Untitled Horror Story by Sanny-san (Critic from Hell)
He awoke.
Robin-blue eyes snapping open. The swordsman was instantly alert. A jolt of pain shot through his arm as he reflexively reached for his sword, causing him to cry out. It felt as if his arm was on fire.
A quick glance around made him wish that was all it was.
His arm --- or what was left of it--- was fairly hacked to pieces. The sleeve of his uniform had been torn off, giving him a spectacular view of the ribbons of flesh and skin clung onto bone like tattered rags. Someone must've been having a hell of a time carefully stripping the meat off, for the paleness that poked out at various intervals was intact, supporting the red rags from hand to shoulder.
The swordsman stared at his arm, stunned. Injuries were nothing new to him, but the deliberate cruelty was something that he was less familiar with. Biting back a scream, he tried to grab his skinned right arm with his left, as if it would somehow help.
He didn't even dare look at his left when nothing happened.
Though he had no recollection of standing up, the swordsman suddenly found himself leaning heavily against the wall. Pulling his gaze off his mangled limb, he stared downwards at the rest of his body. It was so horrible a sight he averted his eyes. Several diagonal gashes ran along his chest. In several places, he could see his ribs. He swore to the stars that the rickety mess seemed to tremble with every breath he took. It looked like it would give away any moment. A small part of his mind wondered why he wasn't bleeding to death, but his nose already held the answer. Strange, how the sickly sweet smell of his own burnt flesh made him hungry.
Then his sanity kicked in. Doubling over, the swordsman retched.
"…where…am…I…?"
It burned his throat simply to speak, but he felt as if he'd go insane if he remained silent. He had no memory of how he'd gotten here. All he knew was that "here" was the middle of a small, square room, the walls of the place were sterilely clean, save for the mess he had just made and a trail of blood, leading from a dark, poorly lit hallway. It was one of two exits, the other being a better lit, much more inviting hallway that faced the opposite direction.
Yet somehow, it felt far more ominous than the bloodied one.
The swordsman winced in pain as he rose to his feet. He needed to leave. Now. Though swordsmen were supposed to be a hardy breed, the injuries he'd suffered would have killed most ordinary men, and were sure to kill him in the near future.
Naked instinct and common sense told him that he'd come through the bloodied corridor. And whatever had sliced and diced him was probably somewhere in that general direction. Not wanting to wind up as sashimi, he opted to go down the horrid feeling hallway.
"After…all…" The swordsman rasped out, taking a slow step in that direction. "What's… the… worse… that… could-"
The blood-red hairs on the back of his neck sprung up. He could feel something from the corridor ahead. The bile in his mouth rose as he recognized the masses of flesh ahead---human parts in the walls. The worst part was that they were moving, beckoning to him.
He blinked. The gruesome wall-lining remained. "…shit…shit…shit…" he repeated, stumbling backwards, trying to return to the room he came from. He'd take his chances with the mystery sushi chef.
He wasn't really afraid until he backed into a wall.
Mystified, the swordsman patted the smooth, solid hunk of stone that was once an archway. He had heard nothing to suggest that someone had suddenly blocked up the opening with a giant slab of rock, not to mention there hadn't been a giant slab of rock to move. Convinced that this was some kind of sick, sick nightmare, the swordsman tilted his head forward in preparation of ramming it against the wall.
CRACKNope, not a nightmare.
"…FUCK"
His head throbbing with pain, the swordsman gave a lurch. No matter what it was he limped toward, it was the only path. Steeling his nerve, the swordsman plunged forward.
He barely progressed five steps before his nose began to bleed. Faintly, he could hear voices inside his head, calling to him. Darkness washed over his eyes for a moment, but he recovered quickly.
Convincing himself that his pains were from the self-inflicted injury, he trudged on. It wasn't hard to ignore the cries in his mind; in his dreams, he'd been hearing far more terrible ones since that day…
…die
The swordsman froze. One voice, far clearer then the rest, called out to him. Not from within his mind either, but rather, from behind. Hesitantly, he turned around. The image of a long dead friend stood before him, obviously dead. Maggots fell from her rotting jaw as his headache grew…
…die…die…die
His knees suddenly felt too weak to support his weight. The swordsman fell on his backside, trembling uncontrollably. Horrible as the image was, it took all his willpower to pry his eyes off the specter, to divert his gaze to the wall. Something along the panels of flesh caught his attention, a flash of movement. Something invisible seemed pierced his soul! And with it the thoughts of the dead and tortured!
Die…Die…Die…Die
Without thinking ---he no longer could think --- the swordsman reached out with his arms, crawling his way further down the corridor. The pain had been constantly growing, and now it had reached the point of maddening. He could feel the sins of others wash over his soul…
And it got worse, as the swordsman's own sins answered them. Like madmen, they fought throughout his psyche, tearing open his mind and rending his personality apart.
DieDieDieDieDieDiEdIediEDIeDiEDIeDIEdieDieDieDieDieDie…
Red foam frothed from his lips. The swordsman's head pulsed with the intrusive thoughts of others. Layer upon layer, their personas weighed upon his mind, until it felt as if his skull would crumble.
DIE
A moment of utter silence followed. Then, a lightning bolt seemed to explode in his head. Everything around him suddenly seemed so distant, so far away…
He awoke.
Blood-red eyes snapped open. There was no need to scan the surrounding area for threats. His senses told him there was nothing to fight. Nevertheless, he remained tense, his mind mulling over his latest nightmare.
Similar dreams had been plaguing him every night since his grisly adventure into the lowest levels of Lighthazen. Though the protagonist was always different, it was always set in the same white-washed room, the same flesh-strewn corridor, and the same torturous ordeal, from which none survived.
All of them had collapsed at some point or another down the hallway, their minds flayed to pieces. All of them had been absorbed into the wall, reanimated to a life worse than death. All of them began to dream, reliving all of their pains, their sufferings. These dreams they shared with the next foolish enough to enter the halls, dooming them to share their fate.
All but the swordsman.
He never found out how he had survived what he had dubbed the "Wall of Souls," nor could he clearly remember what he had seen in the depths of the biolabs. All he knew was that when he returned, he had become unrecognizable twisted in mind, body, and soul. No longer did cheerful optimism shine beneath his eyes. His innocent smile had given away to a predatory grin. The roundness of his face and body had transformed into sleeker, thinner edges, bound with the wiry toughness of wolf. An air of fury hung around him like a maelstrom, not as much intimidating others as daring them to step forward.
Hell, even his coloration had changed.
Closing his eyes, Cross Windsor thought back on that fateful day, the day he'd died a thousand times in the span of ten minutes. Had he truly survived? Was he really the same boy who'd walked into the hall? So many thoughts had pervaded his mind, so many dreams, that he wondered if perhaps one of them had taken root in the swordsman's body. Perhaps he was not truly Cross. Perhaps he was a dream of a dead man, with a desire to walk the world of the living once more.
Then again, perhaps he had simply gone mad.
The lord knight shook his head furiously. He was becoming appallingly philosophical of late. It wasn't something he would have done back then, and it shouldn't be something he'd do now. Dropping back onto his pillow, the lord knight shut his eyes and let the dreams if the dead carry him away…
Tellie's comments:
Short of the word limit but I'm a fan of gore :3 It's an interesting idea on Lighthalzen rather than using all of the ghosts.
Sal's comments: