Chapter Sixteen: Mind Games

There’s actually a long list a places you shouldn’t take Megan. And each of those places has a fairly good reason behind it- so I’ll just go on and say the library is one of those places.Yeah, Megan, who likes fire, in a room full of flammable books, in a setting that requires patience- I’m fairly sure you can picture why we don’t go to places typically considered….mellow. It was already agony waiting until 8am, when the doors to the building opened. We roamed around a bit, got acquainted with the outside of the asylum’s grounds, and around 6am, went and got breakfast. There may be some humans that can cook well, but we sure haven’t encountered any of those on our missions. Albeit our missions are rather cloak and dagger. The slimy stuff they call ‘oatmeal’ made me want to throw my bowl at the wall, and Megan just prodded her bowl of scrambled eggs as though it would get up and crawl away. Which we weren’t entirely certain if it would or not, It just didn’t look right. Mortals call us brutal- at least we don’t break open baby chickens and beat them into a fine liquid, then cooking the brutalized remains into a messy crumbly and murderous...um…”treat”. If you enjoy that sort of grimmly murdered and disgustingly tasteless food. Honestly, I think Megan and I would have rather had bacon and toast any day- but apparently we should stay “open to new things”. I can announce with fair certainty that she will never pitch that idea again.

So with fairly empty bellies and a newfound irritation, we stumbled into the town’s rather disappointing library. There were computers even older than the archaic machine back in my room- which is saying something, because every time that dinosaur wheezed I thought it was going to blow up in my face- which may just be a Muortum response, but it’s quite justified if I do say so myself. Strange sounds like creaking gears and whirring motors set us on edge; we aren’t used to technology, and I don’t think we ever will be. Some things just don’t blend so well- like Megan and scrambled eggs, or Muortum civilians and electronics.

I approached the librarian at the desk with a brisk stride, she looks positively stricken with terror; I don’t really blame her, Megan probably looks like the type to set her building of precious books on fire. Which I will have to have to keep a close eye on her for- because it isn’t completely out of the question.

“Excuse me, Miss.” I clear my throat, the woman has graying red hair and a willowy frame wrapped up in a beige shawl, crescent moon glasses teeter on the edge of her thin nose. “We’re looking for any information on the old asylum in town- could you point us to any newspaper articles or anything?” Her face pales at the mention of the asylum, she grips her shawl as though it is a safety blanket.

“I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” She turns on a heel, eager to get away.

“Oh, but I think you can.” I coax, pitching my smooth voice calmly, hoping it will draw her in. Her eyes dart back at me as though I’m about to pierce her jugular with one of the pens chained to the countertops.

“All of the newspapers have been converted to the machines- you’ll have to use one of them.” She rushes past and signs into one of the protesting computers so fast that I know she’s just doing this to get us out of her library as quickly as possible. Her trembling fingers work like lightning, so fast the screen flickers to keep up with her pace. She walks away as quickly as her stocking-clad legs will allow, casting a hasty glance at us as we pull up two creaky chairs. Her gaze quickly turns puzzled as Megan and I prod the ‘mouse’ with our index fingers as though it will spontaneously combust, or reach out and devour our fingers.

“I think we have to grab it.” I whisper.

“No way- you want me to touch that thing?!” Megan whispers, if you could call it a whisper. Speaking softly isn’t particularly a skill she has mastered yet…

“Well, I don’t want to do it.” I snap back, as if that would hold any finality in an argument with this Pyro.

“I don’t know where that thing has been! Or who touched it last! Or if it’s….you know...contagious….!”

“Humans use these thingamajigs all the time! I’m fairly certain they aren’t contagious!” I bark with a stern glare. I seriously wanted to win this argument; mostly because I didn’t want to touch the thing...like, at all.

