Chapter II: The Well
The ladder's weathered slats moaned beneath Grimm's heavy tread, each step a dirge as his boots bore him into the well's Stygian depths. The stag's skull clung to his vision—antlers curling like a nightmare's briars, red eyes flaring in the recesses of his mind. No creature he'd slain, no bloodied prey from years past, matched its form; it lingered, a phantom forged in the house's tormenting visions, its dread an unshaken shroud.
At length, the ladder surrendered to a sunken chamber, its floor awash in a shallow pool of stagnant water, black and mirror smooth. His fingers slipped from the rungs, boots shattering the stillness with a resonant thud that echoed like a knell. The wire stretched down from the well's jagged lip, tracing the ceiling's curve—a dark tendril binding this crypt to the forsaken light above.
The room gave way to a cramped passage, its shadows faintly rent by candles, their wan glow bleeding into the dark. Grimm's eyes narrowed, scouring the void. A stench clawed the air—decay's rank perfume, thick with the echo of death. Water seeped from the ceiling, each drop a hollow knell, mirrored by the sodden scrape of his boots through the shallow flood beneath. His hand slid along the walls, their damp chill seeping through his glove as he navigated the serpentine dark.
Soon, the corridor surrendered to a vast chamber—a hub of passages aglow with torchlight, their flames casting ghoulish shapes upon the stone. Six tunnels beckoned; one choked with rubble's ruin, the others lost to blackness. His weapon rose, pressed to his chest, fingers taut around its grip. From the leftmost arch, a hum sighed forth—a mechanical pulse stirring the silence. His gaze traced the wire overhead, coiling toward that sound, a shadowed guide. Eyes burning, he stepped into the tunnel's embrace.
The passage stretched boundless, a mute abyss devouring all noise. The silence pressed like a shroud, suffocating. Ahead, a red light throbbed faintly—a metal door atop a platform, its ladder a skeletal invitation into the unknown.
Grimm's iron grip seized the ladder, hurling his frame onto the platform with a muted thud. His back crashed against the cold stone wall, revolver clutched in one hand, the door's rusted handle trembling in the other. A whisper slithered through the air—an insidious call, curling around his mind like smoke. His jaw tightened, and with a slow, deliberate push, he forced the door inward, its hinges groaning in protest.
He twisted into the breach, arms outstretched, revolver glinting in the dimness. The chamber lay barren. A small table huddled against one wall, dwarfed by a hulking mechanical contraption that sprawled across the other, its gears silent and dark. At the center, a chair cradled a robed figure, slumped and still. His weapon remained poised as his free hand reached forth, brushing the form. A nudge—and it toppled forward, limp as a broken marionette. His breath eased, a faint hiss in the silence. Whatever soul once lingered here was long departed.
Holstering his gun, he bent to the corpse. Beneath the hood, a man's face emerged—pale as death, teeth yellowed and jagged. A revolver dangled from the cadaver's right hand, its barrel cold. His gaze drifted upward: a neat hole pierced one temple, a jagged crater yawned on the other, blood and bone spattered across the wall like a grotesque fresco. Suicide.
A blood-streaked journal lay open on the table. Grimm's fingers closed around it, the parchment crackling as he turned its pages. Sketches sprawled across the leaves—ragged iterations of the antlered pentagrams seared into the skins at the house, each more frenzied than the last. Madness pulsed through every line. Then, an entry scrawled in trembling script:
9-4416: It is coming. The others sense it too. Its power washed over me after the ritual at the chief's house—a warm, inviting embrace. The village starves under drought, and The Order demands penance for our failure. But no more.
His finger lingered on the words, eyes narrowing.
10-4416: Something broke free. The others… they devour each other. First the young, then the old… God, what have we unleashed? I must cage it. I flipped the switch, but a voice calls—urges me to madness… Wendigo, it chants, relentless… I barricade myself here, but how long until the silence falls?
If this is found… do not open the door…
The script ended—blank pages followed, marred only by smears of blood.
Grimm dropped the journal, its pages rustling shut as his eyes bored into the machine across the chamber. A hollow gaped at its center, a lever poised beneath a flickering red light. He advanced, boots ringing on stone, the thought festering—this must unlock the door above. His hand seized the cold metal, darting back to the bloodied script: If this is found… do not open the door… The phrase coiled, a serpent in his mind. His chest locked, grip unyielding. A whisper rose—haunting, insistent.
