Crone
Paul leaned his face against the cool door frame, the woodgrain pressing against his forehead, leaving brief afterimages of nooks and crannies in his skin. Unfocused eyes paid no mind to the cobwebs near the rusty hinges, the empty egg sacs left floating and discarded in the rarely used doorway.
Keep your eyes down, he thought. Don’t look up. Don’t let your eyes wander. If you can’t see her, she can’t see you. The old crone won’t bother you. Move fast and gather the water in the pail. Return to the door and lock it up tight. Don’t open the visitor slide. Don’t be tempted to look. She craves eye contact. That’s where her power lies.
The old crone was the strangest of neighbors, less than friendly and deadlier than most. She bore no name but crone. She could speak but it was a rare and terrifying thing to hear. Often the only sound was her breathing, long wheezing breaths taken through icy lips, punctuated by the rare heart wrenching scream of the damned that seemed to carry through the temple. Her intelligence was less a remnant of her rotting flesh than the dark magic that infested her, recalled her from the grave and set her out here as a guard of this ancient temple. She was a mascot of sorts for this gathering of men so dedicated to the idea of death answering their beck and call.
The rains of spring had fallen off and the deep wells under the temple were low, what little water remained tasted of sand and grit against the tongue. Even at its freshest, the water seemed tainted by the unnatural magic and evil of the place. The cleanest sheets and bed clothes still left him feeling covered in filth and grime that could never be properly cleansed.
Paul was the newest servant for the Necromancers of Colpus. He was the youngest son, one too many his father had always told him when dead sober and said worse still after he was pissing drunk and chasing his own daughters around. Paul had been farmed, or, to be honest, sold to the necro cult for a small bag of silver. His life now belonged to the Necrolins.
Stuffed into a sack by his father, he had been dumped painfully upon the cold stones of the temple gate. Two men in dark robes watched as the young boy tumbled out and lay shaking on the ground, hands bound, mouth gagged by a rag the old man used to wipe his sweat with. He had only looked down at Paul briefly before taking his silver and going on his way. Paul had laid there for several minutes as the hooded figures stared at him. They didn’t seem to look at him as much as they felt his presence, taking in the essence of his being, the stink of his fear and the piss that had soaked through his trousers.
That was a few months ago and few words had been spoken to him since. Quickly he learned he was a slave, made to toil for the hooded figures who courted death like a lover. Necrolins had no use for Paul as a person, only as a pack mule, a servant and occasionally one to torture as they did now. The closest thing to amusement he had seen pass across the Disciple Ispan’s face came when he was telling Paul to fetch water from the far well.
Now Paul stood near the door farthest from the temple center, his heart racing, his mouth dry, hands shaking. The large wooden pail chattering against the door as he worked the large key into the dry cumbersome lock, the squeal of the door hinges brought tears to his eyes and he gave up any hope of a stealthy attempt to collect the water.
He pushed the door open enough to allow his body through easily as well as his bucket. Leaving the door slightly ajar, he hoped he could pass through it again quickly once he had collected what he had come for. Stepping out into the dust of the courtyard he listened for the sound of her shambling footsteps but heard nothing but silence. No birds chirped. No wind swayed the tree branches in the quiet dance of spring. It was as quiet as the crypt he slept in below.
Quickly. Move. He took fast steps across the yard cursing silently at the distance the well stood from the door. Panting, he sat his pail on the ground while dropping the chained bucket into the well, hearing a loud splash echoing against the walls up to his ears. He grabbed the crank and turned it as quickly as he dared. A full bucket was required upon his return. A half or three-quarter bucket of water wouldn’t do. He wished to avoid being sent out again.
Stumbling footsteps caught his ear, his arm faltered on the well crank, his eyes shutting instinctively in fear. The old crone sought the eyes. Without seeing her, she wouldn’t see you. He hoped.
Wheezing sounds came from behind him, she sounded out of breath, like she was hurrying to a fancy party and feared being late. Paul allowed his eyes to slightly open, to dare and peek out. Sunlight passed over his shoulder as he leaned against the well crank. The well roof and crank stood out plainly in the light, his boyish form leaning and shaking against it, each outlined on the dry earth. Her thin shadow cast a dappled darkness upon the dead earth. Shoulders sprouted a thin neck upon which sat a knobby head with a few thin strands of hair moving in the wind. Yet, Paul could feel no wind. Her essence seemed to float about her like she stood underwater despite her desecrated corpse damned to wander this arid courtyard of the dead.