“See-that’s how I know I don’t wanna do it! You never use the word thingamajig!” She’s trying to keep it at a whisper, I can tell (even though her whispering skills really aren’t anything to brag about), but her voice is steadily getting louder. I jerk my head to look over my shoulder (in a way that honestly looks more like a neck spasm) and see the waif-like librarian staring at us like, you guessed it, aliens. Understandable, since normal humans didn’t poke a mouse as though it were a live piranha. I give Megan a threatening glare- but this time, it doesn’t work. Muortum citizens, no matter how hardcore, are terrified of technology for some reason. Some blame it on the dark times- when we were not afraid of modern technology, and the most up-to-date inventions from Vietellam were used by the corrupt and misled to murder our own people. It is a blur on the timeline of history- the story is not told with who, in particular, the victims were- or even why they of all people were chosen. But there were guns, so many guns, and explosives thrown through windows that lit up the eternal night like a blazing torch. Some parts of districts have never been repaired, even after all these centuries, and you can even see plaques near some patches of the rubble- commemorating those who were slaughtered by their own friends and family so long ago. It is a general assumption that modernized technology was the reason for the massacre, that guns and explosives in the hands of such unstable people led to the unravelling. But me? My Miss Kay taught me her theory, that chaos was the reason for the blood spilled on cobble roads. The dark times happened under the rule of King Grim- and he was such a horrid ruler, she believes that his own chaos and corruption led to his people killing amongst themselves. And him? He didn’t care in the slightest. Lord Death then conquered King Grim, but he was too late to stop the purge. It was a fire that could not be contained. It lasted for two months even after Lord Death took the throne.

But we have learned from our mistakes, firearms are not used frequently, if at all. They are only trusted in the hands of those in the Guardian Circle- and even so, those who have them are watched and trained very meticulously. Such as Megan, who owns two pistols- though she rarely uses them. Knives were always her way, but her mentor, Madame Rouge, assured her that she needed a backup weapon (such as blades are mine). I’ve never seen her have to use them, and I’m not even sure if she carries them on her person regularly. Link, who can concoct explosives without much effort, is eyed cautiously- but the Guardian Circle does not perceive him as a threat. Even non-threatening electronics are kept to a minimum, such as the tv in our apartment, lightbulbs, the rare laptop and Muortum internet server, and yes- the odd cell phone (which has lately become mandatory for those in service), which I do posses. Like everything else, it is not modern- and is in fact a flip phone that is very nearly indestructible. Which, you know, is kind of convenient with the sort of work I do.

“Don’t give me that look- what if it eats me?!” She exclaims, and I jolt. I needed to put this to an abrupt end. So I do the absolutely unthinkable, I slowly reach out, my eye twitching as my fingers approach the strangely shaped hunk of plastic, and quickly clamp my hand down on it before I can tell myself not to do it. I hear the librarian snort in the background, as though this makes her day. I drag the mouse across the pad and watch as it responds in much the same manner as the cursor on my laptop. Now that I’ve touched it, it isn’t so scary- but nonetheless I don’t like change. Nobody from Muortum likes change. In fact we dread it. Megan watches me with the admiration of an onlooker who’s just had somebody sacrifice their soul for them. It sort of felt that way for a moment too, not going to lie.

The librarian already had the courtesy to look up ‘GlennHollow Asylum’ in the database, and I clicked the first article. It took a while to pull it up, and in that time Megan and I slowly reassured ourselves that we weren’t going to lose any appendages to this noisy contraption.

“Lookie!” Megan exclaims, bumping her chair over as the yellowed newspaper manifests on the groaning monitor. Her finger jabs at the black and white photo on the article, while my eye goes to the headline- ‘Psycho Asylum Shut Down For Good!’ is printed in bold black letters at the top. I look at the date of the paper, up at the right corner, printed in italics; ‘November 13th, 1876’. To any logical mind, that would mean the asylum closed its doors in 1876, unless this article was severely delayed in its printing. After inferring this, I finally give Megan my attention. It figures that she would look at the pictures first.

But I find that I am genuinely surprised. The picture is of a wall, or at least- it appears to be a wall. It is made of solid concrete, and painted over with white lacquer that gives it a slick sheen that causes the flash of the camera to reflect back to an extent, damaging the quality of the picture. However, the sheen doesn’t muddle what Megan is pointing out to me, in fact it only makes it all the more noticeable.

