CH 4
The cellar door blasted open, revealing the looming figure of the wolf man.
The child had transformed into an unrecognizable monster. Knees drawn to chest, she stooped in the corner and rocked on the balls of her feet, muttering to herself. She did not react to the madman's presence at all. Wrapped in her fists were the two scraps of paper, her two scraps of hope. It was time. Slowly and mechanically, she turned her head and gazed at the rusty air vent.
"I'm up the pipe."
The child went for it.
The wolf man's jaw dropped in a silent scream as his bloodshot eyes widened in utter astonishment. The child slunk past him like a ferret and crashed into the old vent with a loose rattling noise that echoed jarringly down the dark corridor. However, the metal grill would not budge, giving her a checkered bruise on her forehead.
Ears ringing, the child's fear, terror, and hopelessness returned for a brief second as the throbbing pain reminded her of her humanity. Screaming shrilly, she tugged heftily at the old metal bars as her frail body shook with immense effort, but the thing stayed put.
Howling with rage, the wolf man charged at the child and grabbed the back of her collar, heaving her away from the vent.
However, her fingers held on to the rusty bars, knuckles white and barren of blood. She clung on doggedly as the wolf man pulled her back. There was a sharp clink! as several nails popped off and released the metal grill from its bondage to the wall. The stunned madman let go of the wriggling child when he saw that he was not only holding a little girl, but a little girl clinging to the metal grill that once covered an air vent. A few rusty nails lay spinning with momentum by his feet.
Seizing the opportunity, the little girl heaved the grill at the wolf man and scrambled frantically into the air vent. With a yell of fury, the wolf man swatted the flying metal aside and lunged for the child's kicking feet. Gripping the walls of the pipe, the little girl groped for holds and desperately pushed herself forward, hoping to evade the big, rough hand that wanted to grab and drag her out.
Sweat beaded on her forehead, and her body still trembled involuntarily from distress. Gritting her teeth, the child gave one last push, thrusting her body inside the pipe once and for all. Terrified, she continued shimmying at breakneck pace through the pipe even after the pounding of the wolf man's fists have silenced and her muscles burned as if they had been ripped. Only after quite a while did she somewhat settle down.
"I'm going up the pipe," she told nobody in particular, huffing. "I'm going, see? Here I come."
The inside of the pipe was damp and slippery. It sloped upwards, and the child's body fit comfortably. Dampness clung to the old, rectangular walls, and it was fairly drafty and cold overall. She wrinkled her nose in mild disgust each time her fingers brushed something slimy and wet; moss and mold had made this ecosystem a cozy home. Moreover, the smell was earthier for a change, and the little girl was infinitely grateful for that.
She continued climbing.
After a while, wind could be heard traveling through the pipes, whistling a light, melancholy tune. The girl shivered. It was gradually growing colder, and her fingers were uncomfortably numb. She shifted nervously as she wondered where she was going, who wrote the notes, and what she could find—maybe her freedom, but maybe something else. She had little to lose aside from a life that she was not quite fond of anyways.
The child recalled her recent bout of madness, amazed at the different person she had become. In hindsight, insanity had a certain element of comfort. To be mad was to be floating freely in thin air with no attachments, obligations, and responsibilities to weigh her down and tether her to the rest of the world. The insane owned their own minds and bodies, and that was the utterly amazing thing.
Suddenly, the solid surface beneath her body was no longer there and she plummeted downwards through empty space. Before she could scream, her fall was broken by a hard, flat surface, knocking the wind out of her lungs.
For a horrifying moment, she thought she had somehow wound up in the cold prison-grave. Had she fallen back there? Tears pooled in her eyes at the prospect as she struggled to breathe. Without moving a muscle, the child continued lying on her back until her eyes adjusted and the wind returned to her lungs. The pain eventually subsided. The child sat up slowly, coughing vigorously and welcoming the cool blasts of air back into her lungs. Her back throbbed sorely, but she barely cared. She blinked once or twice in the dim lighting and squinted her eyes, scanning the new surroundings.
It was absolutely frigid.
This was a different room, and very barren. She was ready to assume it was empty, but her eyes fell on a silhouette slumped in the corner. Disturbingly, she did not find the spectacle very disturbing.
A thin, shiny protrusion grew out of its chest. The child inched towards it on all fours, eyes spread wide in wonder.
"Up the pipe. Here I am," a hushed voice reverberated in her ear.
Whipping around, the little girl found nothing but darkness. She cupped her tingling ear, mystified but not afraid anymore because she had begun to feel a certain empathy for these mysterious, whispering spirits. Turning her body, she girl scooted over and inspected the remains.
The skeleton was long dead, with no flesh left at all. Its bony hands were wrapped possessively around the metallic protrusion. Many of its fingers had fallen off and littered the floor. Cobwebs weaved in and out of its bleached bones, wrapping the ribcage in thin, milky film. The papery remains of a black dress covered some of the body. Through the small, skinny ribs, the child glimpsed the keen tip of a silvery dagger. Her eyes widened in shock. Did she—?
Cold fingers brushed past the blonde, making her dirty straw hair flutter.
"Kill my Father. Kill him."
The child shuddered and traced her fingers down the dead girl's black skirts. They wore identical clothing—and then she knew.
"Rumia," she whispered, "You're Rumia, aren't you?" Reaching out slowly, she deliberately brushed Rumia's hands off the hilt as if taking action now could rewrite the mysterious girl's fate. They fell to the floor in a powdery clatter. The little girl retracted her hand in shock and held her breath. Her chest fell in relief when nothing happened.
"Did you—did you do this to yourself?" she ventured. "But why? Was your Father cruel to you?" A warm compassion emerged in the child's heart. "Mine was cruel to me too," she murmured almost inaudibly. With that, she uncurled her fingers, wrapped them around the black leather hilt—and pulled the dagger out.
A sickening crackle rocked the room. The entire ribcage caved in in a chalky explosion, spraying white dust everywhere like snow. In the hands of the little girl was the gleaming silver dagger. She lost herself for a moment, gazing expressionlessly into the mirror-like blade.
"Kill my Father. Kill him."
The voice—Rumia's voice—suddenly sounded more corporeal, a thousand times more solid and intense. It was as if something previously entrapped had been released from confinement when the dagger was pulled. As a result, an undeniable flare of anger now edged the previously soft, sad voice.
The dust settled, and there was silence.
The child rose grimly, dagger in hand, and marched back to the pipes.