Installment 29 [https://squirrel.dogphilosophy.net/Installment029.png]
Al glared at the battered limbless armored suit. Dim points of crimson light behind the eyeslots glared back. Glowing red smoke swirled out from the joints where the arms and legs had been, and the loud whispering voice echoed from within the helmet. Al couldn't understand what it was saying, if it was speaking at all, but the tone was obviously angry.
From out in the hallway, there was the sound of one final hefty impact and then, after a moment, the sound of pieces of metal bouncing some distance further down the hall. Then, there was only the sound of Gruntle's eager panting, which slowed and ended with a long, slow, contented groan.
"Well," Bote announced, "considering the situation, that went better than it might have. It appears none of us is seriously hurt. I do not hear anything else coming, and the only thing I see is..."
He pointed, as the fleeing ghost with the candelabra ran past the door again.
"I suppose so," Al agreed reluctantly, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead with the back of his hand. He squinted in aggravation at the incompletely-destroyed suit of armor, vaguely threatening whispers continued from the helmet in a way that'd have been impossible if it had needed to breathe.
"And the same to you, you worthless junk," Al retorted, giving it a kick. "I wonder if it's actually saying anything?"
"It wants you to die or leave so it can go back to sleep," Gruntle said as he joined them.
"You can understand it?"
Gruntle grunted.
"What language is it speaking?"
"Don't know."
"You understand it, but you don't know what language it's speaking?"
Grunt.
"I see, well, ask it what it's guarding."
Gruntle looked down at the armor.
"What are you guarding?"
"In its own language, please."
"Can't. Don't know it."
"But you understand it?"
Grunt.
Al sighed. "My head hurts too much for this. I sort of want to keep it around to study it, but I'd be worried that it might end up being able to do something against us. Shall we just break it and move on?"
Gruntle stomped on the helmet, crushing it and releasing whatever energies were inside.
"They don't like when you break them," he said, with a sharp-toothed malicious grin. "They don't want to go back."
"Back where?" Al asked.
"Don't know."
"...right. What is this room, anyway?" Al lifted the magical torch higher to look around.
They appeared to be in a small chapel. To the left, another door to the hallway was open. The ghost with the candles was making its rounds, inspecting the suits of armor that were no longer there. In the middle of the room were three rows of wooden pews facing a headless stone statue of a woman which stood in front of the stained-glass window to the right. Looking closer, Al saw the statue's missing head, broken off and lying on its side on the floor. Coincidentally, it was facing their direction.
"Fortuna," Bote told them. "Apparently someone was ungrateful for the attentions of the goddess." They looked thoughtful for a moment, then continued. "I think it would be respectful if we at least put her head back atop her body."
With Gruntle's help, Al managed to lift the head off of the floor and back onto the statue, carefully balanced on the statue's neck. The break was uneven but the head seemed like it would rest in place well enough as long as nobody disturbed it. Al placed his hands gently around the neck and performed a small magic trick, and when he took his hands away, there was hardly a seam visible where it had been broken.
Bote gave the statue a respectful nod. Al sat heavily down onto a pew to rest. The rotten wood gave way immediately, dumping him the rest of the way down onto the floor. He resisted the urge to implore the ceiling-gods for mercy - he wasn't actually a particularly religious person, but it seemed rude to even jokingly implore other deities while they were at least symbolically sitting right in front of one. He got back to his feet.
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"Let's get back to what we were doing."
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Wikwocket returned to the hallway. She paused where she had stopped last time, checking every direction to make sure nothing was coming, then carefully made her way down the hall. She stepped aside briefly to let the terrified ghost run by again. She watched it pass through the closed door to her left. There seemed to be some old dark-brown stains in the wood of the floor between that door and one across the hall from it. She turned to wave at the others to let them know it was safe.
"It appears to be safe," Bote helpfully announced for the benefit of Al, who was squinting down the hallway and couldn't see far enough in the torchlight.
"Thanks. Okay, Bote, you lead the way since we might need spiritual defense, I'll follow you. Gruntle, you follow and watch behind..."
Al decided to rephrase.
"I mean - anything that believes it can sneak up on us will be mercilessly slaughtered by Gruntle."
They walked next to the wall so that the ghost could run past them again without getting too near anyone, and gathered at the door to the ghost's destination. Wikwocket gave the door an examination for safety's sake, then shrugged.
"Just a regular door as far as I can tell, no sign of anything dangerous. I mean, aside from whatever's got this guy so worried," she said, indicating the ghost once again rushing down the hall and through the closed door.
Al pushed on the door and it swung open on squeaky hinges. As it did, a simple servant's bedroom was revealed, until the door opened wide enough to also reveal what was left of the servant.
