Dread is tangible in the air. It rakes through the men's bodies like the talons of some unspeakable creature in the darkness, eating at the ragged flesh that clings to their chilled bones. Hideous, jagged screams resound from deep within the bowels of the dim building. Frantic sobbing sounds come from behind heavy metal doors, and a strange grinding, twisting noise rings out from every direction. The metallic walls are rusted and stained a murky brownish color, and the men's minds go wild, conjuring from nothing all possibilities that would cause this much blood on the walls. Feathery cobwebs dust the spots where the wall melts into the grimy floor; even the spiders have abandoned this dismal place. Like men stepping up to the gallows, the prisoners trudge, terrified, one step after another down the dingy hallway. Each step reverberates like an otherworldly shriek in the small space. A stench like death lingers in the air, a suffocating rag over their mouths and nostrils, churning their stomachs. The wooden boards encircling their wrists scour the skin to the bone; blood trickles down their hands and mingles with vomit and countless other foul substances on the cold, unfeeling floor. The men in the back of the line hold their breath against the stench, but it sticks to their feet and follows them down the dead, empty hallways.
Some of the men slowly run their tongues along their gritty teeth, their pulses pounding, trying to rid themselves of the heavy terror that smothers their throats and lungs. A quiet dripping noise comes from the darkness behind them. Their arms are shaking; their legs unsteady and quivering. A sinister, blood-curdling cry erupts from a bolted door next to them. With a breathless gasp, one man breaks away from the line, his pupils contracting despite the darkness, falling over his own feet as he scrambles away feverishly. The men watch him, their eyes wide. Criminals, murders, rapists, and thieves, stare in binding fear as he dashes away, into the shadows.
There is the soft sound of a blade cutting through flesh, a sound many of them know well. But none of them relish in the noise anymore. Panic consumes them, feeding on their horror with hungry fangs dripping with despair, as the man slumps back into the dim light, a long, slim sword embedded in his gut.
Slowly, the sword is pulled out of the man. His face is white and his mouth is open in silent scream.
It is not by far, however, as terrifying as what has retrieved the sword.
Almost twice as high as the men, it steps out of the shadow. Its skin is cold, hard and cruel; its limbs are shining, as if the metal itself is delighted in the fear of the men.
The face, if one could call it a face at all, has only two dark openings where the light of eyes should have been. Where the mouth would have been, had it been human, there is a single line of metal, a seam of sorts. It is bent into a ghastly grin, a grisly mockery of glee permanently etched onto the harsh metal of the helmet.
Its voice is shrill and rings hollowly inside the suit of armor.
With a crowing laugh, it says, "Welcome to Lab Five."
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Happy Halloween.
Advanced constructive criticism requested, please. I want to know how I could have made this scarier.