She was jolted awake with such force from her dream she gasped. It had been such a lovely dream, too, with emerald grasslands and a morning glory sky. Grasping at the last strand of her vision was pointless as she rapidly awoke to a heavily bearded man standing over her. There was a quick smack across her cheek, and she was wide awake.
“Nah time fer sleepin' Miss P'nelope! Needin' a li'l jingle in mah paw'kets.” The grizzled man spoke with such a hard accent, understanding him would be difficult to the common man, but Miss Penelope knew exactly what he and the four other men standing nearby came for.
Before she could answer, another slap across her face was felt as the rest of the men chuckled. She reached for her old, wrinkled cheek to soothe the sharp pain as she closed her eyes for a moment. There was a brief flicker of hope that she was still in a dream having shifted darkly to a nightmare, but he grabbed her arms and shook her.
“Alright, alright. Let me up and I'll get you your coins,” she said in between wheezes, trying to catch her breath. These days, she was relieved her cottage was so small as her legs didn't appreciate being used too much. The pain in her joints screamed each time she took the ten steps down into her root cellar.
The giant of a man stood up and let her get off the pitiful excuse for a bed. Much like her other possessions, it had seen its prime decades ago and was now on borrowed time.
The floorboards groaned and squawked under her feet as she slowly shifted across the room to the hearth. Shame on her for napping, she thought as she strained to reach up from inside the chimney to the hidden ledge holding her coin purse. The fire had died down to coals, and it would be hell on her knees working it back up. The cold days demanded the fire roaring constantly, but the old woman felt beyond her years, which led to more naps and longer nights dreaming of emerald grasslands and skies of morning glories.
Toothless grins suddenly appeared throughout the little shanty cottage as the men grew with excitement watching the coin purse present itself from its secret location. It, too, was barely holding together with old stitching and threadbare fabric. The coins within, mostly copper with one silver, was all she had left from her late husband.
He had worked prominently as a cobbler for much of the nobles in the Highborn district, the heart of Keldia. His work was almost magical between his extraordinary craftsmanship and the alarmingly short time to complete each shoe. Nobles remarked how they walked an inch off the ground feeling not a single curve of cobblestone beneath them.
How quickly, however, did they dismiss the tragic news of his death to tuberculosis as other cobblers suddenly appeared shortly thereafter, mysteriously equal to his talent and twice as fast. The small fortune he had acquired was passed on to his widow, Miss Penelope, which was then passed on, forcefully, to a small band of petty criminals whose source of income was through intimidation.
“There, that's the last of it,” Miss Penelope said as she emptied the pouch into the man's awaiting hand. From his expression, he didn't seem very pleased.
“It do't jingle ver' loud, Miss P'nelope,” he said as his fat, sausage-like finger pushed a few of the coins to one side. “Yer gon' haf' ta do betta than tha' nex' week.” A chorus of grumbles and laughter followed as they departed with a few of her brick-a-brac possessions. The only thanks she received was a final shove against the hearth from the hand that held the coins.
She leaned against the mantle for some time after the men departed until she could gather her old self, waddle to the front door, and latch it from swinging wildly in the cold night air. Closing her eyes again, she wished for her dream to immediately return, but all she felt was the chill against her skin and her sore feet.
Her husband had left her with several pairs of shoes to wear, but she outlived them all considerably. There was no way of knowing just how old she really was. Her interest of keeping track had long since faded with the blonde in her hair. It felt like a cruel trick upon her: she couldn't seem to die of old age, and she couldn't live the rest of her life in peace without harassment. Each week, the same group of young men, foolish in their ways and little sense about them, would force themselves into her humble hovel and threaten her until she gave them coins. Regardless if the coins were resting on the table beside the front door, she would always receive a slap of a hand or a violent shake just to remind her of what they could do otherwise.
It simply wasn't fair, she thought to herself as she made her way to the door to the cellar. She shivered as unusually colder air blew up from the dark depths below and swirled around her. It was the only place in the house that felt tolerable during the harsh winters in Keldia, but tonight seemed to disregard that truth.