The skeletal remains were draped in tatters of shredded clothing covered with dark-brown stains of long-dried blood. The skull was cracked, the spine broken, the ribs were in pieces. The bones of the left arm and hand still wrapped around a golden candelabra. The bones of the other arm and hand were shattered or missing entirely.
The ghost ran into the room again. It turned and lunged as if trying to shove the door shut, but some unseen force flung it back. Silently screaming, it raised its left arm to defend itself from whatever was chasing it. Blood spurted as something tore flesh from the man's arm and forced him down to the floor where the skeletal remains lay. As the ghost blurred and began to fade, bloody stripes as from ripping claws appeared down the man's chest. The ghost vanished.
Nobody moved for several seconds after the horrifying performance ended, until Gruntle walked into the room and reached down to pick up a piece of cracked and broken rib. He held it up to look at it, sniffed, and then seemed to sag sadly. He let the broken bone fall back to the floor.
It took a moment for Al to find his voice again. "What's wrong?" he asked Gruntle, gently.
"Someone already ate the marrow."
Bote noticed the candlelight approaching again. He stepped into the room and knelt by the servant's skull, gently placing a hand on it. Looking into its eye-sockets, he began a quiet prayer.
The ghost ran once more into the room and repeated the gruesome show. As the mangled ghost began to fade again, its terrified face appeared on the skull. Its expression relaxed and its eyes slowly closed, and then it was gone. Al, Bote, and Wikwocket watched but the ghost did not reappear in the hallway.
A gurgle was heard from Gruntle's abdomen.
"Makes me hungry," he said.
"Of course it does," sighed Al, though he was reminded unexpectedly of a stew he'd once been served that had been made from marrow-bones, cabbage, and spices. It had actually been very good.
Al frowned. "Is this 'adventuring' business supposed to mess with peoples' heads?"
"Oh, definitely!" Wikwocket answered, "Canonically! You're not being properly heroic if you don't change and grow along the way, it's part of all the good stories!"
Maybe it was normal then, but Al decided this wasn't a good time for self-reflection. He turned his attention back to the ancient crime scene before them. Wikwocket regarded the servant's remains with awe.
"That was...brutal. Horrible."
"Kind of makes you wish you could un-see something, doesn't it?"
"What? No! This kind of authenticity is priceless! You don't get to experience this from old recitations of someone else's stories! It can't all be sweetness and joy, you know. And then, Bote giving the tortured spirit peace gives closure to his story."
"I did nothing so important," argued Bote, "I am simply a hammer to tap the pieces of the of the ineffable plans back into their necessary places."
"Oh, that's good! That quote's going in the retelling!"
"There's not going to be a retelling," Al interrupted, "if the beast pounces on us while we're talking about it. The more we understand before we run into it the more likely we survive. Now, look, what do you see?"
"Dead man," answered Gruntle.
"Besides that?"
"Dead man that someone already ate a long time before we could."
Al sighed, but Bote held up a finger for attention.
"That actually is a good observation," Bote suggested. "The villagers said the tax-collector who was supposed to have been lord of this place was still visiting them no more than a year ago. The state of these remains, and the general state of the place we have seen so far, suggests it has been abandoned for much longer than that."
"That's it! That's what's been bothering me. The whole place feels like it doesn't even belong here. Like it was picked up from somewhere old and weird and dropped here recently."
"It didn't even exist in people's memories until we got there," Wikwocket exclaimed in wonder. "Mysterious!"
"I don't know if it's that extreme, but it's not natural for the whole town to forget the place. But more importantly, what does it have to do with this," Al said, pointing to the remains of the servant, "and the beast that I think we can assume killed him."
On closer inspection, the floorboards were visibly darkened around the body where they'd been soaked in blood. Darkened spatters stretched in several directions in testament to the violence of the event. A trail of darkened spots led from the remains to the door. A regular pattern of larger markings was embedded in it.
"Hey, look at these! Al, hold that torch closer!" Wikwocket exclaimed, pointing.
"What, are your eyes not working properly any more?" Al teased, leaning down to hold the light closer.
"They're fine, but more light helps it not all just look like 'floor' in the dark." she said. "Look! Are those footprints?"
They were shaped almost like the prints of bare human feet, but larger and misproportioned with the heel smaller and the ball of the foot and the toes wider. The prints followed the darkened spots to the doorway and across the hall, beneath the closed door on the other side. Wikwocket excitedly followed this clue, the others trailing behind her, though Al took a moment to pull what was left of the dead servant's candles from the candelabra on the assumption that he might need emergency lighting later.
Unable to contain her curiosity, Wikwocket absent-mindedly pushed the door open. The stench of decay immediately leaked into the hallway.