Dr. Creepen's Dungeon - S4 Ep169: Episode 169: Vatican Horror Stories

Episode Date: May 23, 2024

Today’s first tale of the weird and macabre is ‘The Vatican Conducted Illegal Human Experiments During WWII, But Only the Pope Has Access to The Files… Until Now.’, an original work by The Vatican Archivist, narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission:  https://www.reddit.com/user/TheVaticanArchivist/  Please check out his phenomenal YouTube channel ‘Daily Horror Stories’:  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCk1WJMX5xj1FHruveKH8gmg Our second story is ‘I’m a Leaker: The Document I’m Disclosing is Banned on Wikileaks’, also an original work by The Vatican Archivist, again narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission. https://www.reddit.com/user/TheVaticanArchivist/  Today’s final phenomenal tale of terror is ‘The Horror Beyond the Wall: The Complete Story’, an epic work by Taxi Dancer, kindly shared directly with me via my sub-reddit and narrated here for you all with the author’s express permission.  https://www.rddit.com/user/Taxi_Dancer/

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BetMGM operates pursuant to an operating agreement with Eye Gaming Ontario. Welcome to Dr. Creepin's dungeon. Ah, the Vatican, with its centuries-old walls and labyrinthine corridors, it evokes a sense of the eerie through its profound secrecy in immense historical ways. Ancient rituals, secret archives, and tales of power struggles within the cloistered walls, feed into the human imagination, painting a picture of hidden truths and unspoken mysteries. The juxtaposition of immense spiritual authority and whispered rumors of intrigues. and scandal adds to its enigmatic aura.

The blend of the sacred and the secretive, the visible and the veiled, makes the Vatican both fascinating and unsettling, the place where the lines between divine reverence and human conspiracy blur. As we all shall see in tonight's three tales of terror. Now, as ever before we begin, a word of caution. Tonight's stories may contain strong language

as well as descriptions of violence and horrific imagery. That sounds like your kind of thing. Then let's begin. The document that I'm about to leak is highly controversial and contains restricted information regarding human experiments conducted by the Vatican during World War II. Records of these experiments have languished in the Vatican's secret archive for decades. Given their secrecy, this disclosure represents the first time this information has been shared with the public. What follows is a letter written by a Parisian priest named Father Bonar, describing the human experiments he performed on American POWs in Arles.

France. These experiments were carried out unbeknownst to the Allied forces and represent a dark pattern of treachery indicative of the Vatican during that time. The letter has been meticulously translated from its original French for readability. Dear Father Corbe, I can understand why Van Gogh spent so much time painting the art landscape. The sunflower fields are beautiful and make me regret the excessive time I must spend underground. Given the importance of my work, though, his sacrifice is not only necessary but desired. I'm making major breakthroughs here. My inquiry is ever hurtling towards its conclusion,

which will be so grand that even the Pope himself will sing my praises. In order for you to fully understand my work, I must record the important events of yesterday morning, for they represent my most successful trials yet. My contacts captured and delivered five more American soldiers Sunday, most of them misdropped infantrymen. The Americans are even more sloppy than the British. They roam the countryside in rag-tag bunches,

lost and objectiveless like mutts abandoned by their masters. God himself couldn't devise better subjects. Given their ignorance of our language, they are easy to trick, and warp bright-eyed and cheery into my contact's vehicles. You can imagine their surprise when they arrive in R and are chained to the pipes in my basement, a precaution which I quickly learned to take, but I digress.

I began my experiment yesterday morning after giving the Americans a day to adjust to their captured states. They hurled vile insults and spat at me as I descended the stairs, which is typical behaviour of men from such a vulgar country. Fortunately, I possessed a more refined mind and chose to ignore their imbecility rather than retaliate with equally base behaviour. Why are you doing this to us, asshole? said Bruce, the unofficial leader of their squad. He had massive biceps and short-crop black hair. I ignored him. I find it wise to avoid conversing with my subjects.

They are nothing but vessels. Engaging with them riles them up. It makes it harder to do my work. So I picked up my copy of Rituali Romanum, without saying a word, and returned to my handwritten version of the Inversione de Fortuna write. The Americans berated me with vile insults as I reviewed my notes. The obscenities poured from their mouths like toxic fumes, and would have filled me with rage had I not been so absorbed by the words in front of me. Although my last performance of the writer had failed miserably,

I was confident that I had made the proper changes to the incantation and prayed that my efforts this time would yield positive results. Disposing of bodies is becoming increasingly difficult. The Arlesians are growing suspicious of their shut-in priest and spy on my every movement, fishing for controversies and spreadable gossip. In order to avoid having to switch towns for the third time this year, I needed to preserve the Americans for as long as I could. I couldn't afford any more catastrophic failures.

Tales of violent screams and the reanimated dead were being associated with my basement, and I didn't want the townsfolk to deduce the veracity of these tales, for my work would cause their feeble minds to double over in fear. "'Hey, prick,' said Bruce, voice trembling with fear. "'How about you put away that book and talk to us here? "'The least we deserve is an explanation of what's going on.' "'Despite my typical rule of avoiding conversations with my subjects, "'there was something about the way Bruce said this that made me want to respond.

His voice had an earnestness to it, atypical of an American in his position. You are about to be exposed to the forces of hell, I said, so that I may learn the secrets of heaven. I launched into the Universioni de Fortuna right before he had a chance to respond. The Americans convulsed as my words assaulted their ears. From the east of Aliva, filled their mouths, and went spilling onto their gregers. contracting chests. Their convulsions became so great that they started struggling against their chains like wounded animals, sending streams of blood cascading down their wrists. Despite their violent reactions, I continued my recitation of the right with further. These convulsions

are normal and represent physical manifestations of their souls being exposed to the forces of hell. Their bodies went limp as their souls flooded from their bodies like water. down a drain. Other than the howling of the wind drifting through the floorboards, the room fell silent. As the minutes ticked by, and their still bodies remained lifeless, I feared that the trial had failed. Cursing myself for my shortcomings, I closed the rituali Romanum, and steeled myself for the prospect of having to dispose of more corpses. But then, the Americans inhaled raspy breaths and opened their eyes. Much to my delight, their eyes were yellow. My heart quickened as Bruce's yellow eyes locked onto my own. You wear the cloth, he said, and yet you willingly

knock on hell's door. Why is this priest? His voice had been completely changed by the entity commandeering his spirit. Where once his tone had been coarse and vulgar, he was now smooth and elegant. I could tell that I was conversing with her being vastly wiser than myself. The eyes boring into my flesh were ancient and exhumed infinite knowledge about good, evil and ultimate reality. I vowed to extract this knowledge using any means necessary. I summons you so that I may converse with spirits wiser than myself, I said. Spirits, Bruce laughed. There are no spirits here, only hatred.

Your chains are comical, said the soldier to his left. You really think that'll protect you from us? He rattled his manacles mockingly against the wall. The chains are not for you, but for the soldiers in which you inhabit. They are brutish creatures and will slit my throat if given the chance. You fear for the safety of your fear. flesh, said Bruce, grinning, when you should fear for the fate of your soul, I'm of the mind to dine on your spirit now. There's always room in hell for one more priest. Knowing that I needed

to remain firm in the face of such threats, I brandished the crucifix dangling from my neck and raised the Rituali Romanum from my side, sending Bruce and his companions writhing against the wall. Making an attempt on my life would be unwise. I said, for in my hands I possess the means of banishing you all back to hell. Given that the land of the living is preferable to the dominion of the dead, I doubt that any of you wish to depart from your newfound vessels. You threaten us, priest, said the soldier to Bruce's right. Hell is our home. I'll gladly return, with your flesh between my tea.

My companion speaks the truth, said Bruce. You hold no power over us, so why perform this pathetic charade? Feeling the situation quickly slipping from my control, I thumbed open the Rituali Romanum to the exorcism rite. I then began to recite the sprawling Latin with such force my jaw vibrated. Bruce and the other soldiers emanated pain-filled shrieks as my words crashed into them like vials of acid. They struggled against their chains like trapped animals,

and shut their eyes so tightly, their eyelids wrinkled. One of the soldiers gnashed his teeth with such tenacity he bit off his tongue. Dark blood pulled from his mouth in thick rivulets, trickling down his exposed chest before crashing towards the floor. Eventually their screams reached such volume that they nearly drowned out my voice. Regardless, I continued reading, for I needed to prove to them that my power was legitimate. Enough, roared Bruce, hoarse voice reverberating around the room like a screeching megaphone. Yeah, you've proven your point. Close that blasted book and tell us the reason you've conjured us.

For if you utter one more word from that cursed right, your suffering will be legendary, even in hell. I lowered the book to my side, doing my best to ignore such as spine, chilling comment. I want you to answer my questions. I said. There are many questions, or as many as I choose to ask. What will we get in return? In return, I will allow you to remain on earth.

Unchained? We unchained. Bruce's eyes glowed like amber in the low light of the candles spaced intermittently around the walls. We accept your offer. Ask you questions. His assent filled my veins with adrenaline. Never before it I progressed to this point in my trials. Typically my subjects died during their possessions.