His arm drove the lever down; the light shifted green, and the machine growled to life, its drone a death knell. A frozen dread engulfed him, silencing the whispers. His breath scraped free, lingering on the corpse. "Poor fool…" The words drifted, dry as dust, as he turned away.
His boots struck the water, sending shudders through the stillness. He tracked the wire upward, grumbling—"Back to the house"—feet slogging through the flood. Then—a guttural snarl erupted behind. The tunnel yawned into shadow, and his eyes sharpened, hand clutching his revolver. Shrieks clawed his ears, glowing dots loomed larger. His arm snapped forward, sidearm trained on the dark. His heart raced as he pulled the trigger—BAM! Light flared, a roar of pain answered—huge, cavernous. His eyes widened, dread clawing deep.
A titanic tentacle lashed out, gripping the arch—slick, pulsing, a nightmare made flesh. Another slammed overhead, the tunnel quaking. His bullets faltered against the colossus. Grimm turned and fled, muscles burning, unearthly wails chasing him.
The forked paths loomed. Torchlight bathed nearly every tunnel, thick with men's shouts reverberating off stone. Across, another flickered with flame. Surrounded. His gaze flickered, wild with hope. Before him, a dark tunnel gaped—his last chance. His legs surged, plunging him into shadow.
Grimm's legs burned, each step a torment driving him into the abyss as torchlight swelled and screams gnashed at his heels. His arm thrust backward, finger wrenching the trigger—BAM! BAM! BAM!—muzzle flares cutting the gloom, met with howls, yet the horde surged undeterred. Before him, darkness reigned; behind, doom's jaws snapped. Abruptly, the clamor dimmed, shrieks dissolving into silence, the tunnel falling still. A reprieve? Then—a shriek rent the void, dozens of glowing eyes flared in pursuit, tentacles slamming the floor, churning vile water against his thighs.
His heart thundered, a captive beast, each breath a struggle through gritted teeth. Ahead, a gap pierced the black—another well's open throat. A primal fire ignited within, hurling his frame toward escape. Moonlight shimmered on the water below, a ghostly lure. He vaulted, clutching the ladder, boots hammering upward. A sickening roar erupted beneath—the fiend followed. "Damn!" His bellow echoed in the tight passage as tentacles tore upward, rungs shattering in their grasp. Its warmth pressed near, a cloying specter. The opening widened. He paused, arms tensing like iron, then launched himself forth—bursting from the well to slam onto the ground, a broken silhouette under the moon.
Tentacles lashed from the well's maw, their obsidian coils thrashing with feral rage, flinging glistening slime across the earth. Grimm stood transfixed, breath caught in his throat, marveling at the grotesque spectacle. Lycans he'd hunted, vampyr he'd slain—but these midnight tendrils, studded with countless glowing eyes, defied all he knew. An otherworldly dread pulsed through the sight, a blasphemy against the natural order.
The frenzied writhing receded, sinking back into the well's dark throat. He rose, shaking filth from his black leather duster, hand groping for his revolver. Gone—lost in the chaos. A bitter pang gnawed at him—"Sloppy"—his gaze drifting to the distant house. Then—CRACK! A bullet sliced the air, grazing perilously close to his face. His eyes whipped back; the house loomed far behind, a shadowed relic on the horizon. CRACK! Another shot struck the ground, spitting dirt. He scoured the scene—there, a hulking hay bale sprawled flat. He dove, the sniper's fire—Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!—chewing through the brittle grass as voices swelled nearer.
Peering from cover, he spied them: three figures stalking forward, firearms glinting in their grasp. Long gray robes hung from their frames, hoods shrouding pallid flesh, cinched with coarse rope. Their eyes bulged, wild and unhinged, glinting with a madness that chilled the air.
Grimm's hands fumbled along his belt, seeking any weapon to defy the hunters at his heels. His fingers brushed a silver stud on the left, its chill biting through his leather glove. The knife—his last stand. He gripped the hilt, drawing it forth with a steely snikt. The pursuers closed in, their voices a torrent of deranged mutterings, jeers echoing like specters in the gloom.
He vaulted from the hay bales cover, a reckless lunge into peril. His gaze pierced the trio—hooded figures, eyes wild with lunacy—as his arm reared back, hurling the blade. Schlit! It struck true, sinking into a skull with a wet crunch, blood spilling dark and thick. The survivors fired, shots tearing the air as Grimm bolted, twisting through the maze of bales.
"Split up!" one snarled, his command a jagged growl, hand flailing in the murk.