Somebody scratched at the wall, crudely it would seem, with a very shaky hand. I haven’t a clue what may have been used to make the scratches, possibly a pocket knife, nail file, or key, but I haven’t a doubt that whomever did the scratching was not right in the head, not in the slightest. The scratches are black against the white lacquer, showing the contrast of the colors quite clearly in the primal black and white photo, or, as it would be now- black and yellow photo. To any reader of this paper, it would have looked like a muddled up mess of scratches that some crazy person may have been trying to turn into a work of art, though the sloppy workmanship masked whatever the intended image was supposed to be quite efficiently. But it didn’t work on me- not at all. Because, although not as crude but still rather hastily drawn- I had seen this depiction before.

“It looks like that eye thing- in your bookie doomawhichie- doesn’t it?” Megan looks over at me, brushing a messy clump of red hair out of her sparkling green eyes, we’re squashed so close together I can see the light in them and feel her breath on my neck. Even at the grim reference- I have to suppress a smile, though only for a moment. Only Megan would refer to an antique journal as ‘your bookie doomawhichie’, in truth- was it even mine? Could I really say it belonged to me? Or was I just a holder, waiting for somebody, likely the rightful owner or some heir of any kind, to come and take it back? Either way, whether if I truly owned it now or somebody else would come along to claim it, I would not give it up until I understood what had happened, and why this journal’s contents seemed so ominous and threatening. Although I had yet to decode it- I could state with fair certainty that the darkness shrouding the book, and the contents, were likely directly linked to dark ones, and evil things that may have been better laying under a thick gathering of dust. But I had disturbed that dust now, unsettled and tossed it up, and It was too late to put it back, because I could not just forget what I had seen, after pondering on it for so long.

The etching (and I am being rather gratuitous dubbing it that) was, perhaps not so clearly, the image of the ‘eye’ I had seen in the journal- the one that had so many thin lines leading into an abyss-like black center. The effect was more impactful in the ink of the journal, but that may have been because of a more experienced hand, or because the ink had many strokes and a certain depth, or because it wasn’t carved into a wall by a mad man. It was indeed hard to notice if you had not seen it before- so many extra lines had been scratched over it and added, as though someone had been trying to block it out, or hide it, or mask it to an extent. Though I don’t see how you would hide something like that, it’s a bit obvious. As Megan says- it smacks you in the face like a brick between the eyes.

“It does….” I admit, leaning in so close to the screen it nearly blinds me, as if looking closer at the digital image will somehow give an explanation to what I am seeing. And of course, no explanation comes. I back up and scan over the article of ‘The GlennHollow Press’.

“Rumors have long since existed of strange and sinister occurrences going on at our town’s asylum (which just so happens to be the only asylum within a one hundred mile radius). These claims, however mysteriously, have always vanished when brought to the attention of authorities. But our reporter- Joshua Thorne, vowed to get to the bottom of this aura of mystery surrounding the mental institute. He went undercover as a patient, and, from the inside, helped to unravel the lies that disguised the sinister intent of this facility. The horrors seen, cannot idly be described through words.” I pause for a moment and skimmed through the rest of the article, “Dr.Franz…..torture….electro-shock therapy…..lobotomies…. starvation…. beatings….bodies hidden within the walls…. it is assumed that Dr.Franz and his closest nurses were of a sort of cult- but before any of them could be taken into custody, they committed suicide; Dr.Robert Franz, and his two nurses, Julia Barone, and Hector Levon, right in the center of his lab. Dr.Franz exclaimed “My work here is not yet complete! I will not stop until it is finished! You will never take me from this lab!” before driving a scalpel through his own skull. He died on the premises.” I stop reading and look up at Megan.

“Sounds like this Robert Franz guy was a seriously bad dude.” She comments, “No wonder people around here don’t like to talk about that place. It’s...evil.” She narrows her eyes, looking at the pictures as I scroll down- bruises on pale flesh, cells packed with people, a nurse holding a whip with bleak and defiant eyes, an electric chair, an array of surgical utensils….

“He was….”I nod, “But what really bothers me is what he said…” I bite down on my thumb nail as I scroll through the gruesome images. “ ‘I will not stop until it is finished!’, that’s very disturbing. What was he even trying to accomplish? And why is that eye there? If he was so bad, and he had a strong enough vibe lingering around- don’t you think he could come back?”