The shock of such vile presences entering their minds caused them to either tear out their throats or smash their heads against the closest wall until their skulls cracked open like rotten pumpkins. To think that I could finally converse with omnipotent entities, no matter how insidious, about the after afterlife, cause my heart to gallop. Just the thought of the profound knowledge that they could bestow upon me

caused my hands to tremble. God willing, I could become the wisest man on earth and be the sole possessor of true revelations of heaven and hell. For this reason I needed to proceed carefully. I couldn't afford to slip up. I might not ever receive such a valuable opportunity again. If my previous track record was a valid indicator of future successes, then it might take years, if not decades,

for me to reproduce such clean possessions. Even my raging desire for tangible answers, I steal my nerves and regarded Bruce with serious eyes. I will ask my questions, I said, but first I need assurances that your answers will be truthful. If I sense that you're lying, then I will banish you. you back to hell. Such a cacophonous laugh exploded from Bruce's mouth that it caused me to retreat a step towards the door. I didn't think that human beings were capable of projecting such

a grotesque sound. His vocal gauvined against his like sandpaper, producing a noise so jarring my ears still ache as I write this. And how should we provide such assurances? said Bruce. shall we make a blood pact? You'll just have to take out words at face value, priest. Fair enough. Now that the opportunity to ask my questions was literally staring me right in the face, anxiety wrapped its icy fingers around my throat, causing my mind to go blank. The questions that I'd been reflecting on for decades flooded from my memory.

All I could do was stand there like an imbecile as Bruce's usual. yellow eyes seared my skin. Eventually, I regained my wits and began my inquiry. Does God exist? I asked. Bruce flashed me a deviant look, then erupted into such a violent fit of laughter, and my blood rang cold. The room darkened as Bruce's laughter assented my ears. His gaping mouth consumed the candlelight like a black hole, causing the shadows undulating. lating along the walls to elongate into sinister shapes. For the first time since facilitating the soldier's possessions, I felt my lungs constrict with fear.

Leave it to a priest to ask such a childish question, said Bruce, laughter reducing from a rolling boil to a dull simmer, especially one as tainted as you. A step forward, fear morphing into anger, mocking me is not part of our deal i said my incredulity sent the remaining soldiers tumbling into deafening laughter their voices morphed into a single entity and berated my ears like minuscule knives hurtling through the air have we offended you father said the soldier to bruce is left do we need to be punished i blushed despite my efforts to hide my emotions Answer my question, or I will reclaim the gifts I have given you. Don't pretend like you wouldn't prefer to remain inside these Americans.

Don't worry, said Bruce, eyes narrowing. We will answer your questions. Consider our laughter a harmless interlude. Speak, sir, for my patience is growing thin. Bruce wet his lips with a tongue so dark it was nearly black. Your question is more complex than you think. and doesn't have a simple answer. Nonetheless, you must answer it.

Remember our argument. My hands tremble with excitement as Bruce stared at me through the shadows. Although I'd been performing the Inverciona de Fortuna ritual for decades, never before had I successfully conjured an entity intelligent enough to answer my questions, to think that I was only moments away from receiving such profound spiritual knowledge quickened my heart. The other soldiers looked at Bruce. Based on their expressions, they appeared even more interested in hearing what his response would be than I was, and for this reason they fell silent the moment he began talking and remained still throughout the entirety of our conversation.

Your question is ineffable, said Bruce. Such metaphysical insights are incompatible with your language. You're asking me to explain something behind the comprehension of your feeble mind. Regardless, you must make an attempt. My mind is sharper than you think. Your words will not fall on lemurs. It's not lamia as I'm worried about, but dumb. Bruce fought his arms across his chest, causing his chains to rattle. I suppose that I can attempt an answer. Whoever crude it may be. That's a wise decision. Your continued existence on earth depends upon your response. Bruce nodded his head. Well, to put it simply, priest. God exists, but not for humanity. I don't understand. What is there to misunderstand? God turned his back on your species a long

time ago. Like a gambler who's invested too much coin on a single losing hand, he pulled his stock from humanity centuries ago. You are a godless race, and will continue to be so until the last human fall stinking into the earth. Do you expect me to take your answer at face value? What evidence do you have to prove such a clandiarist claim? Bruce glared at me with eyes so yellow they glow brighter than the candles. I could tell that he was trying to rattle me, but my resolve held firm. The proof is all around you, and yet you're too blind to see it. Thousands of innocent lives are snuffed out daily on this continent, but still God refuses to intervene.

This is not by accident. His decision to turn a blind eye is intentional, and reflects a malcontent that has been growing for millennia. I hardened my face, doing my best to mask my uneasiness. Our conversation was taking a turn I hadn't expected. I tried to convince myself that Bruce was lying, but then my eyes would snap onto his stolid face, sending all of my doubts about the veracity of his words tumbling down the yellow pits that were his eyes.

God's work is a mystery, I said. Nobody, including you, can discern why he's a, so much evil to flourish in this world. Of course I can, said Bruce. He allows cruelly to prevail because he was abandoning your people. Human beings are naturally violent and barbaric. This war is only the most recent manifestation of base behavior stretching back to Cain. God's grown weary of being exploited by such ungrateful creations.

He has washed his hands of humanity, and now solely focuses on cultivating the kingdom of heaven. If I'm to believe that God has truly abandoned humanity, then I need to note the exact incident that has caused such a damning decision. Surely there must be one, for otherwise his decision is arbitrary and incompatible with his divine nature. The inciting incident, as you call it, was when your people murdered his only son. He sent Jesus to raise up humanity, not fall victim to his most heinous act, and although he's forgiven your kind for such a cruel betrayal, he is not forgotten. The crucifixion of Jesus marks the moment that God relinquished his hold on mankind. He's allowed your species to fester ever since. Anger swirled within me,

despite my desire to keep a level head. Bruce's words were blasphemy. How could God abandon his own children. The thought was inconceivable. It certainly couldn't be true. My mind reeled as a lifetime of faith crumbled under Bruce's gaze. Well, my Catholic beliefs truly defunct. Had God truly left us to languish in our cruel and deceitful ways, I couldn't stomach the thought. I couldn't imagine living in a world void of God's grace. Think about it, Father, said Bruce, grinning. The Bible is overflowing with accounts of God's presence on this earth. Tell me then, why hasn't his presence felt any more? Why doesn't he tangibly intervene in human affairs like he did for Moses or Noah?

Why has his voice grown silent? You are lying, I said, voice trembling with rage. I should never have trusted you to aid my inquiry. Bruce opened his mouth to respond, but his words never reached my ears, for I had already torn open the Rituali Romanum, and launched voice booming into the exorcism rime. The rattling of chains reverberated throughout the chamber as the soldiers writhed against the wall. My words crashed into them like tsunami waves and left them gasping for air. Their guttural pants mixed with the efficacious words of the exorcism right, filling the room with rebounding echoes that raise my ears like cannon blasts.

Their eyes widened as their limbs contorted into unnatural angles. Blood exploded from their wrists as they yanked against their cups, sending crimson streaks pouring down their hands. Bruce managed to lock his eyes onto mine, despite the spasm shooting down his neck like shockwaves. "'Our agreement is now broken,' he said, "'voice, your soul will forever languish in the deepest pits of hell.' I ignored this threat and continued the exorcism.

Latin spewed from my mouth in chaotic streams, forcing the soldiers against the wall like trapped animals. Their yellow eyes quivered with fear as I took a step forward, Rituali Romanum stretched out in front of me like a bloodthirsty hound. The soldiers doubled over in pain as my voice swelled. Never before had my voice felt so strong. My vocal cords vibrated with such power that for a moment I feared they might explode through my neck. Fortunately, they held true, and perfect Latin continued leaping from my mouth like paratroopers hurtling towards their targets.

Although the intensity of my words persisted, Bruce straightened. It was as if an invisible barrier was being erected. around him, weakening the effect of the exorcism. He grinned as he unfurled his arms, which had been tightly wrapped around his body, and regarded me with a look of such disdain I nearly stumbled over my words. The truth is painful, isn't it, priest? said Bruce. Your faith is decaying. I can sense it. The bodies of two of the soldiers went limp.

Unlike previous exorcisms I had performed, they did not regain consciousness, but instead slumped lifelessly to the floor like overfilled ragdolls. Their souls have been consumed, said Bruce, tracking my eyes. Hell is their home now. As it will be yours once more, I said. You don't frighten me, Lijon. God has complete power over you, and I am his vessel. You are no more God's vessel than I am.

Your father has abandoned you along with the rest of your kind. Christianity is nothing but a hollow shell. Given how close this shell is to cracking, corrupt priests like yourself were the first to succumb to society's rage. Be silent. Your words fall on deaf ears. My will is stronger than you make it out to be. I will not so easily fall into despair. my voice echoed off the walls like a cracking whip as I continued the exorcism sweat poured down my face in streams and crashed onto the yellow pages of the rituali romanum

bruce glared at me as my words barreled into him like a physical force hatred radiated from his yellow eyes in sinister waves and would have caused me to recoil if i wasn't so focused on sending him screaming back to hell adrenaline exploded through my veins as two more soldiers slumped to the ground just like their comrades they remain lifeless the sight of their blackened tongue spilling over their pale lips like slices of rotten meat filled me with disgust how unfortunate said bruce they're weaker than i thought your kind is always weak when faced with gosurah bruce laughed Yeah, your piety is amusing. You act as if your soul isn't tated beyond repair. I know all about your past, Bernard, and I can assure you God has reserved a special place in hell for man like you. I tightened my grip on the rituali Romanum.