Moments passed as he stood, watching the shadow, the head swiveling about, her eyes no doubt casting around for another set to connect with. Slowly she wandered, her shadow following in the afternoon light. Paul’s heart continued to race and it took more courage than he possessed to start turning the crank again. As he did, she continued wandering around the courtyard like a child barely up on two legs, exploring their world for the first time.
Paul turned the crank slowly, the gears squeaking and jumping from time to time, causing him to curse in his head at the noise. The edge of the bucket crested the stone edge and he lifted it up to inspect the water.
The water was rank and discolored. Some manner of creature must have died in the well. Perhaps a cat or dog seeking refuge from the crone’s gaze had leapt to its death, scrabbling at the stone walls deep in the earth before they succumbed to exhaustion, melting away into the thick sludge that now filled his bucket.
Paul pushed the bucket back into the well with a heavy bang and cursed himself for the carelessness of it. The old crone let out a shrill scream tinged with laughter as if she knew what he’d find in the well. Chill bumps covered Paul’s neck and back as the scream lingered in an unnatural way. Giggles, not unlike that of a small child, escaped from the crone’s lips as she paced the courtyard.
Paul was finished with his task. The well was tainted. He only needed to return to the door and lock it back again. Barely moving, he grasped the pail he had brought, pulling it close to his chest while trying to follow the shuffling gait of the crone. His eyes were still latched on the ground beside the well. If he expected to move, he would have to know where she was. He let his eyes wander slightly since he could no longer hear her movements.
His heart stopped as he realized she stood facing him. At the highest point of his vision, his chin against his chest, he could see gray scaly feet with jagged yellow toenails bared beneath the frayed edges of an old dress, not unlike a wedding dress, he thought. As the thought entered his head, the crone screamed out a tortured wail that left his insides icy, forcing his eyes closed. He stood shaking for an interminable amount of time, the sweat sliding down his neck. Had she heard his thoughts? Could the old crone be more aware and smarter than he had believed?
Soft shambling footsteps edged closer. Barely breathing, eyes screwed tight, he refused to move. A waft of rotted flesh floated to his nose. Involuntarily, his head tilted away from her, the gorge rising in his throat, spasms deep within his stomach threatened to loose his meager breakfast upon the world. The old hag gasped in short spurts excitedly, perhaps feeling his discontent in some otherworldly way.
Paul bit his tongue, the pain and bitterness of the blood distracted him enough. He focused on the iron taste in his mouth, the stinging from his tongue. He knew she was mere inches from his face, her ragged breathing against his cheek, sending chills across his flesh directly into his soul.
Moments seemed like hours as she stood but eventually, the crone slowly crept away. Dry wisps of hair trailed across his cheek as she moved past him, her cold shoulder brushing against his. Her breathy moans hinting of disappointment and sadness.
Paul followed her steps as best he could, eyes still closed until he was sufficiently confident she was a good distance away. He opened his eyes and sprinted directly for the door. He could hear her frantic breathing and hurried steps behind him as he crashed through the door, sending his bucket flying down the hall. He slammed the door as he felt her pushing against it. Her wails pierced the door, her sharp nails scrabbling against the door.
His shoulder against the door, he turned the key in its lock, feeling the gears grind satisfyingly as the door shook with her efforts to gain entrance.
As the final tumbler fell into place, Paul sank to the ground, shaking and near to tears. Frustrated screams at the door continued but slowly abated into cooing sounds, like something you’d do to coax a puppy towards you.
The hard door against his back, Paul looked up at the sound of clicking. The visitor peek had jarred open in his haste to shut the door. Yellow fingernails were exploring the opening lovingly and tenderly. Gray fingers fit deeply within the slot, a gold wedding ring upon her hand glittered in sharp contrast to the filth and rot it adorned.
Paul stared. The old crone was one to be feared. And he did fear her, more than anything else in his young life thus far. Yet, he did pity her as well. A victim of fate, much like himself, cursed to an existence she didn’t choose.
Her soft moans moved away from the door, her steps sounded like the dragged feet of a moping child.
Paul stood and dared a glimpse through the peep. Her back towards him, he could see her clearly now. A circlet that could have once been a bridal wreath covered the crown of her head, long strips of wounds covered her back that never healed, from a flogging long ago. The dress looked like it had once been made of fine cut and material. Now it was stained, ripped and bloodied from years of her own personal torture.
He watched her amble away. She never cast a look over her shoulder. She never looked up, her eyes followed along the ground, searching and wandering forever.
For the first time since being abandoned at this temple, he felt he had found a kindred soul. A tainted and tortured soul, much like his own. How typical of his existence to find the only person he could relate to, would be a dead bride recalled from the grave.
Paul slowly closed the peep. He stood a few moments and then gathered his bucket to return to the lower levels of the crypt.