.scapegoat.

horror, short story

You walk though a narrow tunnel carrying an unlit candle. You had lost the matches a quarter mile ago, or so you think you’ve walked that far, but the walls feel like they are encroaching, and you’ve attached yourself to the idea they were as you had last seen them, cobble and gray.

A cold breeze wisps across your cheek.

Don’t look back.

You spin towards the whisper, direct in your ear. In a lapse of judgment, you had entered the tunnel alone. Had your mind begun to play tricks on you? Isolation in total darkness preys on the mind.

You could turn around with your tail tucked between your legs, but you had done that, three—no—seven times before. The mental coin you flipped was taking you a direction, to further or freedom.

Soft light carries on a forward breeze and you run towards it, tripping over your eager feet. The light grows whiter and brighter, emanating from an alcove. Seated is an angel, a single tear descends their cheek, a pale-gold halo hovers above a veil, and light emanates from their flesh, as sunlit crests of water.

The face of the angel shimmers. You step closer and their face contorts and withers, their eye sockets sink inward, leaving only voids. Their skin withers and melts away. Through the angels radiance, you discover the walls are composed of skulls.

You stagger, heart pounding, finding your back against the rounded walls. Your fingertips tremor against bone and suture. You lurch forward, finding yourself kneeling at the feet of the angel, but they have not noticed you. They are still, unmoved by your stirring of life.

You draw away, pressing on, into the darkness.

Your foot catches on a partial lifted stone and you drop the candle. The wick sparks, a twinkle of crimson and gold, scattering brilliant stars against the cobbles. The blazing ember rolls a half circle at your feet. You fight the numbness of your limbs and retrieve the candle from the ground, holding it before you as a guide.

Eleven steps you have taken into the endless void before a potent wind strikes your back, extinguishing the candle. Your stomach lurches into your throat and you’re running through the echo of your scream.

In the distance a red aura, no larger than a pin on the horizon. The exit! You run faster.

The path grows wider and brighter, as a rising blood moon. You discover it is no more than a dead end, illuminated by a still, crimson, unidentifiable source, with the relief of an altar table carved into the back wall. You run your fingers along the walls and the floors, searching for a heat source or breeze that could indicate a hidden escape.

You pause at the stone altar, brushing over the polished surface. From the blackness which you arrived, a shrill cry.

A young lamb runs into the blanket of red.

You feel more than the presence of the lamb.

You hold the lamb tightly against your chest as your eyes swing wildly in search of the presence. It is lingering. It has eyes. You see them turn upon you in one swift startling motion. Yellow and green and red, an infestation of greed, blinking through the joints of the tunnel walls. One by one, they glance upon the altar.

Upon the polished surface rests a single blade.

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Photo Credit: Le Tan on Unsplash

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