You lie, I said. Everything I have done has stemmed from my desire for wisdom. My inquiry has grown me closer to God, not driven me from his grace. The only grace you have received is the continued permission to draw breath. Your life is unnatural, priest. Your very existence blasphemes God's commandments. It is you that blasphemes God.

Did you think that I would honestly believe your tale? The notion that God would abandon his children is ludicrous, although humanity is far wrong. perfect. We are still made in God's image. Just like any good shepherd, God will never abandon his flock, no matter how where would they become. Not only has God abandoned his flock, but he is willingly thrown them to the wolves. Hall awaits every soul that draws breath, from the kindest woman to the weakest child. The gaze of heaven are permanently close to your kind. You can attack my faith all you want. My piety is unshakable and he's built on a stable foundation of wisdom and reverence.

If God cared enough about you to listen to your words, his thunderous laughter would overpower even my own. It's going to take words much more persuasive than that to tell me from my faith. Fair enough. It's just you and I now, but not for long. When my companion arrives, you will understand the perilous, situation you've wrought upon yourself. What companion?

Bruce grinned. He's known by many names. Currently he goes by Claudius. I took a step forward, brandishing my crucifix. The close proximity of the holy relic burned Bruce's skin and sent him careening back towards the wall. You're lying, I said.

You would never reveal your plans to me. And besides, as, even if this Claudius is coming, I will have already cast your saw back to head by the time he arrives. The trapdoor of the basement flew open and crashed against the hardwood floor. Are you sure about that, father? I turned my head just in time to see a boy no older than 14 descend the ladder. His yellow eyes were filled with so much malice my throat seized. So hypnotic were his eyes that a desolate numbness, I'm so hypnotic. overtook my body, causing the Rituali Ramanum to tumble from my hands and crashed to the floor.

The thumping sound of the Rituali Ramanum emanated as it struck the ground, jolting me back to reality. Who are you? I said, tearing the gaze from the boy's hypnotic eyes. What is your purpose here? I can ask you the same thing, priest, said the boy. His voice was ageless and slithered through the air with undone. natural volume. Ah, he wishes to learn the secrets of the afterlife, said Bruce, and like Faustus, his conjured forces far greater than he can control.

Ah, is that so? The boy strode across the chamber and paused in front of Bruce. The moment he noticed the chains binding him to the wall, he grinned. Ah, this is quite the spectacle. He wrapped his hands around the chains and tore them from the wall. The ease with which he did this shocked me. It was as if he possessed the strength of twenty men. I coughed as dust cascated from the ruin wall and filled the chamber.

You're free now, said the boy. Always remember who it was that freed you. Repaying your debt will be an arduous process, but one that will reward you greatly. Bruce kneeled in front of the boy and bowed his head. yes master he said your will is my command the sight of bruce supplicating himself in front of this strange child filled me with dread what hidden powers must the boy possess to command such respect from an omnipotent entity for the first time that morning i felt the situation slipping from my control now that bruce was free there was nothing stopping him from tearing out my throat or beating my head against the wall until my skull caved in my body and soul were at his disposal he could do anything to me that he wanted i shuddered to think of what vile tortures his devious mind could concoct this thought caused my heart rate to triple regardless i remained outwardly calm succumbing to fear would only hasten my demise

If I wanted to escape the situation with my life, then I needed to funnel my energy into developing a plan. As I stood there, staring at the insidious entities before me, a thick fog blanketed my mind and consumed my ideas with icy tendrils. I felt like a helpless child. I could no more combat the evilness lurking before me than I could summon God to do my bidding. They were just too powerful and surpassed my skill as an exorcist. Well, the boy must have been able to sense my terror, for he flashed me such an amused and sinister look that my hand started trembling.

What's the matter, priest? said the boy, yellow eyes stroking my flesh like over-sharper knives. Isn't this what you wanted? It's your desire for wisdom that brought us here. Aren't you glad to see us? The boy's mocking tone sent Bruce erupted. into a violent fit of laughter. Still reeling from our discussion, are you? He said,

that's what's wrong with priests. They shrink away from reality like a hand approaching an inferno. All of you have your own agendas. Your inquiry is a facade, a vain attempt to mask your true desire, gaining power over others. I stared down at my feet.

How will you run? respond Bernard is this not your true aim a step backwards Bruce and the boy walked towards me on shadow-covered feet you will not intimidate me into discourse i said i still don't even know who you are oh i'm known by many names in your language i'm known as claudius i turn the name over in my mind I'd heard terrible tales of a Claudius reeking havoc in Paris, but had never confirmed the veracity of these tales. Was this boy truly capable of committing the horrors that I'd heard about? The legends of his unspeakable crime spread like wildfire throughout the countryside. Before yesterday, I thought these legends to be nothing but fiction, but after seeing the boy with my own eyes, I'm no longer sure.

You're familiar with my name, said Claudius, taking another step forward. Your face betrays your fear. I've heard rumors. And do you believe these rumors? No more than I believe God has abandoned his children. I've spoken like a true priest. Only you're not a true priest, aren't you father? You're an imposter, a fraud.

Your faith is weak, just like your tainted motivation. Claudius took another step towards me. Now he was only a few feet away, his hypnotic gaze threatened to rob me of my consciousness. Your beliefs matter not, he continued. Only pain exists where you're going, or pain and despair. I'm not going anywhere with you,

I said, voice sounding weak even to my own ears. The closer Claudius crept towards me, the more drained I felt, as if approaching proximity was robbing me of my life-force. "'You don't have a choice,' said Claudius. "'I own you, Bernard. "'Your soul belongs to me. "'Your screams will fill the halls of hell for an eternity.' I took another step back.

He was close enough to touch me now. just the thought of his hands upon my skin turned my stomach i cursed myself for so easily losing my resolve no agent of hell regardless of how malicious should be able to weaken my fate your time on this earth has come to an end said claudius your corruption has been allowed to fester for too long it's time that you receive the punishment that you've spent a lifetime accruing the sight of claudius's hand reaching through the shadows towards my head snap me out of my stupor. I lunge forward, dodging his fetid fingers and scooped up the rituali remanum from the floor. It is you that is corrupt, I said, tearing open the yellow pages. Your words do not intimidate me. I will drive your twisted presence from that poor child's flesh like poison from a wound. I launched into the exorcism right before Claudius had a chance to respond. Voice ricocheting around the chamber with such force that dust rained down from the ceiling.

The thundering Latin of the Exorcism Reich caught Claudius off guard and sent him tumbling towards the ruin wall behind him. He placed his hands just in time to prevent his head from exploding against the jagged stones. Eyes bulging with pain as the sharp rock sliced open his palms and sent black blood splashing to the floor. He opened his mouth to speak. The deafening volume of my voice caused him to shut it moments later, morphing his lips into a rictus snarl. I saw Bruce charging me out of the corner of my eye.

His silent feet sent a fresh wave of dust billowing around the chamber, and caused a sordid haze to descend over the yellow light drifting in from the candles. I raised my crucifix just as he was about to sink his teeth into my neck. The close proximity of the holy relics sent him plummeting to the ground. Smoke billowed from his paws as he writhed in the dust, darkening the muck already spinning through the air with its nauseating ochre. Bruce screamed as black blisters covered his arms. These blisters looked infected and filled the chamber with a rancid odor. Adrenaline erupted through my veins at the sight of his pain and confusion.

Only moments ago I'd feared that he would tear out my throat and drag my soul to hell, to think that I, that God, had the power to defeat such a malevolent entity, quickened my heart. But then Claudius raised his hand and pinched my throat shut with an invisible force, sending my newfound confidence rupturing into oblivion. This charade has gone on long enough, said Claudius, voiced two tones deeper than the last time he's spoken. Your performance of the exorcism right is nothing but a pandemime,

an attempt to evoke the power of a God that has long since abandoned you. Faith will not save you from your fate, father, especially faith tented with doubt and despair. My face contorted with pain as my lungs deflated. I felt like a pair of claws was constricting my organs, and would have screamed had my throat not been sealed off by the invisible substance. No matter how hard I tried to go up, air down, my burning throats, my lungs remained empty. My face turned as sickly purple as my lungs withered, darkening my vision.

Never before it I felt such pain. Embrace your suffering, said Claudius, faced dominated by a sardonic grin. The pain will soon be your undying companion. What you're experiencing now is only a small taste of what you will experience in hell. The tortures that I will inflict upon you will become notorious and cause even demons to tramble. My body convulsed from oxygen deprivation, sending me crashing to the ground. Dust filled my mouth as my face landed face first on the wood. I listened as a pair of feet slithered across the floor and stopped beside me.

"'Where is your God, Bernard?' said Claudius. "'You are one with his disciples. "' Shouldn't he be protecting you?' "'He kicked me in the stomach and sent the little oxygen that remained inside my body, "'pouring from my gasping mouth. "'Shouldn't he strike me dead where I stand?' "'He kicked me again. "'Here I am ending your blasphemous life,

"'and yet God does not intervene. "'That's not by accident. "'He is condemned, you, just like every other priest corrupting his name. I rolled over onto my back and panted with such force my ribs groaned. I could feel death wrapping its icy fingers around my throat and shuddered. Your time on earth has come to an end. Your soul's journey through hell is long overdue.