“People don’t come back to life, Aura. That’s a fact. And this guy died like, over a century ago.”

“People don’t come back to life, but sometimes, spirits do.” I whisper, giving her a bold look.

“A psycho doctor spirit? That has to be new.” Megan leans back in her chair.

“You know that, if this is true- we’re the only ones that can stop it.” I give her a look that leaves no room for negotiation, if Megan wanted to back out, now was the time to say so. Only weapons crafted in the realm of night and death can kill something (or someone) that is already dead.

“Oh, I know. I’ve got VaneHeart right here.” She gestures to her side, where her first dagger (and living weapon, as Bloodlust is to me, crafted by her own hands at her ceremonial graduation- we have found that living weapons are optimal for the destruction of spirits) is strapped securely. The metal detectors at the front of the building didn’t go off, so the librarian probably just thought we were some freaky cosplayers from some tv show she never wanted to watch, and that our weapons were just very realistic looking copies. The truth is, they wouldn’t have gone off anyway. Weapons of Muortum don’t trigger Vietellam metal detectors, something about the crafting process in another realm makes them into something that the machines deem should not exist, and hence ignore. They rely on this technology so heavily, it makes them blind.

I stand and push away from the computer, secretly glad to put some distance between me and it. I don’t know if I’m right, for once. All I know is that I am going off of a hunch, for all I know there could be nothing paranormal or mission-worthy in this town, the children could have all run away and everything could have been blown all out of proportion. Dr.Franz could have just been a crazy old man who deserved the treatment he gave to his patients. People could just be blaming the asylum because it is easier to accept than the truth. It’s a shot in the dark to blame a spirit, because often times acclaimed spirits or ‘ghosts’ are simply fabrications and hoaxes, but either way I have to investigate. We are inclined to investigate. But now, it is less for the sake of the town- and more for putting my mind to ease, and laying to rest the mystery that shrouds that journal.

I want to be able to bury it, to dismiss it and say that it is nothing at all.

But I can’t.

So the only way to get rid of it is to unearth every clue and passage and be able to say with absolute certainty that there is nothing whatsoever linked to it, sinister or not.

But I have this sinking feeling that there is, and you know what?

I am never wrong.

. . . . .

I don’t like the sun. Do not mistake this for me saying that I don’t like light, because that is entirely untrue. Well, perhaps not entirely, sometimes bright light can be downright obnoxious as well. But the sun- the sun is quite annoying on days like this, or perhaps just in a town like this. It is muggy, and sweaty, and the bugs click and sing with annoying whirring tones that grate against my nerves like sandpaper. The insects seem to be the only ones enjoying this despicable sweltering heat, well, the insects...and Megan. Perhaps it is just I who hates the shift of colder seasons into warmer ones.

“The weather is so perfect!” Megan chirrups with a twirl as I wipe the sweat from my brow, I don’t remind her that, should we stay outside in the sun too long, we would turn to dust. This sun, this light- it was never meant for us. It was meant to destroy us. Already I can feel the blaring rays making me sweat, and my very bones seem to tremble- hinting at a primal weakness that I will never be able to escape nor control. It makes my throat burn for blood, the undead part of me knowing better than I do that only that crimson substance will make me immune to this palpable draining of life. Megan seems more immune to it than I, but then, she is at the very least 5/8ths mortal, and the mortals are immune to this wretched orb of light, not to mention she is a fire witch- which, while giving her an edge for a while, does not make her completely unaffected by the affliction. Nonetheless, if she were to stay outside long enough- she too would feel what I am feeling now. I know I too am half mortal- but mortals did have something right about our kind; vampires are more susceptible to the sun’s effects than most other species. I swallow, my saliva and faint venom smothering the scratchy feeling, though only for a moment. It returns with a vengeance.

