Story 1226: Worship What Walks

They wandered the Ashlands for hours.

Each mile deeper brought stranger sights—twisted effigies built from limbs, burnt-out buses filled with bones, and trees carved into grotesque silhouettes of worship. Every path pointed toward “The Spine,” a jagged rock formation said to be the cult’s central altar.

The girl, still unconscious, muttered in her sleep—words in a dead language. Lena and Ward tried not to listen, but the air vibrated each time she spoke. Even the insects dared not come near her.

By nightfall, they reached the valley.

And saw them.

Dozens—maybe hundreds—of the Cult of Decay gathered around bonfires of rotting meat and burning scripture. They wore stitched skin over their own and bore broken weapons turned ceremonial. Above them, hanging from the rocks like a crown of corpses, were zombies—displayed, preserved, adored.

They were not feared here.

They were revered.

Ward whispered, “They don’t just worship the dead. They worship what walks.”