through thousands of years, hidden away from the world and waiting for them to discover it. Beautiful gold statues, artifacts, and jewelry that surrounded them. It was a treasure beyond their wildest dreams, one that they would never forget.

For a moment, they simply stood there in reverent silence, marveling at this incredible find. But the temperature seemed to drop further by the second.

The darkness enveloped them like a blanket of black wool.

"We should leave, now..."

The assistant was shaking with fear. "You read the verse, didn't you?"

"We have nothing to fear. We will be the most renowned in the world."

The lead archaeologist pressed on as if there was no need to worry. He fumbled around in the gloom for his lighter, for when it was clear the lights had gone out. It didn't matter now. It seemed as if he'd light a candle in hell itself. He flicked his lighter from his pocket and it flared up with a bright flame. As the room illuminated his team, he noticed one was on the floor, clutching her face.

A deep purple mist slowly clouded the archaeologists' vision. They all became unsteady on their feet, falling to the ground as if drunk. The assistant rose into the air as if possessed, her eyes black as an echoing void. "Creatures of the night: rise with me."

The fallen bodies, lying motionless on the ground, rose into the air, like marionettes to a puppeteer. They left the tomb in single file, like robots marching in legion. An acrid odor formed in the tomb and seeped out into the outside world. It stank of sulfur and rust; it stank like death.

---

24. Curse

My Curse

Trapped, in limbo,
I am a free mind;
held prisoner inside
this inanimate husk.

The dark is a scary place...
But if you could never
Open your eyes again:
Would you ever feel the same?

If you could never hear
the wail of the sirens,
the screams of the dying:
Would you fear death raining from the skies?

People hold high standards
Of what is worth to attain.
But for some of us it's like running
A rat race, bound in chains.

Some of us know not
The meaning behind the word curse.
For some of us wish daily:
A hearse, a funeral, a release.

---

25. Possess

Greed and Undoing

Greed is a dangerous thing. It can be a motivator, driving progress, attaining and achieving more and more. But greed is a destroyer. It can turn the most kindhearted people into some of the most wicked that live.

When someone is consumed by greed, they lose sight of all the surrounding people. They become so focused on getting what they want, or gaining more and more power, that they are blind to the damage they are doing to those who love and care for them.

This can manifest in a variety of different situations. Some people become obsessed with their material possessions, hoarding wealth and luxuries for themselves. Others seek to dominate and control others, taking power and control over everything that they can.

No matter how the hunger for greed presents itself, it is always a sign of a deep dissatisfaction with one's own life. People who greed consumes are unhappy and unfulfilled, feeling that they have not done enough in their lives. As a result, they try to make up for it by amassing more and more power and wealth, and hoarding it all for themselves.

While they might attain more, they will never have satisfaction, as they will never have enough. The cycle continues until there is not much of the consumed left to exist; a shell of who they once were.

---

26. Abyss

Plains Of The Abyss

The Plains Of The Abyss are as dark, flat, and lifeless as the night sky. A barren, windswept plain of cracked yellow earth, lit with a faint red light by the molten magma just below the surface.

The limited flora that populates them is wilting with decay. A vast, featureless expanse that stretches to the horizon in all directions. Immeasurably old and weary, the occasional outcropping of rock or twisted tree is a rare occurrence.

The plains are vast, dark, and empty, with a hypnotizing light. A thin red light emanates from the cracked and bubbling earth, enough light to illuminate the plain but not a comforting light.

At the center of the Plains, a decrepit tower rises from the ground, built from undecipherable symbols.

The strange and foreboding tower rises from the very heart of the Plains, its ancient walls etched with mysterious symbols that seem almost alive, seeming to shift and swirl. The sheer magnitude of the structure is awe-inspiring, towering over all other objects in the vast plain. Its aged stone facade cracked and weathered, as if it has withstood the very ravages of time itself.

The windswept plains echo with an otherworldly howl as the harsh, unforgiving gales blow around the ancient tower. As one approaches the tower, many dark, twisted creatures lurk on its ancient steps and in its shadowy halls.

The air around the structure is thick with foreboding and a palpable sense of malice. But despite this sinister energy, there is also an undeniable allure to the tower, a lure that draws one in despite the warnings of danger. Something about its dark majesty compels one to approach, to enter, and to discover its secrets.

---

27. Echo

Lost In The Echo

To be lost in the echo is to be unrecognizable — just a distant sound in a vast space. Sound waves will bounce around an echo chamber, over time losing the vital ingredients: the frequencies that made them understood for what they were. They end up lost in the echo and become part of the sound of everything else around you. Words and meanings can change into demons that are radically different from their origins, void of their intent.