I floured my arms as he straddle my body and wrapped his hands around my throat. Our eyes locked, and his hypnotic gaze filled my limbs with a stinging numbness that caused my arms to fall lifelessly to my sides. Don't struggle, said Claudius, voice an insidious whisper. Your soul is already my. My eyes rolled as a blinding redness consumed my vision. This redness felt evil and alive as if it were a living organism. The redness receded as images of my vision. a pit, blacker than death, overcame my mind. Millions of bodies were languishing in this pit,

limbs broken and eyes gouged. Their twisted screams echoed endlessly through the air as this pit momentarily consumed their faces and scalded their skin before spitting them back out further up the chasm. On a cliff overlooking this pit was a jagged castle made of black obsidian. Its twisted spires towered menacingly into the starless yellow sky and vibrated incessantly from the guttural screams exploding from the chasm. Look on my works, ye mighty and despair, ran Claudius's voice in the distance. He sounded miles away, even though his mouth was no more than six inches from my ears. The longer I gazed upon his foreboding castle, the further from my body I felt. My aching lungs have become a distant memory.

I was formless and destined for an eternity of suffering in the pit spiraling beneath my feet. Welcome to your new home, priest. This hellish world became realer with each passing second. I could hardly sense my body, nor see Claudius's eyes hovering above my own. The chaotic pit was all that existed, and my mind reeled as it beckoned me with open arms. As my spirit continued to fade from my body, I offered up a desperate prayer to God to save me from such unbearable torture. It was while midway through my prayer that I remember the cross dangling from my neck.

Feeling my courage returned, I summoned what remained of my strength through my right arm towards my collar. I smiled as cool metal greeted my hand. I tight my fingers around the cross, tore it from my neck and stabbed it into claws. Claudius's eye. He let out such a violent shriek of pain that my eardrums burst. I hardly noticed this wound, though, for I was too busy filling my lungs with air as my soul ascended from the pit's precipice and re-entered my body.

You ignorant, bastard! Roared Claudius, black blood oozing down his cheek in thick streams. I shot to my feet just as he started lunging towards me. My crucifix connected with his forehead and melted through his flesh like a hot knife slicing a stick of butter. Fetid steam billowed from his wound and seared my eyes with particles of charred skin. Claudia shot backwards and stumbled over Bruce's legs, who crawled over to the ruin wall to nurse the wounds of his arms. After yelling at each other in an evil-sounding language, they bolted to their feet and retreated towards the trap door. I don't think that you've won, Bernard, said Claudius.

We'll be back, and next time luck will not save you. Before I could open my mouth to respond, they climbed through the trap door with unnatural speed and disappeared from the house. The last thing I heard before falling unconscious was the whispering wind of the Arl countryside, which cascaded through the still swinging front door in steady bursts. I imagine this breeze through the side,

sound of angels singing. I started writing this letter the moment I regain consciousness, preserving the accuracy of my experience is of the utmost importance, for it provides the church with an unprecedented view of the afterlife. Words can hardly describe how eager I am to continue my experiments. Yesterday's trials have renewed my interest in the Inversione de Fortuna ritual. I refuse to listen to Claudius's revelations about heaven. Down that path, lies only despair and the potential to demolish our faith. Instead, I'm more confident than ever that my inquiry will yield positive results. And here's why. As I ascended from the hellish pit after stabbing Claudius in the eye, another vision briefly overtook me. The vision was

of an opulent realm, filled with bright white light and smiling faces, which filled me with such peace I tremble just thinking about it what might this realm be other than heaven i'm determined to find the answers to this question for in this realm lies the secrets of our religion i'm sure of it for this reason i will redouble my efforts i'll update you as i make my progress on this front and as i grow ever closer to summoning the fathers of the church until then you have my best yards. Your friend, Father Claude Bonar. Despite all of your advice, I am still being hunted. I wasn't in my new hotel room for more than a few hours before the church found me. Two burly men came pounding on my door in the middle of the night, threatening to kill me

if I didn't turn over the laptop. Luckily the window behind my bed was unlocked and I was able to escape into a nearby alleyway just before they came barreling through the door. Thank God their to apprehend me was so sloppy. If they would have pounced on me in the hall or snuck up on me next time I'd entered the parking lock, I'm sure I would have been overpowered. I doubt I'll be so lucky next time, though. Well, although these men were amateur in their approach, I cannot expect my next assailants to be so haphazard.

I need to be a lot more careful, or the archive will never reach the public's eyes. How is the church locating me so easily? I ditched my phone and only using cash and installed all of the archive. or data on an external hard drive to avoid using the laptop, just like you all recommend it. Just suppose that the simple act of possessing the laptop might be leading the church to me? Is it possible that there is some hidden tracking device on it? I'll be honest, I'm not an expert when it comes to these matters. I'm relying on all of your expertise to help me through this dangerous time.

Without your help, I doubt I would have made it this far, the fact I'm truly grateful for. Hopefully I'll find shelter soon. As it stands, I'm taking shelter in a local library so I can post this undetected. I'll be in touch. The document that I'm about to leak contains sensitive information regarding extraterrestrials. It is languished in the Vatican Secret Archive for 100 years and was written by an American priest named Father Jonathan Brown. This document represents the final record of Father Brown's life.

He disappeared without a trace shortly after its completion. March 1st. I've been having the same strange dream recently. I'm laying face down on a metal table, paralyzed and on the verge of suffocating. On the floor around me I can see strange shadows undulating like snakes. These shadows are fluid and form incomprehensible shapes impossible to describe. Although my body is numb, as if it's been given a sense. sedative. I can feel the faint impression of something sharp digging into my back. However, I always

awake before I can determine the origin of this sensation. March 2nd, Jeremiah Cotterill, a farmer who lives at the edge of the county, and is well respected throughout the parish, visited me today. I told him about the dreadful dream I've been having. Much to my surprise, he complained of experiencing this same dream and so I had him lift his shirt Dark blue lines spanned the entirety of his back March 4th my congregation was in an uproar today preventing me from conducting mass all everyone could talk about was the dream spreading like wildfire through the parish and the strange markings lighting our backs I tried my best to calm everyone down. However, my voice was drowned out by panic cries and exasperated voices. Eventually, Mr. Mathers, the oldest farmer in the parish, threw himself in front of the crowd,

eyes wild. This has happened to our community before, he said, voice trembling with emotion. When I was a boy, only 30 of us lived in these parts of the time, but all of us experienced the same dream every night for two weeks. This dream was similar to the one we're discussing now, but with one exception. None of us woke up with markings on our backs. What do the markings mean? asked Mrs. Dempsey, a schoolteacher. Are they dangerous? Only God can say, all I know is the last time this happened, half the parish disappeared. Why haven't you told anyone this? said Mr. Pitts, the butcher. Why aren't there any records of such a terrible tragedy?

I don't know, said Mr. Mallards. I've only just remembered. I feel like a fog is lifting from my mind, as if I spent the past 60 years wandering around in a stupor, March 6th. Mr. Pitt's son, Michael, was murdered yesterday. The parish is torn apart by his death. Michael was a good boy and was doted a boy. and was doted upon by everyone in the community.

He didn't deserve to die, especially in such a sadistic way. Michael's body was found two miles outside of town, pinned to a sprawling oak tree by four knives. Dry blood covered his body, making him look phosphorescent in the dusk. His eyes were still open, March 7th. Mr. Mathers was arrested a day for murdering Michael,

He confessed to the crime himself, through a letter he hand delivered to the constable, is now being held in the local jail. This letter is harrowing. I cannot sleep, but his words ring through my head like shotgun blasts. Here's the letter. I'm sure all of you are wondering why I killed out, dear Michael. I can assure you that I didn't come to this decision lightly, but only after much prayer and deliberation.

The parish is in dire peril. It's only through difficult decisions such as the one I've just made that we will survive the spring. In short, please don't judge me until you hear my tale. If after hearing what I have to say you choose to condemn me, then I will tie my own news. Three days ago an object, I know what else to call it, fell from the sky and crashed into my cornfield. This object was about two feet in circumference, a perfect sphere, so black it consumed the light around it. I hunkered over it, trying to guess at its origin. However, no matter how hard I examined it, its surface morphed every time I blinked, causing me to lose focus.

After staring at it for several minutes, melted soil pooling around my feet in muddy streams. I decided to return to my house to grab my shovel. so I could move it without scolding my hands. I figured the professors at Harvard would be interested in purchasing it, as if my father taught me never to turn my back on a quick dollar, thought that I might make the delivery the following morning. Michael came barreling through the corn in front of me, just as I was turning around to leave.

His arms were filled with apples he'd stolen from my orchard. He jumped and raised his hands the moment he saw me, sending the apples plummet into the ground. Mr. Mathis, he said, voice rushed. I was just... The object leapt from the mud and engulfed his head like a widow's shroud. He flared his arms and crashed to the ground, shrieks muffled by the gelatinous substance now seeping into his mouth. Before I had time to process what was happening, much less span the distance between us.

The object disappeared down his throat. He writhed on the ground as his throat swelled to twelf. twice its normal size, man fell still. Michael, I yelled. I hobbled through the mud and now beside him. Just as I was about to lower my ear to his mouth, to check if he was still breathing, he let forth a guttural scream and jumped to his feet.