An oil lantern hung on a twisted iron hook that guided her down the ten steps to the dirt floor cellar. She managed to barely keep it maintained with bags of vegetables, which was all she chose to eat. Her husband had been nearly a carnivore to her, often bringing home large cuts of meat gifted to him by the noble families. The sight of a steak dripping with fat while cooking reminded her of boils and leprosy as it darkened and sizzled. It had been difficult to dine with him nightly, but she found tolerance with each purse he brought home that overflowed with coins.
Someone was in the shadowy cellar with her. The walls were lined with shelves, and in the middle were three tables. From the glow of her lantern, everything cast heavy shadows everywhere, yet she had a peculiar feeling that she was not alone. With her lantern raised, she peered around each table with trepidation, but each one yielded no one in hiding. It didn't take long to cover the enter cellar as it was half the size of her house, which wasn't large to begin with.
Finding nothing, she shrugged her shoulders and went to gather tonight's supper of potatoes and carrots when another strange, cold gust of wind whirled about her and blew out her lantern. It startled her too much to notice it had not come from upstairs. The darkness was rich black to her unaccustomed old eyes as she stood still staring about her, listening for the slightest sound.
As her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, there was the vague outline of animal perched on one of the shelves against the wall. Its back curved higher than its head. It sat motionless in the dark and pressed its body against the shelf as if to pounce.
“Good evening. You have a lovely cellar,” whispered a voice from the dark object. The old woman could begin to make out its features more. It was more or less cat shaped with very little neck to join the body to the head. It appeared to have no arms or legs and was covered in coarse fur that more closely resembled quills from a porcupine but considerably longer in length. The face was too humanoid to be ignored. Its pronounced nose was narrow with significant length and moved about in a slow, methodical pattern. Two sets of eyes rest above its nose, one pair above the other, that gave off a soft, red illumination.
Miss Penelope gaped in horror, her mouth a silent scream from the sight as she stood frozen. It was a thing not from this world although many bizarre and wondrous creatures dwelt throughout it. This beast must be from the demonic abyss, she thought, as it was far too grotesque and sinister to exist elsewhere.
Taking a few swallows to wet her throat, she asked, “Tha-thank you. Wha-What do you want from me?” Her fear gave her very little strength to speak although her curiosity helped a little. She had seen nothing more than a few famous magical beasts in Keldia's zoo when she was very young, but never in her life had she seen a creature of demonic blood.
“I am in need of food, old woman, and I smelled your lovely cellar,” the beast shifted on the shelf, and she could see it did, in fact, have legs tucked underneath like a cat. All four eyes seem to look about the room curiously. “Although these are only garnishes.”
“What food do you like to eat?” she asked, finally finding her voice again. She was far too tired to be tormented again this evening. If she could avoid getting hurt by making a quick meal, she would prepare a feast.
The body lifted off the shelf, revealing four backwards jointed legs, leaped off the shelf with great dexterity, and landed on the table next to her. It leaned slowly towards her, closing to within a few inches of her face. Its eyes flickered as its long nose, like an elephant's trunk, slowly slithered across her face with a gentle caress. Closer still, a triangular mouth was at the end of its nose, which it used to whisper into her ear.
“I desire fleshhhhhhhh,” it extended the word out with a hiss. Her body shivered at both the unnerving touch of its trunk-like nose and the sound of its voice, a smooth, low pitched quality that reminded her of a baritone humming.
“But I don't have any me-meat. I only ---” she said and was quickly silenced by a firm tightening of the nose around her head. With greater force than the bearded bully, the monster pulled her close enough to feel its clammy, leather-like skin.
“I don't require animal meat, old woman!” it sternly said with a clear sign of impatience, but it quickly calmed itself and loosened its grip. “No, I want flesh of a humanoid, raw and still warm to the touch. Its blood should still pump or not long since.”
Feeling the tension loosen around her face, she recoiled a bit though dared go no further than where she stood. It was pointless to look at the garden sheers she had hanging on the wall. There was a feeling that they would not harm this creature.
