World of Terror

We finally reached the end of the tunnel. The air was thick and smelled awful, like rot and rust. Every breath felt heavy in my lungs. Screams and quiet cries echoed all around, bouncing off the cold stone walls. They slipped through cracks and gaps in the walls, carried by cold, stale air that made the place feel even scarier.

Blood stained almost every door we passed—dark red smears on the cold floor. Some looked fresh, others dried and cracked like old wounds. The heavy iron doors creaked and groaned, worn down by rust but still locked tight. Each door felt like it led to something terrible.

One of the doors creaked open.

A tall man came out, wearing a cracked black mask that covered his face. Behind him was a small child, shackled and shaking, mumbling something I couldn't hear. Neither of them looked at us. They just walked at the dark stairs ahead, disappearing into deep.

Another door farther down opened abruptly, revealing a figure cloaked in a dark hood. He dragged something behind him, a grotesque shape twisted and half-conscious. Its limbs twisted, skin mottled gray and blistered. The creature's body scraped harshly against the stone floor, scraping and groaning in unnatural protest.

The hooded man said nothing as he dragged the creature across the floor and threw it into a rough pit in the far corner.

I glanced around. The others in the group were as terrified as I was. Some had gone pale, faces drained of color. One kid had tears streaming down his cheeks, his lips pressed so tightly together it was as if he was fighting to keep himself from screaming aloud.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The silence pressed down on me, heavier than the dank air.

I tried to swallow again, but my throat felt dry and raw, like sandpaper scraping the inside of my mouth.

This place was far worse than anything I had dared imagine.

A pale man approached us, his sunken eyes cold and lifeless, scanning our faces like a hunter checking his prey. He clutched a clipboard and muttered to himself as he scribbled down names and notes, though I doubted he cared about any of it.

"Name?" he asked, barely lifting his eyes.

"Henry," the boy in front of me answered quietly, voice shaking.

"Name?"

"Luci—Lucy," I said, stumbling over the name, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

He paused, eyes narrowing suspiciously as they flicked toward me. "What an odd name for a boy," he muttered under his breath. "Well, I don't care."

He moved on mechanically, repeating the process with the others, barely acknowledging any of us.

After the last name was taken, he barked sharply, "Stand in front of each door!"

He spun on his heels and shouted louder, "Each door decides your fate! Move it or die!"

Chains scraped against the stone floor as the group shuffled forward. The metal links clanked and dragged, echoing in the oppressive silence.

Some kids cried quietly. Others stared ahead, hollow and numb, their eyes vacant.

I raised my hand hesitantly.

"What!" the man barked, glaring at me.

"Are we… are we going to die?" My voice was barely more than a whisper.

He chuckled, dark and hollow, a sound void of any real humor. "That depends on the result."

I turned slowly to face the row of iron doors, numbered from one to thirteen. Each door was rusted and stained with age and blood. They stood like silent sentinels, mocking our fear.

The others moved on, some trembling, others resigned.

A girl collapsed near Door Five, sobbing uncontrollably, until a guard roughly yanked her to her feet and shoved her through.

Another boy muttered prayers rapidly, his lips moving so fast they blurred as he stared down at Door Nine.

I stood frozen, watching the others disappear behind their fates.

Then my eyes landed on Door Thirteen, the only one left.

As I stepped closer, the door creaked open a few inches.

A low, calm voice came from inside. "Come in."

My heart thundered in my chest. I hesitated, but my feet moved forward on their own.

The door closed behind me with a dull, final thud.

…

Inside, a woman stood before a long table cluttered with strange herbs, rusted tools, glass vials filled with curious liquids, and stones carved with archaic symbols. She stirred a thick, steaming liquid in a small pot, muttering under her breath in a language I didn't understand. Smoke curled around her fingers as if the mixture obeyed her every touch.

By the door stood a tall man in a cracked white mask, his hand resting casually on the gun at his waist. He did not speak, only watching me silently.

The woman turned toward me. Her beauty was haunting, too perfect, too otherworldly. Her long, curly hair flowed like ink, and the scent that clung to her was strangely comforting, almost enough to dull the ache of fear and pain tightening inside me.

It was unusual to see someone as beautiful as her in a place like this.

"Go stand there," she said, gesturing with a stained hand.

