Piety

The objects in the hall are wrapped in perfect darkness. No shadows wander as I creep down the corridor, under a heavy shroud of perspiration. My feet don’t know what they’ll meet next; an empty soda can, a set of pens, a torn shirt, a hammer. Objects with no meaning, in unity or isolation. Just things to strike fear as they rattle against my sole.

At the end of the passage is a large metal door that I’ve never seen open or close. But from its placement and size, I assumed it to be a closet. However, something about it is out of place. As if it lacks some necessary logic.

No other door in the school, not a single one, is painted that shade of red. Any shade of red, for that matter. It’s a deep burgundy, closer to a violet or a raven's feather than the hue of an apple. The paint is peeling off in thin flakes. There are dents and scratches in the middle of it, toward the door knob. Like something ferocious had caught the scent of something raw.

The air sucks the color from my hand so that when I reach for the handle, it is with ghastly form. I wrap my fingers around the handle and pull. It opens with a sigh of beckoning, into a cramped stairwell. As I step in, and let the weight of the door swing back, the hinges creak, in such a manner that I could almost hear a drawn-out “No”. The stairs are steep and the ceiling low. But still, I enter, unshaken in spirit.

I can’t recall a time when I’d been more foolish. 

Everything told me to turn back. The heavy humidity, the crumbling brick walls, the faint stench like a tipped dumpster, and the tacky pool at the bottom of the steps that shares its complexion with the door. All these signs harken to an evil I didn’t have the good nature to sense. Because something else grips my senses, robbing me of the attention I so desperately need.

It’s chewing. Light smacks and heavy breathing in the shapeless sorrow. I take up a dim light and move forward, shaking at every end. I have no idea what lies in wait for me. My brain waves turn to empty static. All I know for sure is that I need to know. My curiosity is rabid and stupid. I am a toddler, reaching for the blazing eye, ignorant of the fact that I am going to get singed.

But still, I go, taking incremental cuts into the dark. The trembling in my legs is beyond my control. The rise and fall of my chest comes like tidal waves, splashing against a steady shore of shadows. Dust particles dance in the weak beam in front of me. As the noise comes closer, I am nearly petrified thinking of what lies in wait. My imagination contorts and twists, trying to contain dread into a single image. As the light catches the source of the noise, my mind meets an inconceivable failure.

There are five of them, bent over a massive grey corpse. From it, they pull chunks of meat and wet flesh. They stuff their wrinkled, contorted faces and cover their lips with a shade of red that's grown too familiar. Heavy labored breaths turn to vapor in the air. Yellow teeth smack on chewy bits of skin. Their nails are caked with pink debris. As bones and odd organs are dug up, the creatures leak drool and suck at their fingers.

A horrified gasp escapes my mouth. Their sinister faces turn to me. In the absence of light, their blank eyes give a faint grey glow. Before they come for me, there is a deep sound. A primal bellow. Then, with inhuman speed, they move toward me on all fours.

I run through the immense darkness, its unknown size ever-growing, hoping that the stairs will find me. But all I meet are faint stone textures and strong panting. Everything escapes me: hope, energy, and soon light. Nothing is left but the scattered sounds of desperation. My foot catches something irrelevant, and I fall face-first into the solid abyss. A set of teeth sinks into my thigh, and forces forth an unnatural, high-pitched scream. It echoes through the black chamber, and the last thing I experience is the visceral torture of my flesh being separated from my bones.