NO EYES: A Forgotten Whisper

The air grew colder, a biting wind threading through the skeletal branches of the gnarled trees like fingers brushing exposed skin. The whispers, once faint murmurs, thickened into a choir of moans—mournful, erotic, wrong. Every step was a dare. The ground was a graveyard's breath: brittle, shifty, littered with ancient stones etched in cryptic runes that seemed to twitch underfoot.

Pecola didn't need eyes to know they were somewhere they shouldn't be. Her breath trembled. The dread here wasn't loud. It was intimate, like a kiss behind the ear from something long dead. Each inhale coated her lungs in the taste of mourning.

Antic's hand found hers. His grip wasn't confident—it was tight, needy, grounding himself in her stillness. His swagger was thinning, stripped down by the pulsing shadows that flickered like something waiting to pounce. For once, he didn't have a joke, and that silence from him was louder than any scream. Still, he managed a quiet, "Don't let go."

Dolly, on the other hand, was practically glowing. She thrived in the rot. Her sharp grin mirrored the glint on her fingernails, and her hum—a twisted lullaby—waltzed with the cries in the wind. She skipped ahead like the world was her haunted dollhouse.

Then: light. Orange. Flickering. A firefly against a starless sky. It formed into a crooked tavern, hunched between trees that looked too skeletal to be alive. Its sign—an etched skull with a scythe between its teeth—swayed like it was laughing. Pecola tilted her head. "A bar?"

"Looks like a bad idea," Antic whispered. Then winked. "Let's go in."

The door groaned open with the tired ache of an old man's back. Inside, chaos. Tables filled with Reapers, but not the elegant, stoic kind—they were lounging, drinking, bickering like war vets in a ghost-town saloon. Their cloaks were ragged, their bones stained with what looked suspiciously like dried blood and fermented vomit.

And yet—it was… alive. Sort of. Laughter clanged off the walls. Mugs clinked. Bones creaked. And the air buzzed like bad magic and old heartbreak.

Antic squinted. "Are they... drunk?"

One particularly massive Reaper leaned back in his chair, his spine audibly cracking. He lifted a skull-shaped mug to what might've been a mouth and said, "New souls. Lost, I presume."

Every head turned. Silence dragged a long, sharp knife across the moment.

Dolly, perfectly unbothered, spun on her heel. "Not lost, sweetheart. Just impatient." Her voice dripped with sugar and arsenic.

Antic stepped between her and Pecola, tension building in his frame. His shirt clung to the curve of his chest, sweat beading at his collarbone. Still, he smirked. "We're just passing through. You know—taking the scenic death route."

The Reapers didn't laugh. They watched. Waiting.

Then—a whisper.

Grin.

Pecola's head snapped toward the sound. The name cut through the bar's static like a blade. It hummed through her bones.

Her fingers curled around Antic's wrist. "Did you hear that?"

He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Yeah. Name drop."

"Grin," she repeated. The sound felt familiar in her mouth. Like an old wound trying to remember how to bleed.

The tavern hadn't just brought them shelter.

It brought them the past. Answers. Secrets buried in bone and booze.

And now every Reaper in that room had just become part of the game.

The shortcut had teeth.

And it had just bitten down.

Dolly, ever the pragmatist, decided action was preferable to choking on the sour tension thickening the tavern air. With the grace of a cabaret villainess in heels, she slid onto a barstool beside the bartender — a skeletal figure whose jaw hung askew like a loose hinge. His sockets, rimmed in shadows darker than coal, fixed on her with an unblinking, unholy stillness. He was polishing a mug with the same care one might give to a relic — the drink inside glowed with a pulse, like it was still alive.

"Darling," Dolly cooed, voice silky and venomous, "I'm on a bit of a quest. Urgent. Life-or-death, forest-is-burning, soul-is-dangling kind of quest. I'm looking for the Gate of Trees."

The skeleton didn't flinch. His bony hands just kept polishing. The pause between them stretched out long enough for her reflection to flicker in the mug's surface. Then finally, he rasped — the sound like dust being sandpapered off a coffin lid. "Gate of Trees? That's a long way off, little doll. Long, dark, cursed way. Not many come back from that path."

Dolly leaned in, sharp smile tilting. "Oh, I don't plan to come back the same."

He dragged a fingertip over his chin, leaving behind a line of glowing dust. "Behind the Whispering Cairns. Left at the singing stones. But first you'll have to survive the bone orchard. If the willows don't weep you to death first."

"Mmm. Bleak," Dolly purred, standing and casting a glance over her shoulder that shimmered like perfume. She waved to Antic and Pecola, face gleaming with her usual unsettling cheer.

Meanwhile, in the tavern's darker corner, Pecola and Antic had found refuge on a bench that wobbled like it wanted to escape the realm too. Antic leaned back, arms spread like wings, eyes flitting to Pecola every five seconds like he was trying not to stare. His knees brushed hers.

Across from them sat a grizzled Reaper — his scythe resting against the wall like a loyal dog. His cloak was tattered but carried weight, dignity — like someone who'd once worn authority before it broke him.

