Take the Gem
You pocket the gem and look for a way forward. At the north end of the chamber, beyond the statues there lies a door, knocked off its hinges by some tremendous impact. The chamber beyond is lit by more of the eternally burning torches. The darkness seems to move as though alive, and the light is cast toward you in strange, irregular patterns. The sound of water dismisses any supernatural cause; closer inspection reveals that icy water is pouring in via cracks at the top of the east wall. In places, the corridor is flooded to a depth of three inches. It appears to be seeping out of cracks in the floor. The water offers a welcome chance to quench your thirst, and from the larger cracks sharp, cold air blows in over the water.
Beyond the corridor lies a solid door leading to a small room decorated with an old wooden bed, a water-ruined mattress and a full-length mirror covered in grime. The air is tainted by hints of blood and rotten meat, old smells that survive only because of the stagnant nature of the air. To your right is another door much like the one you entered by. The far wall is in a state of disrepair, its plaster peeling off to reveal pock-marked stone beneath.
You sense life for the first time; dozens of small minds flooded with abject terror. They are closing fast, and reveal themselves to be rats fleeing from some unknown evil. You stand still and watch them pour out of cracks and holes in the far wall, swarming over one another as they race for the door you entered by. When they are gone, something else comes in their wake. You do not hear any footsteps, but you have the memory of footsteps, a recollection of the sound of claws scraping stone. You can smell the plaster that has broken free of the wall, broken off too high for any rat to have disturbed.
A flicker of movement in the mirror catches your eye. You turn toward it and feel a sharp stab of primal fear pierce your heart. For a single instant, shorter than the blink of an eye you see someone behind you. A wolf, his ash grey fur streaked with filth and gore. His muzzle , split into a fierce snarl, his single yellow eye locked on you in a gaze of unrelenting hatred. His right eye a bloody hole, a wound that refuses to heal and bleeds freely.
You do not wait to make sense of what you saw. Terror and instinct combine to drive you forward toward the door. It is not locked, but it resists as if held shut by strong hands. Shoulder down, adrenalin burning through your veins, you overcome the unseen hands and smash the door against the walls of the corridor beyond. The floor is broken and there are no lights here, but the darkness is welcoming compared to the ghosts of the bedroom. Running, tripping, scrabbling on all fours, you flee until your senses assure you nothing has followed, and you lie in the dark until the unnatural horror drains enough that you can make sense of your new surroundings.
Written by Jasan Quinn on 14 February 2015