Praised be the one who came before,


    Who set foot in this foreign land,


    Took us from the crudity of yore,


    And granted us eternity’s brand.


    <hr>


    “What have you done?”


    It was an airy voice, deep yet delicate. It bore an accent that could not be place, and each syllable he uttered carried with it a reverb that was not of this world—and it appeared out of breath, despite how it could not possibly have need for such things.


    “Edmund, my love,” Maria Adianoeta repeated, her tone high-pitched. Though she did not falter in her words, there was something off about them, as if some cracked the flawlessness Nikola had attributed to her composure from the moment he met her.


    From that sea of bright red, Nikola could tell little else. A part of him remained more than slightly baffled by the fact that he still lived at all. Unable to move as he was, he could not even examine his current condition in full.


    “We called upon you, arranged this feast, for that which you warned us about came to pass,” the matriarch spoke in an uncharacteristically soft tone. “We took and took as time went by, and so the fountain’s waters dried… All we had left was the founding well, and so I implore—”


    “You took and took, when told not to, yet still believe you’ve right to ask for more?” Edmund Adianoeta’s voice echoed like thunder.


    Nikola had never witnessed such an event firsthand—strictly speaking, blind as he was, he still had not. But much as with the kind of human sacrifice that must have transpired above, it was the type of thing only spoken of in hushed whispers, and within the pages of history books.


    Few books condoned it, either.


    “Husband, my love. It was simply not enough. Two centuries have passed, since you went on to the next life. And so we sought, to renew the vow. That of which you spoke, to me. The vow in blood and life.”


    “A vow signed in blood and life for a reason, woman!” the presumptive ghost screeched inelegantly, neither patriarch nor matriarch painting the picture of a happy marriage anymore. “You’ve ruined it, ruined us!”


    “Edmund, my love! We planned carefully! We spilled as much blood, and more!”


    The late patriarch, for his part, startef muttering something. His already unintelligible words devolved into droning whispers.


    “No, no, no!” he bemoaned over and over.


    Abruptly, something snapped, and the very world shook. Somebody screamed.


    Nikola blinked. The red light dimmed ever so slightly. He caught sight of a shape—a tendril—going limp, its grip on the grate severed.


    Others followed, and someone shouted after Edmund.


    “Stop him!”


    “…Stop the patriarch, madam?”


    “Yes, stop the patriarch, you useless dunce!”


    As some of the tendrils that had pierced Nikola fell far enough to drape over his limbs, he felt the impossible weight of them. A moment later, they started wiggling, and the light went out in full.


    They began to withdraw.


    Each shadow left a burning sensation in its wake, the startling absence of them making something within him still—something as primal as it was irrational overflowed with panic at the weakening connection to the thing in the well.


    He felt himself be shaken like prey gripped by a beast’s maw, side to side, until only the first of the shadows to tear into him remained.


    When it was yanked down, the tendril went taut.


    It did not slip free.This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    Again, it was pulled, as if by a deliberate force that sought to remove it. Each pull grew harsher, each more violent than the last, until each started bringing soreness and eventually pain.


    A burning spread from his navel to his heart, worsening with each attempt the tendril made at dislodging itself.


    When he hit the water again, Nikola found he almost welcomed it.


    The last shadow disappeared, folding in on itself. Altogether, the pressure was gone, although discomfort lingered where he’d bordered on agony seconds before.


    He panted—somehow, his grip found purchase on the stones of the well, and nothing prevented him from pulling himself out.


    It was almost too easy to lift himself with one hand, but Nikola thought little of it as he collapsed on the ground, gasping for air. He patted away at his own body without care, searching for any wound or tender spot. Upon finding none, his confusion deepened, but he’d little time to dwell upon it, now.


    Clarisse was nowhere to be seen. He was alone, save for the soft glow of the well, and a weight that would not leave him. There was no guarantee this would remain the case for much longer.


    He pressed his hands against the floor in an effort to stand, and seeing as that didn’t fail, he pushed further, almost hopping to his feet. The motion smudged the ash on the ground, he noticed. Water dripped from his soaked clothes and hair.


    Though he landed with surprising grace, Nikola stumbled, still out of sorts. A circle had been drawn in ash around the well, a shape shrouded by tightly-packed symbols he knew not the meaning for.


    He gave the room a quick glance as if expecting something else to have changed, finding the catacombs less intimidating. Spilled ink marred the outer sides of the well, now. Like an illusion broken, the room lacked an edge now, tainted by newfound mundanity. As if whatever made it so suffocating before had left.


    There was no time to waste, no mistakes he could afford. If he wanted to live—absurd as it was that he’d made it this far—he had to get out of here. As he moved towards the exit, the oddly specific sensation of two icy pinpricks on his back struck him.


    Nikola turned, gritting his teeth. Choler he could not place rose through him like bile, soon to withdraw.


    “So it wishes to leave,” the ghost of Edmund Adianoeta stood there. His appearance proved the famous paintings of him to be remarkably accurate, but the whole of him seemed dulled somehow. Not entirely colorless, but strangely desaturated. His face was slack with death and his eyes gleamed a pale blue, no sclera on sight. “I suppose that is fair.”


    The ghost of the patriarch of the Adianoeta family was standing before Nikola. A ghost stood before Nikola.


    A pang of curiosity hit him—the part of him that truly loved being a columnist yet constantly got tasked with anything but writing soared within—and Nikola grit his teeth.


    He was done putting all others above himself, even if it meant putting his curiosity aside, denying himself all the questions he would have loved to ask.


    “Wait!” Edmund Adianoeta’s ghost called out from behind him as Nikola picked up the pace. The narrow path was blessedly straight, no detours to distract him. It would lead him back the way he’d come, or so he hoped.


    As he came upon the familiar wall, Nikola placed a palm against it. How was he meant to open this? Seeing as the Adianoetas were clearly involved with the occult, that brought forth countless possibilities Nikola knew neither start nor end to.


    “Wait! Please!” the ghost’s voice had an edge to it, his words delivered with such a genuine pleading tone that Nikola could not stand himself from looking over his shoulder.


    He was surprised to see he had outrun the ghost, and seemingly by far.


    “What?” Nikola snapped. The edge to his own voice caught him off-guard, and he flinched. Ever since he’d fled the well, something felt… different.


    “I can show you the way,” Edmund Adianoeta’s form said, hesitance seeming to cross those translucent features. “This place was mine to command, long before it was anyone else’s.”


    “I do not doubt that,” Nikola conceded, his eyes narrowing. He kept his hand against the wall, steadying himself, as if it would help. “I cannot understand why you would offer, however.”


    “To keep the peace,” the ghost said after a pause. It hovered in place, the image of it flickering as if swaying in the breeze. “To keep the ire from myself and my family, if that ship has not yet sailed.”


    Nikola scowled, making no effort to hide his befuddlement. He had been somewhat nonplussed to learn the family’s founding couple did not appear to be in the same page, as far as these dealings of them were. But it had been Maria Adianoeta that brought him and Benjamin here—it had been her who arranged for the massacre tonight.


    Benjamin is likely dead. He was unsure as to whether he had any strong feelings about that. Years of pushing everything he thought or felt aside in favor of simply getting through the day formed a habit that would take more than one near-death experience to break free from, Nikola supposed.


    How much longer would it take, he wondered, for Clarisse or the matriarch herself to notice he still lived? It would surely take them little time to check on the well—it had clearly played a part in whichever ritual they had sacrificed their guests for.


    Nikola flinched as that dull pressure returned, pulsing by the center of him, but only for a second.


    He met the ghost’s glowing gaze, inhaling deeply. “Lead the way, then, ghost of Edmund Adianoeta.”