Jon Fore - Black Water

Nearest the entrance of the large corridor, the door hid no room but another passage; this one filled with the stench of rot and wet, so much so the three where loath to enter. It appeared to slope downward and turned to the right near the end. The horrible looking plant had found purchase here as well and grew stagnantly along the walls and hung as snotty filaments from the ceiling.

They paused at the entrance until the sound of dragging and scraping came to them from the large graveyard. The priest-thing had worked its way from the chapel and was now dragging itself toward them. They took a moment to look at each other then entered the moist passage to escape the abomination drawing near.

Ethan closed the door behind them, hoping their pursuer would be unable to reach the door’s rusted handle. The moisture had collected on the floor, pooling in some areas, making their footsteps sound hideous, like hissing whispers of wet sand against the ancient wood planking. Droplets of icy water fell from the stone ceiling and randomly pelted them, adding to the chill of the air.

Misery began to mix with their constant nagging fear, the pain of wounds and burns, the bone-chilling splash of water droplets, the unending suffocating darkness, and the constant nagging feeling of something watching.

Ethan, considering his past, was more capable of handling these feelings. The dirty bum that had stalked him as a preteen taught him how to cope with these feelings. Years of the bum’s torments handled by his adolescent mind produced calluses that remained even now. There were places within himself where the child-like fear could go and hide, lock itself behind a door, and cut itself off from the oppressive fright.

Abby clung to her stone-like common sense, her rock solid belief in normalcy. This all, to her, could not actually be happening, and in some small way, it provided her a shield, a lanyard to grasp instead of slipping into an infinite madness. This protection had begun to weaken, the reality of what had happened too harsh and perfectly real. It shook her bastion of beliefs and drove her to her faith for reassurance. It was weak shoring but the last of the remaining tools she could use to cope.

Madison had no such defenses, her life a script of manufactured thrills joined later by sexual frenzy. The unbridled exhilaration of roller coasters and horror movies, the timid and raw vulnerability she felt during her sexual exploits with multiple men and women was the sum of her experience and wisdom. None of what was happening now fit into any of this. She knew that no matter how terrifying a movie was, it was always hers to stop. She was free to select her own partners for her exploration of sexuality, and her no had always been no. What was happening to her now was beyond her control and something she was not ready to handle. The numbing effect of horror movies actually proved to be fragile, and this stark reality had penetrated her soul, which in turn began to change her perceptions of reality. The shift was not subtle, but an almost violent rending of her sanity.

She had first thought Chris was playing some cruel joke on them, but then when he ended his own life, she thought it the bitter result of too much liquor at too young an age, maybe even an acid trip revisiting him; but then the burning corpse thing, the priest from hell, the tormented souls, and the witches…none of this would fit easily into her understandings. Instead, they forced their way in, in a painfully jagged way. Early on, she knew somewhere deep in her mind that she might be going mad, but that was mostly a lost memory, and her thoughts now came from the darkness within her.

Many years ago, Madison had watched and thoroughly enjoyed a movie that had addressed a prime evil, an entity of Hell itself. This character had affected her greatly, and she had spent months trying to forget it, to abandon the unease and terror the memories had brought. Now, the voice spoke of its own accord, echoing through her head, nudging her toward mistrusted violence. The voice had started with simple words and short statements, but now it had become a complete and independent inner monologue ranting in her head. It told her things she knew were not true, but somehow seemed reasonable. These doubts were the fulcrum it used to unseat her sanity and send it tumbling. Its hideous whisperings, its threats against her had worn her into a deeper misery than the others.

Ethan came to an abrupt stop. Another hall had presented itself as an option to their progress. It was dark, dank, and smelled of rotting mold. “I think we should just keep following this one. It does not feel quite so wrong.”

“It also keeps leading down,” Abby added in agreement.

Ethan continued on his way, following the dryer wood-floored passage downward to his white whale of an escape. Abby followed wordlessly, the ever-droning follower of any that cared to lead her. Madison did not follow, but watched them walk into the distance, mindful to keep her light shining downward to keep from drawing their attention.

The voice had called to her and told her to stop there, told her that death and ruin would be hers should she continue with them. It was the first warning or threat she had heeded, and she was not exactly sure why, but at this moment, her reasoning was a small, child-like voice in a torrential storm of her madness. She turned down the other passage as the voice instructed and continued alone without the condemned to bring her to their deaths.

The dampness, the hideous looking tendrils hanging from the moss growth above, and the wet wood below her feet suddenly seemed more appropriate, as though it should be, and her discomfort began to swirl in the storm ravaging her mind. Her surroundings began to feel more right, more proper and wholesome, and she began to find comfort in it.

She found herself facing a large door of wood and iron but not of the same dilapidated age of the others she had passed through. The voice urged her to open it, to be welcomed in the domain of Father Burns. Somewhere deep within herself, she felt vaguely that this was wrong, that she could trust her friends, especially Abby, but her hand grasped the lever like door knob, and she eased it open.

The light from within took her sight for a moment before she could see the enormous number of candles burning in the chandeliers overhead. The room appeared finely decorated with Old World furniture, paintings, and even a large oval rug that covered almost the entire brick flooring. It was dry and warm, a large fireplace made sure of this, and in the very center stood the most beautiful man, young and vibrant in priestly garb. His hair was short and his eyes a soft, welcoming blue. His hands he held in front of him in a very unthreatening way, one clasping a Bible, and he smiled a dazzlingly warm smile.

“Welcome, my child. Come and be warmed.” He indicated the fireplace with a sweep of his hand. “Are you hungry? I have some fruit and some very nice wine if you like.”

The raging storm in Madison’s mind calmed suddenly, opened an eye like a tornado, and presented her this scene in utter clarity. The past few hours remained torn and fragmented in the gale, and she chose not to even reach for them. She had found her solace, her escape, and her heart sang in the triumph. “Please. Who are you?”

“I am Father Burns; I oversee the chapel here underneath the Heart House.”

“Am I still in the House?” Madison asked as she approached the fire.

“In a manner of speaking, yes you are. Why, don’t you like the House?”

Images of the dining hall, the grand sweeping stairway, the memory of yet-to-be-hosted parties fell from the swirling storm. “Yes…it’s marvelous!”

The fire began to penetrate her clothing, to warm the chilled flesh beneath it.