Antic cleared his throat. "Sorry to bother you, but… we overheard some Reapers mention the name 'Grin.' Do you know who he is?"

The Reaper didn't answer right away. He took a long sip of his glowing drink and let the heat crackle through his ribcage before responding. "Grin." The name sounded like a knife being unsheathed. "That name… it still makes the dead whisper."

Pecola felt a chill creep into her bones. Her fingers instinctively brushed Antic's forearm, and he didn't move away.

"He was different," the Reaper muttered. "Unorthodox, you'd say if you wanted to stay polite. Sadistic if you weren't. Found pleasure in dragging it out — the death, the guilt, the screams."

Antic's jaw tensed. "What happened to him?"

"Banished. But death never took him properly. His spirit clings like rot in this place. His cruelty left bruises on time."

Pecola felt her stomach twist. The name had power — too much. It echoed like a forgotten memory banging against a locked door in her mind.

Antic, his hand unconsciously close to hers now, asked, "Did he have… a flaw? Something that made him vulnerable?"

The Reaper leaned forward, dust falling from his sleeves. "Order. Obsession. If a plan unraveled, he unraveled with it. Couldn't handle chaos. Everything had to be pristine. Controlled. Like a puppetmaster losing strings."

The word control flickered in Pecola's chest. Images — neatly folded linens, rooms too clean, a voice demanding stillness — danced behind her closed eyes. She flinched.

The Reaper kept talking. "Other Reapers tried to stop him. Failed. Violently. He wasn't just cruel to the dead — he was cruel to us. Manipulative. Calculated. But eventually, his obsession became his cage."

Antic leaned back, watching Pecola quietly. Her lips were slightly parted, lost in thought, and something about the look on her face made his heart jump to his throat. He shoved it back down. Not now.

They sat with the Reaper for what felt like hours, as the tavern's noise dulled into background static. Each story painted Grin darker, more twisted, a ghost who still had blood on his hands.

The tavern throbbed with the chaotic energy of the Gravestone Realm: shrill cackles, deep guttural moans, and the occasional lullaby sung in reverse. The clinking of glasses sounded like bone chimes in a cryptic wind. Dolly tapped a perfectly manicured fingernail on the bar. The sound echoed unnaturally loud, silencing even the most inebriated Reapers.

"Your directions were... helpful," Dolly purred, her voice like velvet dragged across razor blades. "But I value efficiency above all else. Getting to the Gate of Trees is proving... problematic. Perhaps a wager would expedite the process?"

Gasps. A few Reapers dropped their mugs. The air went still, thick like molasses left to rot. All skeletal heads turned in unison, their eyeless gazes glued to the porcelain daredevil at the bar. A wager? Here? With him?

The bartender didn't blink—because he physically couldn't—but the corners of his bony mouth twitched. "A wager?" he rasped, his voice like moth-eaten parchment dragged across stone. "And what would you offer, little doll, to a creature who deals in eternity itself?"

Dolly smiled. Not a dainty smile. A terrifying one. All teeth. Too white. Too sharp. Too perfect. "Oh, I'm sure we can come to an agreement," she said, twirling a strand of hair she didn't have. "Let's say... a scare-off. First to make the other scream loses. Winner gets the directions."

The tavern exploded into delighted shrieks and rattling bones. Bets were placed instantly—on tables, floor tiles, one unlucky Reaper's forehead. This wasn't just a deal. This was dinner and a show.

The bartender straightened. Shadows gathered. The drink in his hand flickered with green fire. "Then let's begin."

The stage was set.

Dolly went first. She raised her hand, fingers curling like dying spiders. The air around her shimmered with a dark aura. And then—pop—a shadow burst from her palm like smoke given form. It writhed, twisted, contorted into familiar shapes: Grim Reapers in grotesque caricature. Their scythes bent into crooked halos, their cloaks shredded into ribcage-shaped wings.

Gasps and murmurs rippled. A few Reapers backed away, muttering prayers to gods they didn't believe in.

The bartender's grin split his dislocated jaw wider. "Cute."

He lifted his mug. The glow inside churned and boiled until it poured over, coating the bar. It congealed into writhing bone tendrils that screeched as they slithered toward Dolly. He grew, bones stretching with a crack-crack-crack. His spine doubled, twisted, his ribs ballooning outward into a cage of shadows that pulsed like a beating heart.

Reapers screamed—out of joy.

Dolly's face cracked, not from fear, but with glee. She matched him move for move, her shadows snapping into shape: ghostly children weeping ink, skeletal angels trapped in eternal mid-prayer, a mirror of the bartender himself—but weeping from empty sockets.

They lunged at each other, not with claws, but with fear itself.

Reapers clung to each other. Drinks were tossed. One whispered, "This is better than the Reaping Olympics."

The tavern shuddered with every blow of fear and shadow, the stone floor cracking, glassware exploding in bursts of glitter and gloom. Dolly levitated, her limbs stiff yet elegant, eyes glowing like twin moons dipped in oil. The bartender's laughter deepened, echoing from the cracks in the walls.