The asylum grounds are very deteriorated, even to my eye, which has seen a lot of things most would consider in shambles. Crabgrass is everywhere, midway up to my knees in some places, and most of it is dried up, shriveled and dead. It gives the insects a great place to lay in wait, and I can feel soft pelting ‘thunk!’s against the strong leather of my armor as they jump, likely seeking some flesh to feast upon, and greet the thick and hard material. The building itself is no better- the concrete white-washed walls are cracked and the roof has crumbled away in places, leaving gaping holes that expose jagged edges of the iron supports- the centermost parts of which rusted away when the concrete gave away and exposed them to the many years of unrelenting elements. Windows are cracked, of the few that are left, others are completely smashed out, revealing the wire mesh bolted to the inside that was likely there to keep the mentally insane trapped inside back when this place was still in use. The building is large, which means a meticulous search will be very time consuming, and it in no way looks particularly inviting, but at this point? At this point any shelter at all is better than this sweltering misery. Approaching the doors, it does not shock me that they are chained and bolted shut. A fresh chain, I notice, which means that the old one likely had to be replaced- I infer that this must have been due to a fairly recent ‘invasion’ of the property that nobody in the town cared to tell us about. There is a chance that some stranger or good citizen replaced the chain and never reported the old one being broken- but I don’t find that very likely. Looking around, I witness that there is no way up onto the roof, where we could enter through one of the gaping holes in the ceiling, there is no place with enough purchase to climb up the worn walls. I would get a running start and leap up onto the roof without a problem- if there weren’t three little problems. One; the high and dead grass made running and gaining speed very difficult. Two; there was no telling if I would fall straight through one of the holes, becoming unnecessarily injured and hence trapped inside. And three; That blasted sunlight. It weakened me, I doubted I would be able to sprint up the wall if I wanted to, and it was steadily getting worse.

“Look-” Megan points to one of the broken windows, which isn’t very helpful, considering we could reach out and touch the, surprisingly still sturdy, thick iron mesh if we had felt the inclination.

“It’s blocked.” I state blatantly, it takes a lot of willpower just to keep from panting, the bothersome sounds of the insects seem to have grown into a positively booming chorus of clicking and whirring voices.

“I can see that, but we can open it.” She insists.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you, we don’t know if the edges are sharp, or what diseases that layer of rust on it could carry.” I sound like I am lecturing her, I know it. But she knows I am right, Slayers are bred to be extremely cautious and aware. Because that’s what we are- bred. We were bred and raised into a mold that crafts children into killers.

“Well then….we should try….this!” Megan lifts her hand, and for a moment it would look as though one’s eyes were playing tricks on them; the sunlight wavered, as though a wave of heat had just passed through the small space around her hand. But the trick of the eye is quick to be dispelled, as the glowing starts- at first it looks like a small sun is slowly growing in her palm, and this last for a few long seconds, before the little orb sputters and bobs before bursting into a ball of flame as big as her fist. I can only imagine the immense heat the flame must be giving off, but she does not appear affected by it- and I would not expect her to be. Megan’s lineage is rather muddled and complex- but in her blood lie the genes of the most legendary coven of fire witches. She pulls back her arm, as though to pitch a ball at a target, which is essentially what she is doing, and with an audible hum of energy the ball of flame speeds forth. But wait- humming? No- no humming, last time I saw her do this there wasn’t any-

“Get down!” I shout, pulling Megan down by the back of her neck as the ball collides with the sturdy mesh, exploding with angry crackles and sending bright blue sparks showering down like rain, the humming becomes louder, as though a beast is rousing from its indefinite slumber. One of the sparks singes the back of my hand and I cuss in a loud whisper, only fractions of a second later being forced to use that same hand to pat the back of Megan’s head quickly, smothering out a small spark that had landed in her blood red waves and ringlets and had started to sputter to life as a flicker of fire. I should have noticed sooner that the netting was electrically charged, how? I’m not so certain, I doubt they have had power for many many years. Maybe it was turned on to keep people who were seeking to enter out, people like Megan and I. Nonetheless, I should have noticed. I should have been aware. But I let the loud insect noises and wretched sun distract me, It was a stupid mistake- and I would say it will not happen again, but I am not so sure if that is the truth. I could hardly keep from panting, and the bugs were so loud they drowned out the humming of the charged barrier- I doubt that I would have noticed it at all under completely identical circumstances, I just had a flash of instinct for a moment that likely saved us from some pretty severe facial burns.