Fear constricted my chest as I rear backward, head crashing into the nearby constance. I watched in terror as Michael's skin fluctuated in color between purple and black. Blood poured from his eyes in thick streams and bloomed across his white shirt like ink spilled in water. Oh, foam spewed from his mouth, his bowels released. A few moments later, Michael's skin returned to its normal white and he opened his eyes. They were a deep red, gazed upon me with such malice that my lungs seized. He was on me before I had time to address him, snarling like a feral animal.

Blood roared in my ears as he pounced on me. He drove his fist into my temple, sending bright-colored stars dancing across my eyes. Gore crashed from his tear ducts and onto my forehead, filling my nose with the smell of iron. I kicked Michael in the groin, for I knew not what else to do. He howled and tumbled to the ground beside me. Seizing my opportunity, I pull myself. to my feet and drove the heel of my boot into his chin, knocking him unconscious. I gazed down at the poor boy, lamenting his fate.

If he'd taken any other path through the corn, then this situation could have been avoided. However, he had stumbled upon the object, which proved to be the costliest mistake of his life. Knowing that it was too dangerous to bring Michael into town, I wrapped my arms round his chest and began to drag him through the corn towards my house. As you all know, I'm an amateur taxidermist, so I have a basic knowledge of anatomy, vowed to extract the creature tainting Michael's body using any means necessary.

I placed Michael on the table next to my taxi-dermy tools. His shallow breathing echo throughout the house like a stalling motor, sending chills rippling down my back. Conchewel blood lined his eyelids and vomit covered his chest. I flipped him onto his back to examine the markings etched into his flesh.

Much to my surprise, they'd morphed from static blue to a pulsating red. They looked alive as if they'd grown lungs and were sucking in air with glutinous fervor. I thought of the gelatinous substance lurking inside his body and shivered. After staring down at Michael's frail frame

for several minutes, straining to develop a plan, I decided to first locate where the vile substance had taken final residence inside his body. Had it ventured all the way to his stomach, or was it still lurking in the back of his throat, waiting to develop the viscosity to slide down his esophagus. I wasn't sure. I would only find the answer to this pressing question through careful experimentation. So I rolled up my sleeves, placed on my gloves, and selected the finest knife in my arsenal.

I wrapped my fingers carefully around the blade. and prodded Michael's throat with the hilt. His throat remained still, leaving me to assume that the substance had traveled deep into his body. Oh, the thought of that pulsating blackness undulating through his stomach acid, oh, chest cavity, made my temples throb. After taking a deep breath to calm my roaring heart, I poked Michael's chest.

Other than the gentle rising and falling of his sternum, his flesh remained static. If I hadn't witnessed his gruesome transformation in the cornfield, I would have thought him to be asleep. His face looked so peaceful and so young that innocence trailed his every breath. However, I knew better than to let my guard down, for at any moment he could resume his fiendish assault and explode my skull on the corner of the table. So I pushed his face from my mind and focused on his stomach, or should have been no larger than two fists, had swollen to the size of a fetus. How would I miss his bloated flesh?

I don't know. Regardless, it became obvious to me where the substance now resided. So I straightened my gloves and lowered my knife. Just as I was about to cut a small incision above his belly button, Michael opened his eyes and shot up from the table. The speed with which his feet struck the ground

sent me careening towards the door. He regarded me with contemptuous eyes that burned red with blood. I'm here to help you, Michael, I said. My voice came out surprisingly strong given the fear coursing through my veins. You've been in an accident.

Michael shifted his body toward the door, exposing his back. The line spanning his skin had widened, exposing his sordid flesh. Can you hear me? I can hear you,

said Michael. His voice was unnaturally deep. as if he'd aged 40 years. But it won't be able to for much longer. Before I had an opportunity to ask him what he meant, he bolted from the house on silent feet and disappeared into the murky dusk. Despite my fatigue, I pursued him with vigor. For all I knew Michael's affliction was contagious

and could spread to others should he reach the town. Despite knowing now that this is not the case, at the time I was ignorant of the true nature of the substance controlling his body, a vowed to recapture him using any means necessary. Now that I am aware of the horrors this substance can commit, I wish I would have killed him sooner. By doing so, I might have prevented what happened next. However, this is only conjecture.

The poor boy's fate might have been sealed the moment the substance cleared his lips. If this is the case, then God have mercy on his soul and on us all. I overtook Michael in a clearing dominated by a single, sprawling oak tree. I tackled him to the ground, driving the oxygen from his lungs. "'Stop struggling,' I said. "'You're not yourself, but I can't help you.' Michael howled like a wounded animal. Blood poured from his eyes in thick streams, coating the surrounding grass.

"'Please, calm down. You're starting to—' He punched me in the stomach. The air flooded from my lungs as I clapped to the ground. I screamed as he jumped on top of me and inched his teeth toward my jugular. His fetid breath crashed into my nose, causing me to gag and nearly release my grip on his shoulders. Fearing that my strength might cave at any moment, I pulled a knife from my waistband and drove it into his arm, pinning him to the nearby oak tree. He shrieked in pain, but to my surprise, not a single drop of blood spills.

from his lacerated skin. It was as if his veins were completely empty, and the blood pouring from his eyes was materializing from the misty air. Michael tried to pull the knife from his arm, however the blade had cleared the trunk all the way to the hilt, preventing him from working it free. Listen to me, I said, crouching by his feet. You're sick, but if you can hear me, please calm down. I don't want to hurt you, Michael. I want to help you. He places chin on his collarbone. I can feel it moving inside me, he said, voice normal for the first time in hours.

Leave me here. I'm too dangerous to walk free. Don't say that. I can't help you. Just as Michael was opening his mouth to respond, a spasm passed through his body so intense I could see his muscles cramping beneath his skin. He arched his body toward the starless sky, and screamed as his back split open, revealing a creature so grotesque it stole the air from my lungs. I watched in terror as this creature scrambled from his back and beeline across the clearing towards the town.

And for this reason, I'm writing this letter, to warn all of you about the horrors to come. This creature may be in town now, waiting for the perfect moment to claim it's necessary. next victim. Only by banding together will we survive this nightmare. John Mathers. March 8th, a word of Mr. Mathers' letter has circulated through town, stirring panic and confusion. Normally such outlandish words would be decried for lunacy. However, given the marking spanning our backs, his claims seem not only possible, but probable. Regardless, the police chief has decided to keep Mr. Mathers under lock and key. His imprisonment is part punishment for slaying the boy and part protection from the hysteria

his letter is causing. In other words, the townsfolk would swarm the old man the moment he exited his jail cell. Some to ask questions, some to condemn his crime, and others to blame him for their afflictions. As for myself, I don't know what to think of the old dog's letter. Only time will tell if such a horror creature has he, he describes is lurking in our midst. I pray that this knowledge doesn't come too late. March 9th.

Matilda Wainwright and Jeremiah Smith were found dead on their farms this morning by their families. Their backs were split open, just like Michaels. You can imagine the stir that this is causing in the community. The sense of dread rippling throughout the countryside is incapacitating. All everyone can talk about. about are the horrid creatures room to be gathering in the forest and the dreadful marks encircling their backs. Regarding these rumors, I personally believe them to be false. God would never allow such abominations to wreak havoc on our land, although I cannot explain the events

of the past few days as a man of the cloth and refused to accept these ramblings as anything other than nervous gossip. But then Mr. Mather's jarring letter comes hurtling back to the forefront of my mind, causing me to doubt even my faith. Is the taxidermist telling the truth? Did he truly witness poor Michael undergo such a horrifying transformation? Only time will tell. For now I must calm my mind and retire to bed. Tomorrow is Sunday and I can already imagine the drama that will unfold during Mass,

March 10th. That the congregation didn't come to blows last night is nothing short. of a miracle. Tensions are running higher than I thought. It hadn't even ascended the port-pit before questions started flying, and tempers started raging. We are all doomed, said Tabitha Wheatley, a governess no older than 19. The deaths of Miss Wainwright and Mr. Smith are proof that none of us are safe. We have all been marked by the beast, and when the beast marks you, not even God can save you. Her alarming words sent murmurs rippling through the pews.

"'Blastromy,' said Mr. Pitt. "'He appeared to have already aged ten years, "'even though Michael's death had only been four days ago. "'My son was pure and in God's good grace. "'How dare you accuse him of being marred by the beast, "'or of any of us, for that matter. "'We're a God-fearing town. "'I've been for decades.'

"'The men around him beat their fists against the pews in agreement. We have matters more urgent to deal with right now than guessing our afflictions origin, said Mr. Caudillum. There are strange creatures lurking in the forest as we speak. Skin soaked with the blood of our loved ones. Whether they possess the minds of beasts or men is up for debate, but regardless, we know they are dangerous. We need to locate and destroy them before their ranks swell. Has anyone actually seen these creatures? said David Lincoln, another farmer. "'because I sure as hell haven't,

"'and I've been looking harder than anyone.' "'I seen them,' said Mrs. Blake, "'an old maid pushing 80, "'from my porch. "'They six feet long and slither across the ground like snakes. "'Oh, quit lying. "'Everyone knows you got too many screws loose "'to be trusted as an eyewitness.