The pair split, shotguns leveled, their hooded forms drifting apart like specters in the gloaming. Grimm hushed his labored breathing, poised in the shadows, every nerve taut for their advance. A soft chant wove through the crickets' dirge—"Wendigo, Wendigo, Wendigo…"—a deep, throaty murmur that pulsed in the air. That name, scrawled in the journal's crimson stains, conjured a chill dread, its sound a harbinger of ruin.
The twin barrels edged around the bale, steel scraping straw in a fleeting gleam. Grimm's eyes narrowed, a hunter's focus. The weapon hovered—his opening. His arms surged, seizing the icy barrels in a relentless grip, tearing them free. The pursuer clung desperately, sinking to his knees, wrestling against Grimm's towering strength. In vain. A booted heel crashed into his chest, flinging him into the hay's embrace, the shotgun relinquished to Grimm's steady hands.
The cultist's shout rang out, a jagged call to his comrade. Grimm's stare flared, dark with fury, pinning the gray-robed prey. He moved—a wraith of vengeance—engulfing the man, his bulk a merciless tide that pinned him to the earth. Piteous yelps bubbled forth as Grimm's hands, vast and unyielding, encircled his throat. Crimson and froth spattered Grimm's visage, warm and fleeting, until a faint snap hushed the thrashing. Approaching footfalls quickened as he rummaged the corpse, fingers delving into the robe. A meager pouch offered a handful of slugs. "Enough…" he rasped, slipping behind another bale's shadow.
The second cultist stepped forth, his eyes brushing the dead with a flicker of disdain. "Wendigo, Wendigo, Wendigo…" The murmur oozed from his maw, a relentless hymn. Grimm hunkered low, taut with intent. Crunch! A twig cracked beneath his boot. "There!" A deafening blast shredded the bale, splinters flying as Grimm lunged outward. Boom! Another shot thundered, tearing the night.
The end loomed. Grimm burst from hiding, triggers yielding to his grip—fire roared from the barrels. The cultist careened back, crashing into the bale beside his kin, a broken silhouette. Grimm towered over him, the man's gasps frail and fading. "Wendigo, Wendigo, wen—" His chant faltered as Grimm's heel smashed down, splintering his throat with a dull snap.
He stooped, scavenging what ammo remained from the twitching husk. Moonlight bathed the cultist's face—black veins crawling like tendrils across pallid skin as his lips moved, choked by shattered bone. A last, gurgling breath slipped free, blood pooling from his mouth as life drained into the dark.
Grimm's triumph teetered, unclaimed beneath the sniper's watchful reign. A bullet shrieked past, a taunt from on high. His eyes tightened, peering from the bale's shelter, tracing the house's crest where steel shimmered—a cold, lethal star. His jaw clenched, ears pricking at the click-clack—the bolt action's dread refrain. He dashed forward, closing the void, shotgun firm in hand as the sniper primed his next blow. His gaze raked the ground. There—the dead cultist, knife embedded in its skull like a dark crown. His fingers seized the hilt, yanking it free with a moist crack.
He crashed against another bale, straw splintering. A shot blasted through, tearing his shoulder with a fiery gash. "Argh!" A pained growl escaped, raw and fierce. His eyes flared, defiant. Click-clack! The snipers reload rang out. "An edge…" he muttered, hand steadying the shotgun. A desperate ploy flickered—a long cast. Thwip! Earth burst beside him. Click-clack!
He nudged the shotgun's barrel, its gleam a baiting spark. Bam! The sniper struck, lured astray. Grimm vaulted free, arm whipping back, then forward—Snikt! The knife flew, piercing the sniper's head. A choked cry, then a fall—the figure plummeted from the perch, striking the ground with a heavy thud.
The air stilled, a deathly quiet swallowing the chaos of the fray. Grimm towered over the fallen, shotgun heavy in his hand, its steel kissed by frost. The wind shrieked, bitter and sharp, tugging at his duster, his hat swaying like a phantom in the gale. Victory pulsed through him—his heartbeat steadied, breaths heaving in the icy dusk. The cult lingered in his thoughts—did they worship this Wendigo, or flee from an unseen terror? The riddle twisted, a specter haunting his silence.
His stare rose, latching onto the house on the hill, its gnarled frame stark beneath a sky churning with tempestuous clouds. His brow creased, eyes flaring with a ghostly white flame, burning through the twilight. "Wendigo…" The word rumbled low, a dirge of defiance, as he marched onward—boots striking the earth like hammer blows—toward the cursed abode, its shadow stretching forth to devour him whole.