She pointed to a large ritual circle etched into the floor, five candles flickering around its edge. The markings appeared to be drawn in dried blood. The design was intricate, a triangular shape in the center, jagged like fangs, surrounded by curved, horn-like lines twisting outward.

I hesitated. "A ritual?"

The woman poured the last of her concoction into a small, cracked ceramic cup.

"Yes, yes. Awakened ceremony," she said distractedly, her tone too casual, too calm.

Awakened ceremony? I frowned. Aren't you supposed to pass trials, train for years, earn the right, not just be handed it like this?

"Isn't this… dangerous?" I asked.

"Yes!" she said, then quickly added, "Ah, no! No!"

The masked man stepped forward, jabbing the barrel of his gun toward my temple.

"Move it, kid," he growled, clearly out of patience.

"Right, right. Move, move," the woman echoed, motioning urgently.

My heart thundered as I stepped into the center of the circle.

She handed me the cup. The liquid inside shimmered murky black-red, bubbling faintly as if alive.

"Drink, drink," she said with a wide grin, eyes gleaming with something almost cruel.

I stared at the cup, uncertain. My hand trembled violently.

"Now," the man snapped, cocking the gun.

Then, a gunshot rang out.

I froze.

It hadn't come from this room, but somewhere beyond the door. A moment later, someone screamed from the other side of the wall.

The scream sliced through the silence, raw and desperate.

Fear surged through me like ice water.

On instinct, I raised the cup and drank it in one gulp.

The liquid was thick and metallic, tasting sharply of iron and ash. A bitter aftertaste clung to my tongue and throat.

The woman clapped her hands gleefully. "Perfect! Now, read this!"

She thrust a crumpled scrap of paper into my shaking hands. Strange writing covered it, Arkian symbols at the top, followed by a translation in Western letters.

"Read, read!" she urged.

I spoke in a low voice, trembling:

"I call the origin of blood and ruin.

Chained by blood, forged in curse.

Grant this dust your malevolent breath.

From chaos born, I seek rebirth."

"Louder!" she barked, eyes wild and burning.

I repeated the chant. My voice cracked and shook.

On the third repetition, the pain struck.

Agony unlike anything I had ever known.

I collapsed, gasping as pain tore through my body like shattered glass.

My veins darkened beneath my skin, bulging and twitching as if something alive pulsed beneath.

"Arghh!"

My fingernails cracked sharply. My joints flared with unbearable heat.

My blood seemed to boil inside my veins. My lungs struggled to draw breath.

The woman laughed, her voice rising in ecstasy. "That's it! That's right. Pain. More pain!"

I screamed, helpless, as something seared into my wrist.

It felt like molten iron carving through flesh.

I looked down. A symbol was forming on my skin, five curved, bone-like tails spiraling outward from a circle shaped like an eye.

It pulsed with dark, living energy.

"Arghhh!"

Sweat poured down my face. Blood leaked from my nose and ears.

My breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. My body convulsed violently.

The last thing I saw before the world slipped away was the woman's fingernails growing grotesquely long, curling unnaturally. It was a final, twisted smile blurred by the burning haze of my suffering.

…

When I woke, my body seemed returned to normal, though a dull ache lingered, gnawing beneath my skin.

My throat was dry, each breath scraping painfully like sandpaper.

Instinctively, I slid the iron shackle over my wrist to hide the strange symbol burned deep into my flesh.

The masked man remained still, his gun pointed at me, cold and unyielding as ever.

Then the woman stepped forward, excitement gleaming in her eyes. She held a small, curved knife.

I flinched as she approached.

"Blood. Give me blood, blood," she muttered, voice low and desperate, more to herself than to me.

Without warning, she slashed my palm.

Blood welled freely as she pressed it against a scroll covered in rune symbols.

Nothing happened.

Her eyes widened. "Rejected? Blessed?" she whispered, confusion cracking her voice.

Then, with a sudden, anguished scream, she yanked at her hair.

"Failed? Why? Why? Why!"

The masked man finally holstered his weapon and spoke in a dull, calm voice.

"Should I throw him into the dog pit?"

The woman took a shuddering breath. "Yes. Yes. Trash."

The man grabbed the chain attached to my shackle and began dragging me toward a narrow, grim staircase.

I tried to resist, but my body refused to obey. I was weak, hollow, and drained of all strength.