"'I knows what I seen, "'and no one can take that away from me, "'not even you.' "'She stood up on unsteady legs "'and addressed the conversely legs, congregation. This town is no longer safe. I can hear these creatures slaughtering deer every night from my room. It's not alarm before they venture out of the forest. Mark my words. Who cares what may or may not be in the forest? said Tabitha. What about the creatures inside

our backs? That's where they're coming from, right? Not necessarily, said Mr. Pitt. Mr. Mathers said in his letter that a substance slid down Michael's throat before the creature exploded from his back. This can't be a coincidence. Unless we've all had similar encounters, we should be safe. Yeah, but for how long? For all we know, a similar substance can travel down our throats while we sleep or attack us randomly like Michael. Like I said, this town is no longer safe. We should flee here while we still have the chance.

What, and abandon our farms, said Mr. Lincoln. My granddad would roll in his grave. I was born on my land, and God willing, I'll die there too. The farmers sitting around him clapped their hands and slapped his back. Fearing that the situation would soon slip from my control, I bang my fist on the podium. Luckily, the congregation fell silent. It's obvious that the past few days are frightened us.

I said, however now is not the time to turn against one another. We are all a part of God's family. We must stand united if we're to overcome this challenge. Why do you suggest, father? said Mr. Cotterall. You've been surprisingly quiet on the subject. The congregation stared at me expectantly, eyes glowing in the morning sun drifting through the stained glass windows. Well, to start, we should all remain in our homes as much. as possible. All three deaths this week have occurred on secluded farmland. Although I know we all want to protect our crops, our lives are more important than this year's harvest. Mirmers of approval rippled throughout the pews. I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd worried that they would object

to isolating themselves. That at least gave me hope that rationality hadn't fallen victim to panic, at least not yet. What about the creatures? said Tabitha. Are they real? I remained silent for several moments, straining under the weight of their collected gazes. If I didn't choose my words carefully, then I could spark a wildfire where now there were only embers. I'm not sure, I said. Although the rumours sound like outlandish stories, too many lives have been lost to simply brush them off. For this reason, I think we should assemble a small party. of men, myself included, to scout the woods.

That's the only way to test the veracity of these tales, including Mr. Mather's letter. Count me in, said Mr. Pitt, rising to his feet. I'm the best shot within a hundred miles. If these creatures truly exist, then I'll put a bullet between their eyes. I'll go too, said Mr. Lincoln. You won't find me carrying in my bed while these bloodsuckers pickers off one by one. No, sir. I'd rather put my shotgun to use.

The congregation exploded with cheers. Even I couldn't help but smile at Mr. Lincoln's courage. But just as I was about to raise my hands to quiet everyone down, the mayor, a hulk of a man named Bill Danford, came bursting into the sanctuary. His sudden appearance shocked everyone into silence. His wife had contracted tuberculosis several weeks ago, preventing him from regularly attending mass.

Mr. Danforth, I said. What a wonderful surprise. He ignored me and instead addressed the congregation with wild eyes. The cemetery, he said, voice shaky. It's empty. Everybody, 300 by my count, has been dug up. Somebody broke into my hotel room. night. Fortunately, I was out eating dinner, so I'm unharmed. Rest assured the laptop is still

in my possession. I have it well hidden. The church will have to step up their game in order to steal it back from me. The documents in the archive are too important for me to give it up without a fight. Given that my hotel room is compromised, I'm scrambling to find a safer location. I currently squeezed onto a bus as I type this, praying that I'll arrive at my destination safely. My life is taking a dangerous turn. Never in my wildest dreams where I have imagined that I'd be hunted by such a powerful institution. For this reason, I need all of your advice. What recommendations do you have for travelling undetected? Any thoughts you can give me on navigating the perilous path I've embarked upon? Anything will be much appreciated. If all goes well,

my life will calm down enough tomorrow for me to continue my tale. Documents from the archive are coming soon. Thanks to everyone who's following this, your support means everything to me. The next document that I'm about to leak contains sensitive information regarding life after death. It's written by a suburban dad named Nate Spangler, who hung himself in his basement last year. He died with a smile on his face. My house has fallen into such disrepair that even my counsellor is repulsed by it. Piles of junk undulate to the ceiling which emanate fumes so noxious I have to wear surgical masks just to breathe.

However, my basement is empty. Not a single box or trash bag lines its concrete floor. The reason for this is simple. I refuse to go down there. Although my addiction compels me daily to travel down the worn wooden steps, my will to live outweighs this compulsion. The horrors that dwell in its shadowed corners would cause even an exorcist to tremble and drove my wife from our home years ago. If I wasn't so frightened, I'd set up security cameras along the walls to catch the dreadful phenomena that occurs daily on camera. For maybe then somebody wiser than myself could explain to me what on the surface seems unexplainable.

However, given that my fear prevents me from even venturing near the door, my words will have to say. If you have any advice for me, please give it. I'm worried that the sinister forces in my basement are tainting the entire house. Should this happen? I don't know what I'll do. This house is my life. I have too many memories here to abandon it without a fight. However, I don't know how much more fight I have left in me.

My wife, Melissa, was the first person to grow weary of the basement. Upon moving into our house, long before my hoarding started, she complained of hearing footsteps during the night. These sounds occurred between 3 and 4 a.m. and prevented her from sleeping. For this reason, she quickly became concerned. I'm telling you, Nate, she said one morning, there's something down there. I believe you, I said. I've just never heard the noises you're describing.

Do you think we have rats? unless these rats wear size 12 shoes, I doubt it I think there's a person down there sometimes when I pass the door I hear whispering and other times I hear

raspy breathing as if somebody is moments away from suffocating I cast my eyes towards the ground unsure how to respond she'd made similar complaints of our last home

eventually her fear grew to the point that I agreed to move I did this no questions asked, for she was and still is the love of my life. However, I was hesitant to jump down that rabbit hole in our current house. We'd only been living there for a few weeks. For the first time since her wedding, I questioned her mental health. I don't know what to tell you, Melissa, I said, forcing myself to make eye contact with her. I've been down in that basement dozens of times.

There's nothing down there except musty buffer. boxes and rusty pipes. Melissa placed her head on my shoulder. You're right. I'm sure I'm worrying about nothing. This house is beautiful. Let's forget about that smelly old basement. Forget about that basement we did until one night I awoke to the sound of footsteps drifting under the door. I nudged Melissa awake. Listen, the footsteps you described are back. We were silent for over a minute, listening to the heavy thumping of walking feet. What should we do? asked Melissa. I lowered myself from the bed and put on my shoes.

I'm going to see who's down there. This is unacceptable. Wait! She pushed off the covers. I'm going with you. I don't want you to go alone. Are you sure? If somebody's truly in our basement, they might be dangerous. bare minimum there, mandally unstable. I'm sure. We're a team. Always have been, always will be. We walked into the hallway on silent feet and approached the basement door. The moment I placed my hand on the handle, the footsteps stopped. My heart pounded against my chest wall with such force that my ribs ate.

Why did the footsteps stop so suddenly? Was the intruder aware of our presence? The thought of them hiding in a darkened corner, waiting to pounce on us as we descended the stairs, filled me with dread. Melissa placed a reassuring hand on my elbow and nodded her head. I nodded back, and then swung open the door. A wave of darkness assaulted my senses. Other than my shallow breathing, not a sound could be heard in the entire house. I flipped on my flashlight, illuminating a narrow set of worn wooden stairs.

I ignored the light switch to my left. Given how busy I was following the move, I hadn't got around to changing the basement's dead light bulbs. For this reason, we were forced to venture into the suffocating darkness with nothing but a dim flashlight to guide our steps. The stairs creaked as we walked. Blood roared in my ears as we reached the final step. I swung my flashlight around the cluttered room.

What I saw sent me, reining into the wall. A woman was crouched in the corner, forehead pressed against the wall. The sound of my flashlight striking the concrete made her turn around. I stared into her face and screamed when I saw Melissa staring back at me. My scream reverberated off the concrete walls like a gunshot. I turned and looked at my wife, the real Melissa, before staring back into the bloodshund. shot eyes of her doppelganger, for I know no what else to call such a logic defying entity. Stephanie, said Melissa, voice shaking. My blood turned to ice. You know her? I said. Melissa ignored me.

What are you doing here? I thought you were dead. Stephanie regarded her with a look of strained recognition. Hey, sis, she said. Her voice was just above a whisper, but wound through the room with unnatural volume. I've missed you. A heavy silence

descended over the basement. A thousand questions in line my throat, but I decided to keep my mouth shut. Melissa seemed to be in control of this situation. Best let her take the lead. Don't be

frightened, said Stephanie, taking a step towards us. Her knees wobbled as she walked, as if her bones were broken. I just wanted to see you. This is impossible, said Melissa. You died right out of the womb. You're right. I did. But then I grew up in hell. And now I've escaped. I need your support now more than ever. I've been getting flooded with messages today from Vatic and run accounts demanding that I terminate this page. These messages, which I plan on sharing sooner, becoming increasingly threatening, and have me constantly looking over my shoulder. As a result, my stress and paranoia are becoming almost unbearable.