When you hear an echo of your own voice, it's as if you're hearing a stranger. The sound is familiar, but the meaning is not. It's fragmented and broken, disconnected from what it was.

And yet, in the echo, you can still find a glimpse of yourself. Amidst the confusion and uncertainty, you can catch a faint glimmer of who you truly are. The recursive reaction to an action. The echo is a powerful tool, one that should be wielded with care and respect, for many mindlessly abuse it, even with no harmful intent on their part.

For those who dare to venture into the echo:

It can be a place of great beauty, or great terror. A place of self-discovery, or self-destruction. Be warned that what you might find could break you.

It all depends on how you use it.

---

28. Darkness

A Hidden Foe.

A creature lurks in the house. A terror that crosses the threshold to torture the living. An entity that the living fear to even mention by name, remaining nameless in conversation. A being of pure evil, a terror that blots out the light of day.

It is a creature of the Abyss, bringing the gloom of the Deep Dark to the unsuspecting people of the world, often disguising itself as a sinister shadow, but it is something far, far worse. It has no form in the physical world, constantly shifting and reshaping, like turbulent magma. It is a nightmare given life. A thing that should not be. It is the stuff of legend and myth, and it is very real.

The house in which it haunts is decrepit, like the creature itself. It is a place of dark corners and hidden shadows, of cracked plaster and creaking floors. Cobwebs cling to the corners, and dust blankets every surface, a constant reminder of the age and isolation of this house. With each passing day that the creature lurks in this house, it seems to grow stronger, feeding on the fear and anguish of those who dwell in the nearby world. The creature stalks its victims silently, moving through the shadows like a wraith, preying on the weak and infirm. Its lips curl into a wicked smile as it watches, savoring each moment of its kill.

It closes in on its prey, drawing ever closer until finally it strikes, sinking its jagged claws into the flesh and draining the very life from its victims. And then, as the last breath leaves their bodies, it vanishes back into the shadows to find new victims to torment. It bears darkness like a curse, radiating it throughout the rooms in which it haunts, turning bright light into blackness. The horrific creature embodies the nightmares of young children, ready to devour anyone who stands to oppose it, consuming their soul and their flesh as one. It hungers for the life-force of the living, and it will happily slaughter all live beings that it encounters.

But despite its malevolent nature, there is something strangely alluring about this creature of the Abyss. It whispers to those who dare venture near, tempting them with promises of power and immortality, and luring them into its dark embrace. For those who are willing to accept the fate it offers, the darkness of the Abyss will forever consume them, living forever in its twisted realm, leaving nothing but a husk behind.

For those who dare to face this monstrous beast, they must steel their hearts and their minds, for it is indeed a foe unlike any other. A creature of pure darkness and evil that will haunt your nightmares long after you have escaped its grasp.

---

29. Hunt

Hunter Killer

He was the keeper of the beasts. The one in charge of the pack. His iron whip snapped as the bloodthirsty creatures writhed in their shackles. He had to drive them to a frenzy, their only emotion: to kill.

His target was on the run, maybe a mile further down the mountain pass. The fleeing man was injured and would not make it much further before the monstrosities closed in, lusting for the blood of their prey.

Beside him, the signal fire crackled to life. The keeper slammed down the lever with an iron fist. There was a metallic grating sound. The shackles holding the creatures down creaked, then suddenly snapped open. They were free.

Two of them hurtled off into the distance, on the scent of the target. However, one had stopped in its tracks. The keeper bellowed in rage, snapping his whip and leaving a scar across the beast's face. Then, realizing what he had done, he paled, backing away and tripping over a root.

His beast of burden, his killing machine bred to slaughter, stood over him, bearing its razor sharp fangs. Then it lunged, going straight for the kill. The keeper didn't stand a chance.

---

30. Tear

One Last Tear

A single tear
Fell from a face of misery.
Eyes misted, glazed over and precipitating, Like storm clouds moments before dispersion.

Betrayal, by someone;
Someone close,
Who you had believed believed in you.
But no, like a dagger to the back
He turned on you like a rabid wolf,
Ripping and tearing its prey asunder
Till naught was left.

He had the last word:
“You should have known this was coming…”

---

31. Drown

Making Waves.

Man, dominant as always,
Wanted servitude of the seas.
The ocean doesn’t speak a sound,
Responding with no pleas.

Turning water into power,
Boiling red hot steam.
Purging it of all its life:
Industrialism’s dream.

Congesting all the rivers,
Building cold stone dams,
Drowning lands once lush and green,
Reclaim your promised land.

You think you own it now:
You only own your hate.
A violent tsunami,
Will seal your final fate.

---