ACrosss ThEM At ThE tAvErNS bAr...

Antic, perched on a rickety stool beside Pecola, felt his already frayed patience snap. He shifted uncomfortably, the rough wood digging into his bony knees. He had expected a certain level of…grimness, from Grin's former colleagues. But this wasn't grimness; it was malicious gossip, thinly veiled cruelty. And it was all directed at Grin—the being he had come to respect.

Pecola sat beside him, close enough that her thigh grazed his. Antic tried not to notice. He failed.

He clenched his fists. "Enough!"

His voice, normally a melodic lilt laced with innuendo, cracked like a whip. His stool clattered to the ground. Every bony head swiveled toward him. Empty sockets stared. Skeletal mouths froze mid-chortle.

Antic didn't care. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something fire-born and furious. "You all sit here, spewing venom about someone who's actually tried to change! Someone who's done the hard, impossible work of redemption!"

He stalked forward, lean frame vibrating with outrage. "Grin might've screwed up—who hasn't? But he's trying. He's soft now. Gentle. Real." Antic's voice cracked, but not with weakness—with heat. "You wouldn't know love if it got naked and danced on your dusty skulls."

One Reaper snorted. Antic turned, eyes sharp as broken glass. "Laugh. Go ahead. But he's better than any of you. And you know it."

The room went quiet, save for the creaking floorboards beneath his boots.

A tall Reaper with a cracked femur and a rusty scythe rose slowly. "You… you dare defend that… that thing?" His voice rasped like broken stone.

Antic stepped up to him, not backing down an inch. "I dare," he hissed. "And I'll keep daring until someone worthy tells me to stop."

A hushed murmur spread, uneasy. Skeletal shoulders stiffened. The heat in Antic's chest burned.

Pecola gently touched his wrist. He startled, just a flicker, and looked down. Her expression was unreadable, but her presence grounded him. Steady. He inhaled her scent—something like sun-warmed stone and faint lavender—and exhaled, trying to keep from combusting.

Then—

"You three... are not of this realm."

Two shadowy figures materialized, guards of the Gravestone Realm. Their scythes gleamed like obsidian lightning. One pointed directly at them.

Before Antic could process the shift, Dolly moved.

With the flair of a runway model dipped in chaos, she snatched the bartender's skeletal wrist and ripped a slip of parchment from his clenched grip. Her smirk curled like wicked ribbon. "Well, boys, this has been a blast."

Then she bolted. Porcelain limbs flashing, petticoats swishing, high heels echoing like a war drum.

"Wait—DOLLY!" Antic scrambled after her, catching Pecola's hand without thinking. Her fingers locked with his automatically.

They ran. Out of the tavern. Into the wind.

Cold slammed into them. Gravestone dust kissed their lashes.

Dolly tore ahead like a guided missile of mayhem, but Pecola stopped short. Antic's arm tugged tight when she didn't move.

"We need to go back," she said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it gutted him.

He turned, heart pounding. "What?"

"Grin. We left him outside the realm."

Antic froze. Shit. She was right. A fist of guilt punched him in the chest. He'd been so busy raging, he'd forgotten the one soul who probably needed him most.

Dolly sighed dramatically but didn't protest. "Fine. But if they bind us in soul-chains and make us play eternal bingo, it's your fault."

They didn't go forward through the realm. Instead, they turned on their heels and pushed back the way they came—through the skeletal gates, past the tavern, past the mausoleums, retracing every cursed step.

Out of the Gravestone Realm. Beyond the crumbling border and into the desolate stretch of forgotten land they had crossed before.

And there, exactly where they had left him, sat Grin.

Curled beside a crooked gravestone beneath the cold moonlight, his arms were wrapped around his knees, head bowed, motionless except for the slight rise and fall of his chest.

Antic reached him first. He dropped to his knees, breathless. "Grin?"

Grin looked up slowly. His eyes shimmered. "I didn't want to go in."

"You didn't have to," Pecola said, kneeling beside him.

"We're sorry," Antic murmured. "We got caught up in the bullshit."

Grin gave a small, shaky smile. "I heard you yelling. You stood up for me?"

"Damn right I did," Antic grinned. "Embarrassed the hell out of them."

Dolly joined, plopping down like a porcelain wrecking ball. "Next time, let me throw someone. Cathartic."

Antic touched Grin's hand. "You belong with us. Even if you're not ready to believe it yet."

Grin leaned against him. The tension in his body began to loosen.

"Let's get out of here," Pecola said.

Dolly stood, brushing off her petticoats with a dramatic sigh. "The short way is the long way. And the long way is never straightforward."

She cocked her head toward the horizon. "Let's move before I stab something decorative. And don't say I didn't warn you—this route is twisted. If we take one wrong turn and end up in a cursed tea party dimension where everyone speaks in riddles and the chairs are sentient, I'm haunting whoever led."

She pointed toward a narrow path lined with brittle trees and glowing stones. Her expression, usually sarcastic, softened just slightly. "This is the real path to the Gate of Trees. Follow me."