I haven't got a good night's sleep in days. Despite my perilous situation, I'll continue posting. my cause is too important to give up without a fight. I've too much to share with you all to disappear so suddenly. Last time I touched based, I was in a small town library. I've since moved even further off the grid and I'm now in a nameless hotel in a nameless city of a nameless highway. I'm using a secure internet connection. At least, I hope, as I type this while laying in a fresh or a slightly lumpy bed.

to the forces trying to capture me. Good luck finding me. Now that I know you're monitoring this account, I'll do everything in my power to not only slander your names, but to make your lives a living hell. I'm not someone to try for it. Do not test me. My name is Giuseppe Barbieri,

and as I'm writing this, I'm under the employer of His Holiness, Pope Pius X. As a librarian's assistant under Monseigneur Matteo Fierentino, who serves his holinesses, among his many duties, the caretaker for the library. It's the 1st November, 1903, and the chilly winds which whip about this holy city are rustling the red and yellow leaves which are now beginning to fall. I am alone now in the lower levels of the library. The corridors and halls now empty since the doors have closed for the evening. Because of his many responsibilities, Monseigneur Fiorentino oftentimes must leave the duties of librarian to me,

which I consider both an honour and a most holy duty, considering that it will be six months until I see my 20th birthday. I've been taught to read and write and even learn mathematics in astronomy at an early age, the gift of constantly wanting to expand my knowledge of the world and heavens upon which we exist coming from my father, who taught science and astronomy as I grew up in parents. As such, by age 10, I could speak many different languages, from Latin to German and of course French and Italian. My acceptance by the Vatican to work as an assistant to Monsignor Fiedentino was not very well received by my father, who instead wanted me to follow in his footsteps to be an educator

and astronomer, and, in truth, that was my ultimate goal when my time working here at the Vatican Library eventually came to a close. However, first I felt that my place was here, surrounded by the ancient manuscripts, texts and scrolls, learning as much as I could and soaking up all the wisdom of the great scholars, thinkers, writers and poets of their time. I felt that before I could teach the younger generations about the wonders which most certainly await them in the future, I must learn about the past. It took much convincing before my father relented and allowed me to journey back to my home country and to begin work at the Vatican, on the condition that on my 20th birthday, I would leave

the employ of His Holiness Pope Pius and begin my studies at university. That was two years ago, two years in which every day I awoke feeling blessed by God to be able to work here and be surrounded by the vast spiritual, scientific and cultural wisdom of the ages. Oftentimes, like tonight, I found myself awake deep into the twilight hours, reading a dusty manuscript under candlelight or electric light until the Monsignor admonishes me to go to sleep. It reminds me a bit of my own father, intelligent, kindly, but also very strict in carrying out his duties. It doesn't mind that I often spend my free time perusing these ancient texts, but when it's time for the lights to dim and nightly devotionals to begin, he's neither shy nor slow to correct my lapse of focus.

Ten days ago, the Monseigneur came to me with a particular task which, he said, would be dreary to anyone else except for someone like me, and, as usual, he was absolutely correct. The library was home to thousands of manuscripts and collections of manuscripts, and as of the past few decades, the cataloguing and organizing of the texts and collections of manuscripts had fallen into neglect. His Holiness, Pope Pius X, had requested that the entirety of the Vatican Library be organized and categorized by time the manuscript was written, the subject matter, and by author, if known. Because this was a request by the Pope, which would take several months to properly complete. The Monsignor informed me that the library will be taking on three other people to conduct the day-to-day activities. My job for the next few months would be to organise and categorize the entire Vatican library.

The Monseigneur consenting to allow me to work as late in the evening as I'd like. My duties being counted as my nightly devotionals to our Lord. I could not have been happier, spending my last six months at the Vatican lost amongst the most secret and rarest of ancient texts, texts which haven't been seen or touched for hundreds of years. I thank Monsignor feeling, Tino, over and over again, promising that I'd have the monumental task completed and completed accurately by the time my duties in the Vatican come to a close. For the past nine days, I was indeed the happiest I've been in my life,

cataloging and organising collections of texts according to the exacting instructions given down from Pope Pius himself, while making notes for myself of the text. I wanted to peruse further later in the evening when the workday is over. That joy, however, came crashing down today, reducing me to what I am now, a shivering, trembling boy. I had been happily cataloging the mountains of manuscripts this morning,

a rather extensive collection of ancient scrolls and texts from the collection of Pope Leo when I spied something rather peculiar with the library. All of the shelves were filled. filling up, albeit very slowly, with newly organized and categorized manuscripts, I noticed that there was one section of the library archives in which the shelves were completely empty. On the shelves which I had labelled between the years 120 AD to 140 AD, there were almost no manuscripts, as if there were absolutely no written records of that time period or, perhaps,

that those manuscripts had been destroyed. Monseigneur Fiorentino came to visit me as I was sitting at a desk, staring at the empty bases on the shelves and contemplating the cause of this peculiar oddity. The Monseigneur informed me that he'd be travelling for about two weeks to accompany his holiness the Pope as he toured the churches in Austria and Hungary, but we'll be back before the end of the month. I inquired of the Monseigneur about the curious lack of writings and manuscripts collected in the library from 120 to 140 AD, and his face turned dower and unsettling. The Monseigneur exhaled heavily, before

saying? The years between 87 AD and 120 AD are the years in which Titus Caesar Vespasanius was emperor of Rome. It was the time after Neus Julius Agricola, the Roman governor of Britain, had extended the boundaries of the Roman Empire to the north shore of Caledonia, which today is now called Scotland. During Agricola's reign, the Roman Empire ruled all of Britain. However, under Emperor Pius, the decades following that era saw great turmoil on northern Britain, resulting in the Roman legions being thrown back beyond the boundaries of Caledonia. These defeats were such that a planned Roman invasion of Ireland was cancelled, and the previous Roman fortifications built north of the Staingate Road were either abandoned or torn down. Once Signor Fiorentino took his leave,

again admonishing me not to work too late into the evenings and not to forget my knightly devotionals. I wished him fair travels and fine weather, before I turned and eagerly set about my task of organising the vast collection of scrolls and manuscripts. I was still puzzled as to why such a large span of time, over twenty years, was oddly bereft of any type of recorded history, especially during a time of such great upheaval in Britain. While I understood that wars did bring a certain amount of destruction, chaos and ultimately a loss of manuscripts, the fact that no written documents seem to exist from Rome's retreat from the British Isles was baffling me to no end.

I was clearing out a curtain of cobwebs at a forgotten set of shelves far back in the archives before I was to take my lunch break. I was looking forward to eating my meal out by the Fontaine and Dia Piazza, San Pietro, under the bright afternoon sun. It was rather dank and dreary in this part of the archives as the electrical lights barely shone down here

and I wasn't foolish enough to supplement that light with candles, not with so many ancient and brittle texts surrounding me. It was on the top shelf that I found her most curious object. It was a wooden box reinforced with bands of iron. Though ancient looking, the wood was sturdy, and there was a heavy rusted lock which kept the box firmly shut for what seemed like eons. The box was about 60 centimetre square and exceedingly heavy. It took quite a bit of strength for me to carry it in one hand

while I used the other to steady myself as I had descended. the shaky ladder to the floor. Placing the box gently on a sturdy push-gart. I wheeled it squeakily to the open reading area, where blessed sunlight shone through the thick, dusty window panes down to the three long reading tables arranged on the glossy white and gold-tiled floor. Transferring the box to one of the reading tables

made of heavy African blackwood, I blew and wiped the thick coating of dust off it. Coughing from the clouds of dust, I grabbed the large ancient lock and gave it a light tug. The lock held firm, as I'd expected, but the nails which held the clasp in place had turned brittle with rust and came apart from the box. Normally at this point I would have run to Monsignor Fierrentino,

excitedly, I might add, to inform him of my discovery. But with the Monsignor away for a few weeks, and forgive me my patience being far from what was required to wait for his return, I tugged again on the lock, harder this time. By the third booming thud that echoed across the room, the clasp finally came off the box. Gulping nervously, feeling as if I'd somehow committed a sin,

I lifted the heavy lid off the box. The musty scent of mould and time assailed me as I looked inside. I gagged for a moment as another smell hit me. It was the unmistakable scent, of death. The inside of the box was nearly pristine, the grey cushions holding the three scrolls hardly having deteriorated. Placing on gloves, I carefully retrieved the top scroll,

gently unrolling the top portion. The words at the heading on the yellowing parchment were written in Latin. To his highness, Emperor Pius, from Lucius Latinemus Massel, chief centorian and camp prefect. Legio 9, Hispania. Well, I shuddered deeply, placing my hand over my mouth. Emperor Pius had ruled from 138 AD to 161 AD. Lucius Latinemus Marseer.

I'd never read of him before, but he was a high-ranking officer in the Roman Legion, Legio 9, Hispania. Camp Prefect would make him third in command of a legion of about 5,000 soldiers. Why would he be the one right to be the one right to? into the Emperor of Rome, instead of the Legion Legate. These questions swirled in my mind as I gently replaced the scroll into the box and dutifully carried it to the great archival shelves, placing it on the near empty spaces, denoting the time periods between 120 AD to 140 AD. I'd have to wait until the Monsignor returned to see what he had to say about such a historic

find, and I prayed to God for patience and to calm my anxious heart that beat in anticipation to learn what was written on those thousand-year-old scrolls. I continued diligently doing my duties, having forgotten to take my lunch as I continued staring at the box every time I passed that shelf. After an eternity, six o'clock in the evening finally came,

and the three library workers came down into the archives, asking permission to finally close the library for the evening. When I inquired as to why they would need to ask my permission to close the library for the day, they replied that the moment. Monsignor had told them that I was now in charge of the library until his return. Monsignor Fierintino said that until his duties with the Holy Pope have concluded, said Dominic, the eldest of the three boys,

you are to be his representative and your word is his word. Shocked, I replied. Yes, yes, of course. I'll see you boys early tomorrow morning. Closing the great archive doors made of Brazilian walnut, I raced towards the shelf on which I'd placed the wooden box earlier. My heart beat wildly inside me at the realization that the Monsignor had left me with the authority over the library. Grabbing the box again, I placed it on the cart and pushed it to the reading tables.