Visions came to her mind from the request of the beast. It wanted human flesh, which she barely comprehended the notion of anyone wanting something so revolting. The creature twitched with impatience from her hesitancy, but she quickly nodded in acceptance and felt the grip loosen entirely.
There was the sound of a long, slow sigh coming from the black entity as it retreated smoothly across the cellar and back into the corner. As it melded with the darkness, it whispered one last time, “I need fleshhhhh.” Its voice faded into silence as it drew out the word.
Later that night, after the fireplace had been lit again and she had laid down for much needed rest, she couldn't help but dwell on the strange notion that the beast's voice sounded almost like her late husband.
She didn't hear or see any signs from the creature for several days, and soon she had all since forgotten the ghastly experience. Down in the cellar, it had remained unusually cold each time she went to retrieve more vegetables. The night the beast returned startled her, sending a clay jar shattering against the hard dirt floor.
“You delay my hungerrrrr,” it whispered to her from the shadows of the room. Although she looked to where the noise came from, she couldn't make out the shape this time. It was as if the monster spoke to her from some distant location, sending messages to her mind.
“My teeth long to tear the fleshhhh you promised to fetch,” it said again. The whistle that followed nearly each word raised bumps on her skin. Her thoughts returned to the first evening when she thought the sound was a close likeness of her husband's. This time, she was certain it was the same but with a varying tempo and exaggerated pronunciation.
“Bernie?” she asked timidly as she tried in vain to spot the origin of the voice again. She could feel its presence was close, as if it rested its claws on her shoulders and whispered into her ear from behind. “I don't understand how you sound just like...” she trailed off as the absurdity overcame her words.
The soft sound of a gurgling chuckle answered her. When it finally tapered, it said, “It is not of your concern. Feed me fleshhhh.” There was more structure to the creature's speech. “By tomorrow, flesh or your fleshhhh.”
Its last words jolted her back into a sense of endangerment, and she shuffled back upstairs as quickly as her old bones allowed. She was convinced now the problem would simply not go away, so she sat near her hearth in the morning flicker of flames. There was no doubt about it now that somehow her husband's voice was being used by this creature of terror downstairs. Whether it was somehow him or some callous spirit that was sent to frighten her was unclear. Either way, her fear overcame her frustration of yet another harassment in her life.
Glancing outside the window, a slow, steady snow was falling onto the ground, covering the frozen mud of Bellow Street. A few horse drawn carts were slowly trudging through the growing drifts. The flakes were large and crisp in shape, tumbling over themselves as they drifted down. Her thoughts fell with the snowflakes to the demands of the monstrosity downstairs. At her age, she questioned the potential consequence of disobeying the beast. For years she had been mentally prepared of death, welcoming it even to a degree. If that would be her punishment, she had no intention of helping it.
Suddenly her mind was convoluted with visions of her husband being tortured. He laid half dead, restrained to an inclined table surrounded by tools, devices, and weapons of horrific means. He was not alone in the room covered in dark ash. Human shaped grotesque beings, each one more gruesome and terrifying than the last, were bent over him in observation. Each one had some form of torturing structure made of black iron strapped to their face. Hooks, anchored to the back of their head, were sunk into the lips and peeled forcefully back beyond the face's tolerance, revealing a bloody mess of gums and teeth. Slowly one by one they turned their heads toward her, their permanent smiles casting a devilishly sinister expression.
She woke with a start, having dosed off to the doldrums of the silent snowfall, leaving her gasping for breath from the horror. She sobbed for hours; although her nightmare was over, she couldn't stop reliving the experience. She somehow could feel a reality behind what she had seen. Somehow her husband, long past his death, was being harmed endlessly, or would be, if she didn't follow through.
It was a day before her weekly brute visitors were due when she had tricked a traveler passing by to enter her poor cottage. Little effort was needed to convince anyone with time on their hands to help an elderly old woman in need of a heavy kettle hung over the fire.
He was a younger man, perhaps in his early 20s, with hard, dark skin from years of working outdoors. He had offered the woman his services for anything else after the cauldron was easily lifted and hung onto the iron hook. Her trap was sprung after he went to retrieve a heavy bag of potatoes from the cellar.