“Thanks.” Megan peeks up over the grass, a cricket has landed on her cheek and she quickly brushes it away. Some of the grass is now singed, but nobody would really notice against the already brittle and browned grass unless they tended the grounds regularly- which it was obvious nobody cared to do. “So how do we get in then?” She looks over at me, “We can’t have come this far just to get locked out by some stupid reinforced windows, we sure can’t beat them or blast them down.”

I scrunch up my face as I force my foggy mind to think, grasping at straws. I knew we wouldn’t walk away- so that just left the matter of thinking long enough until a plan was formulated. I had no doubt all other windows and exits/entrances would be similar to this one, and if luck was on our side maybe there would be a hole in the netting of one of the windows, or the chains on one of the doors would be loose and old- but I’ve found that luck is scarcely ever on my side. It almost hurts to think with such loud noises and infuriating brightness- but think I do, and out of the blue- a crazy little idea pops into my head.

“Metal conducts electricity.” I blurt out, so suddenly Megan jumps a bit, being shocked out of her own thinking stupor.

“Yeah….” She gives me a strange look, as though I’m a few cents short of a dollar.

“Your knives are metal.” I state.

“How is that helpful…?You just stated a major flaw…” She nods her head slowly, trying very hard to grasp where I’m coming from.

“Your knives are metal, but my whip isn’t.” I wait for it to dawn on her- but it doesn’t.

“How would that be any different than me flinging a fireball at it? Doesn’t Bloodlust have metal barbs woven in anyhow?”

“Not enough to conduct electricity.” I say it as though I am confident that it is a fact, but in truth- I’m not completely certain.

“I….still don’t get it.” She admits.

“What if we could disrupt the flow of the charge…? Like...melting it.” I say slowly, and Megan scowls.

“If fire doesn’t melt it- what on earth possibly could?” She snaps.

“Venom.” It’s a long shot- I honestly don’t know the properties of my own venom, nor if melting metal is one of them, but I hope that by combining my own with the wraith venom already coated on Bloodlust, it will create one strong enough to either kill the electricity or melt the metal. Like I said, long shot, and I’ve never truly bitten anyone- so I don’t know if my venom burns or just spreads without any feeling at all, all I know is that it tastes sickly sweet at times and spicy at others, and that it can kill nerve endings- through blinding pain or numbing bliss I do not know. But I know it kills nerve endings because Miss Kay once had me spit for her and ground the solution into a cut on her hand, just to see what it felt like. Her expression was unreadable, as it so often was, and I wouldn’t have expected to see agony or pain on the expression of a formally acclaimed slayer, let alone my master. All she did was wave her hand and tell me it had numbed her, though the cut appeared angry and red to my young eyes.

“And what if that doesn’t work? I think you’ve been in the sun too long.” Megan replies bitterly.

“If it doesn’t work, we get to go back to our little brainstorming pow wow, ok?” I retort snappishly. I didn’t even acknowledge the second statement, mostly because I knew there was a possibility it could have been true.

“I just think you’re grasping at straws…” Megan crosses her arms, I roll my eye and touch the small speck of a burn on the back of my right hand. It doesn’t hurt, hardly anything ever hurts me these days. I don’t wait for her to announce that she approves, I just reach up with my fingers and touch my fangs, applying a bit of steady pressure. A few drops of the semi-clear liquid secrete from the tips, and I make quick work of trickling it onto Bloodlust before it can dry up.

“I still think you’re crazy.” Megan states.

“You won’t be saying that if it works.” I repeat this process of ‘milking’ my fangs, so to speak, a few times before I deem that the nearly non-existent coat will have to do. I take special care to saturate the tip with the substance, knowing that if nothing else, the tip was sure to make contact.

I stood and pulled my arm back, my eye zoning in on the humming mesh, and I released the tension that had steadily built in my muscles. The result was almost immediate.

There was a sharp crack, the sound of a whip clashing with something very sturdy, but it almost seemed magnified. As if lightning had suddenly torn across the sky. And the effect was very much similar to that. There was a blinding flash of incredible bright blue light that followed the sound, and an almost fizzling sound that came shortly after. Smoke started to curl up like the tentacles of an octopus, and I quickly pulled Bloodlust back, my ears ringing.

