At Death’s Door
The moons shone a bright reddish hue making for a grim backdrop as the wind rustled the leaves above, causing the ropes to groan under the stress. He had lured her beneath the Hanged Man’s Tree—an unhallowed place, feared by children and grown men alike. The thirst became unbearable, the visions too dark, and so she had stumbled and swayed, seeking aimlessly to quench the unquenchable. Crow leapt from the darkness, startling her, and before she could properly resist, he clamped down a manacle, chaining her to the profane tree. Like a crazed dog she tugged and pulled while Crow watched patiently from the shadow’s edge. His contempt grew as she rasped and clawed at thin air—reaching for an ever escaping freedom.
“You will submit knowing I alone can cure the curse that plagues you.”
And so the truth became unmistakable. She was to be a plaything not unlike she had been before, yet now with an added grave distinction. This new master was to own her life, her soul, and the freedom she once yearned for not so long ago became even more obscure, even more elusive.
“What is it you want of me?” She sank to her knees, crushed by sorrow and the scorching weight of that damnable thirst. “Leave me be…” She whimpered as Crow stepped closer.
“I will tell you a tale, little Roach.” He began. “My early attempts at reading this crude game yielded results of the more unpleasant nature. Yet I quickly learned that to play the game properly, one must cheat with every occasion.” His last words revealed a somewhat menacing thoughtfulness.
“The game of life is never fair and pity rarely instills the proper attitude with your kind.” He leaned in closer and with the slightest snap of a hand caught her by the throat. “You’re mine. Make no mistake whether you last the night depends solely on you proving useful to me.” His tone was frightening yet unmoved. She jerked away, trying desperately to escape his clutches, but the struggle morphed in a dizzying vertigo and her stomach lurched in response, expelling a greenish bile while her jaws locked tight in an agonizing cramp.
“The flesh is seldom tame when exposed to thaumaturgy.” He smiled a devilish grin, content with the agony he had inflicted on her.
“My tale ends with a scholar, a sawbones—Charles Andronicus Curwen. You will tell me everything you know of his whereabouts.”
She staggered to her feet, wailing in agony, as the thirst gnawed at her ceaselessly, leaving little room to breathe let alone think.
“Aye, I know that name…” She gasped and struggled to unlock her jaw muscles. “A degenerate! He sought to bed one of our girls. I shan’t say what he asked…”
Her thigh muscles buckled in a searing throb, forcing her back in the muck and bile.
“It burns!” She wailed. “Please!” Her mouth locked once more as her body writhed with each agonizing throb.
“He spewed wickedness, said the Gods can speak—nothing but lies!” Her expression shifted as if sensing a terrible implication. “He and Shaw quarreled on account of how much he owed us. I haven’t seen him since!”
Bile gushed through her nostrils and gritted teeth while tears streamed across the only cheek yet covered by the squalor. Crow had heard enough. He realized that Shaw held the information he lacked but the prospects of the inevitable encounter with his target betrayed a kind of uneasiness since, in that regard, he needed to remain a shadow and avoid alerting the prey to his schemes. Private letters, diaries, and ledgers would reveal more and an agent, an inside man, or woman, would acquire those on his behalf. It was then that, looming over her lifeless body, he injected the toxin, thus deciding on a suitable candidate for the task at hand.
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Author's note: This is based on my previous work which I have cut and revised to better contextualize in the Universe I'm trying to pen. This is an ongoing project with future releases planned as soon as I can get to writing them.
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