She had hoped it would be quick, that the traveler would be consumed promptly without a mess or a sight to see. But the dark beast had other intentions to savor its prey and spent many hours gorging itself on the flesh and blood. Only when the traveler had been completely devoured did it speak out to her again. Much like earlier, it somehow projected its words directly into her mind while she sat upstairs by the fire.
“Deliciousssss, my dear. My hunger lives. More to me. Do not stop,” it howled in her head, a sense of delight in its tone.
My dear. The words rang inside like a deep wound that never heals. She despised hearing such sincere words from the abomination, but she was too old to work herself up.
Patches of snow still remained when she heard the expected knock at her door the following day. The heavy boots of each man dragged and scattered muddy snow prints across her wooden floor. On this visit, she wasn't even greeted by a grunt before the back of their hand sent her collapsing toward the cellar door. She staggered a bit against the frame, feeling it press against her back, sending pain up her spine to her neck. The pain was excruciating, and the men laughed heartily as she moaned.
The wind was knocked out of her, and she stood desperately trying to catch her breath to speak. The leader of the pack took a broad step forward, grabbing her by her gown with a violent shake as he shouted for his payment.
“Gettin' rea' tire' a'comin' by seein' na coin! N'look 'ere lady! We're gon' com' back n'our –--” his shouting was cut off by an echoing voice from downstairs. It seemed to resonate against the walls and immediately drew all five of the men's attention.
“You go nowhereeeeee.”
The leader of them had a peculiar look to him as his eyes returned to Miss Penelope. “Ya got yerself a fella dow' thur'?” A few chuckled half hardheartedly with their eyes still focused on the doorway to the cellar. The voice had changed from her husband to a raspy, dry sound that reminded her of fingernails scratching against leather. It was clear some of the men were visibly shaken by the sound below, but the leader was too stubborn to be rattled.
Shoving her to one side, he began the descent downstairs ignoring the oil lantern. His steps were not bold, however, and he carefully placed each foot gingerly. For good measure, he drew a blade from under his coat sleeve while the rest of his crew gathered around at the door frame. They couldn't see him once he stepped off the stairs and disappeared into the darkness.
Nothing more was heard in the cellar by the men for several minutes despite them yelling down after him. They began to work up their courage by attempting to persuade the other to investigate, but none of them had any desire to go down.
They were about to turn away as Miss Penelope held onto her sore hip when a wet slurping sound came from the darkness. It was long and drawn out like soup being drunk directly from a bowl. A brief whimper followed and then silence returned.
As if drawn by a trance, each of the four men began walking down the stairs, one at a time, with such hesitancy they might bolt at the sight of a cockroach. Like their fearless leader, none of them bothered to reach for the lantern to guide them.
The old woman groaned as she barely lifted herself up, her arms shaking every step until she was leaning against the door frame. At first, she was appalled at the idea of what happened to the man, but as the silence continued and none of them returned, a dawning came about her at what it meant to her.
She dared not go down in fear of a sight that could not be forgotten. So she waited by the fire for a few days until she had no remaining food upstairs. Knees shaking, she stood at the top of the stairs with the lantern in her hand not looking forward to the journey.
“My hunger is no more, my dear. You did well, very well. Actions are now in motion, but you needn't worry for you have aged too long. Your time finally arrives. Come. Join me and rest,” the return of her husband's voice was now fuller and with more sincerity than before. Even more peculiar, the sound came from behind her near her old decrepit bed. Holding various things around the house as she walked, she made her way across to it with wide eyes. Perhaps to a passerby only an empty bed could be seen, but to her eyes, her husband lay peacefully asleep in a ghostly form where he once did so many years ago. The tattered blanket she wrapped herself with nearly lifted up for her as she slowly lowered down onto the bed.
She felt more tired than she ever had been before. The curiosity of the criminal thugs or the monster in the cellar vanished as her mind began to drift away from worldly problems and venture back to emerald grasslands and a morning glory sky.
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