“I can’t believe it.” Megan says bleakly, as the smoke clears. A huge gash runs right through the center of the wire netting, the severed edges cracking and popping but eventually fading away into the irritable sounds of insect life. The wound, if one would deem it that, had rough edges and seemed warped from the rest of the sheet- as if it had been bent so strangely the weakest links just decided to snap. There was a definite dent where the whip made contact- but the metal seemed to have shriveled up a small amount even after contact had been made. Honestly? I do not believe it was my venom that made the difference, I think it was my weapon. But I wouldn’t want Megan to know that, for she would take it as an insult. Bloodlust is, in fact, as otherworldly as a weapon could get- it is alive, and its bite is something awful when it wakes up. Of course, waking it up is the tricky part- but I figure bashing it against an electric fence for a moment may have done the trick. But by the time I’ve reeled it back in, he’s gone back to sleep like a grumpy little toddler. I’ve no doubt he didn’t particularly enjoy that experience, but I was the one that crafted him in the first place- breathed life into the leather and fed him so dutifully, so I think I do whatever I please with him. That doesn’t mean I’ll go making a habit out of slamming him into electric fences- let’s use common sense, that doesn’t really sound like such a great idea, does it? Perhaps you think I’m crazy, saying that this dormant weapon is alive- but I tell you it is true. I’ve no idea how it came to possess, what can no less be described as a soul, but for as long as I can remember it has been there.

I bind it back up and strap him to my hip, hesitantly reaching out and touching the broken wire- there is no shock. The current is dead. Perhaps my venom did something after all. I beckon Megan over and together we carefully pry the hole open, wider and wider, the edges are sharp and rough but we take special care not to get any cuts. The last thing we need is some earthland disease.

“You first.” Megan gestures with her chin. I nod and crawl through the gaping hole, pretending not to know the real reason she doesn’t want to enter first; she wants to know that it’s safe before she goes inside. Some amazing friendship right there.

The difference in atmosphere upon dropping the first foot inside is immediate.

It feels as though there has never been any sunlight to grace these halls in the entirety of their existence, even though I can still feel the rays beating down on the back of my raven hair. It is cold, so dreadfully cold that I am almost assured somebody has left a freezer open- though there is none to be seen, only darkness and shadows of ominous furniture and grated windows that have not been used or opened in a very long time. Through the screened windows every fifty feet or so, dingy and dirty light filters in- illuminating very little, and I am sure it would be better to have sheer nightfall with the amount of good the teasing light does. Something crunches under my feet, likely debris and years of dust, seeing as the rest of the floor is covered in a similar array of filth. I push myself away from the window and take a step into the hallway, and I call back a warning to Megan.

“Be careful, It’s pretty dark, and there’s stuff all over the ground.” What truly gets to me is the silence, complete and utter silence, as though these walls could steal the voice from any scream, as it has with the vexing bug noises that I can no longer make out. Odd though, because I can hear Megan’s heavy footsteps pound against the dust-coated floor behind me, as if we were in a movie- this asylum was the movie set, and we could not hear anything outside of it. I can hear her slightly labored breath as she wipes her sweaty brow.

“This silence. It’s creepy.” As soon as the words part her lips- there is this sound that is a cross between metal screeching and what I imagine it would sound like to have one’s ears pop- and pop quite loudly at that. We whip around quickly, but I have already noticed the lack of sunlight on the back of my hair and neck. A concrete wall greets us, nearly breaking Megan’s nose.

“There was a gaping window here just a few seconds ago.” She doesn’t sound very panicked, more cautious than anything. And right now- I would say we both have very good reason to be.

“Indeed there was.” I say calmly, knowing that speaking to her would ease whatever nerves she was cramming down and hiding deep down inside of her.

“Ever get the feeling somebody’s playing games with us?” Megan’s voice lilts as she touches the solid wall.

“All. The time.” I scowl. So something was here, and it wanted to play mind games. Well, too bad mind games just so happen to be one of our specialties….

Reviews

[EmaleighLynn]

Oooh, what happens next??

I've been excited for this part for a while now, and I'm not disappointed. I love what you're doing here, and the little tidbits about life in Mourtum are awesomely useful. I also love seeing more Megan. :)