Story 1007: Keeper of the Crypts

Beneath the withered fields of Duskvale, past the dead orchards and silenced scarecrows, lies the Sepulchral Maze—a labyrinth of crypts stretching farther than the eye or soul can fathom. No map survives its winding bones. No voice echoes through its corridors.

Yet something watches.

They call him the Keeper.

Talia Grimm stood at the rusted gates, sketchbook pressed to her chest. Beside her, Hobb & Stitch bickered with themselves, one head claiming they were being followed, the other humming a forgotten lullaby.

“The doors opened,” Talia signed to Hobb, eyes wide. “He knows we’re here.”

Inside, the air grew colder. Stone walls were slick with black moss, and the torchlight flickered unnaturally—casting shadows with too many limbs.

Statues lined the crypt corridors—hooded figures, eyeless angels, weeping gargoyles. Some seemed to change positions when no one was looking.