Turning on the lights and positioning three oil lamps on the table, I made my secluded area unusually bright, something which the Monsignor would have surely scolded me for, using excessive amounts of electricity and oil. Hardly able to contain my excitement, I pulled out all three scrolls. To my surprise, it was not three separate letters written to the Emperor, but actually one long account written on three different scrolls. Holy Father, please forgive me for my curiosity.

Had I known the horrors contained within those accursed scrolls, I would have left them locked in that box, forgotten forever until the son of God returned to wipe away the evil that hangs over us all perhaps after you hear what Lucius Latinimus

Maser had written you'll understand why I did what I did so here is the entire account of what the chief centurion and camp prefect of Legio 9 Hispania has written nearly 2,000 years ago

and may God have mercy on us all To His Highness, Emperor Pius, from Lucius Latinemus Massa, Chief Centurian and Camp Prefect, Legio 9, Hispanic. Hail, great emperor, ruler of the world. I bring you tidings of loyalty, as well as news of our campaign against the savage Caledonians, and the building of the Antonine Wall, north of Hadrian's Wall. Yesterday morning I rode my horse south from Antonine's Wall through the port gate in Hadrian's Wall,

and continued south to the city of Corbridge, the town from which our Ligio 9 Hispania launched our campaign from the fort of Vindolanda only a few weeks passed. Though a rather squalid and pathetic place, it did boast a rather large library with manuscripts and texts of the peoples and cultures of the northern lands, as well as the mythologies on legend as to which the savage northerners described. This library was easily the most well-constructed and grandiose strength, and the mythologies, in the region and was warded over by supposedly holy men, but whom legate Titus considered shalotons and phony sorceress. Surrounded by a high stone wall, the library was also rumoured to hold tomes of ancient magical spells. Our young tribune, Quintus, suggested that we tarry

a while to learn what we could of the library's secrets. But because our second-in-command was not a military man, Legart Titus told Quintus that he could bury his head in as many of the savages fairy tales as he lied after the Caledonians had finally been subjugated. As I said, this occurred weeks past, before our northern march towards Caledonia, and before I eventually returned to Corbridge with Tribune Quintus and only seven other soldiers. Forgive me, my lord, as my account seems to jump back and forth. By the events of the past weeks still haunt my soul, and I am in a race against time to raise that. that legion before those accursed Caledonian sorcerers can reach them first.

I shall start on the day Ligio 9 left Fort Vindalander, near Hadrian's Wall, to journey north to the Glasgow Bridge Tower. Tribune Silvius had just completed construction of the Glasgow Bridge Tower on Antonine's wall, which overlooks the flowing River Kelvin to the north. 32 leagues separate Hadrian's wall from where Antonine's wall was being constructed, and under normal conditions, the ride to Antonine's war would have only taken four days. However, our Legion consisted of 5,000 soldiers, along with a logistical train of 8,000, consisting of the porters, pioneers, herdsmen, and labourers.

Combined with the foul, stinking weather, which the fitful gods of the Britons constantly hammered us with, our movement to Antonine's war took well over 12 days, legateitis being forced to stop the Legion's progress, to await the past, of storms which turned the ground into a sea of mud and rivers to overflow their banks. When the Legion finally reached the Glasgow Bridge Tower, Legartite Titus turned over the pioneers and labourers which he'd conscripted from the far southern territories to Tribune Silvius to add to his manpower since, as you well know, the local conscripts have been abandoning their duties, citing their fear of some mythological local legends which have frightened them away. I sought out

tribute Silvius to inquire about my younger brother, Albus Messer, a centurion who commanded the 120 riders of a cavalry cohort of the Legio Six Victrix, the legion that was charged with protecting the building of Antonine's wall. Silvius informed me that Albus and his men had been sent on a scouting mission north of the wall, to look for quarry sites and good timber. Albus and his cohort left from here, the Glasgow Bridge Tower about eight days ago, said tribute Silvius. Albus' commander instructed him to be gone no longer than four days, as enemy tribes roam the lands north of the River Kelvin. Eight days, I said. Why has no one gone to search for them?

All EGO6 is stretched far and thin as it is, answered Silvius, deeply apologetically, and the rains had flooded the river. It's only receded two days ago, and we'd hoped that once your legion arrived, you could perhaps solve the mystery of our missing else. Who is the commander that abandons an entire cohort to the blasted gray mists of this cursed lands? But hearing my outburst, Legate Titus stopped overseeing the establishment of the Legion's temporary containment and approached. His commander is Centurion Fulginico, said Silvius nervously, as Lagarte Titus neared us.

He's many leagues to the east overseeing the construction of rough castle tower. We were getting quite nervous here, as we have had no security since the cohort had left. Turning, I explained to my Legion commander the dire situation of the missing scout cohort of Leggio 6 victrix. The heavy grimace covered Lagarty tight as his face, made more grim as heavy grey clouds covered the already grey skies, promising more days of rain. I shall order two cohorts of Carrae to take up the search north of the wall, said Titus finally. My lord, I answered, my brother is the cohort leader. Titus stared at me with cold gray eyes for several seconds,

weighing the wisdom of allowing the Legion's third in command to rescue his younger brother as the reins began to fall. Take command of the two cohorts, Prefect Mercer, he said. But I want you back within three days' time. I do not want you trapped on the other side of the Kelvin should the gods cause the river to rise above its banks. I will need your expertise and planning skills as we prepare for our full campaign to push north from the wall,

and we know little about what the mists hide in the land before us. May the gods be with you, Lucius. Saluting my commander, I gathered up the two cohorts of 240 cavalry riders and exited the Glasgow Bridge Tower, crossing north over the River Calvin very low stone bridge, and soon we were swallowed, the rising mist. A path led directly into the forest beyond, one that was wide enough for us to follow,

even through the prevailing fog. Earily, there seemed to be no noise, no insects, no birds, nothing outside with the knickering of our horses, the mushings out of their hooves on the muddy trail, and the dull clanking of weapons and armour. We are vulnerable in this position, whispered Evander, a centurion who commanded one of the cavalry cohorts, as he brought his horse next to mine. Our visibility is limited, and an enemy can easily come upon us through the mist. Then we should hasten our pace, I answered,

thinking only of finding my brother and nothing else. I picked up our pace to a steady gallop as we continued following the trail along the forest floor. Many well-worn tracks branched left and right, disappearing into the woods around us, but I kept us on the main path as the sun rose higher into the sky. By afternoon the sun had burned away the misty morning fog and the rains finally subsided, revealing more of the haunted forest which surrounded us.

Insects began to chatter and chirp, and we could hear birds as the sounds of small forest animals echoed all around us. Keep your eyes to the trees and forest, admonished Evander and the senior ranking Citurians to the rest of the cavaliers. Be aware of arches and ambush. If we can see them, they can see us. us, and we're in lands that the savages know well. Though the sun was now up and shining, the rays of light which passed down through the treetop canopy did little to extinguish the dreariness of the forest. Worse, clouds of biting flies and insects assailed our ears, eyes and noses at every chance

they could, as the humidity rose and boiled us in sweat. I pushed the two cohorts onwards as the trail descended down a low foothill, which led to a relatively open area at the base of a shallow valley. The trees thinned out here and blessedly as we finally emerged from the forest, we were greeted with a breeze of fresh air. The valley in which we emerged was a green expanse of tall grass and wildflowers in which islands of small trees and bushes clustered. Far to our left, near where the line of trees ended, were the remnants of a small dilapidated farming community long abandoned now. The main path which we'd taken through the forest now seemed to disappear into several smaller trails which criss-crossed the valley.

Realising that it was well into the afternoon and the men hadn't eaten all the horses watered, I ordered a brief halt so that the men could tend to their hunger and personal needs and water their horses. I summoned the two cohort commanders, Evander and Rufus, to me, and together we investigated the trails which led deeper into the valley, hoping to discover which one my brother had taken. The rains had washed away many of the signs, and we concluded that most of the trails were game trails used by wild animals or long-forgotten wagon trails, which the inhabitants once used to transport their livestock and crops. However, Rufus soon discovered a relatively fresh trail of several dozen hoofprints which had cut a path through the tall grass northeastward, leading up to a forested hill. We spent the rest of the day following the trail through the valley until we reached the base of the hill. Apollo had begun his slow descent to the west, and the light of his passing would be gone soon.

A large clearing had been cut out next to the trail, and we discovered evidence of a large camp, with fire pits dug and small pieces of discarded legion kit lying about. They camped here, said Rufus, an excellent tracker and hunter. I would say that this camp is no older than five or six days. Elated, I would have pressed the search further, but both the other. men and horses were tired after a long day's ride. The skies were darkening again, with a promise of evening showers. I knew that pressing on after dark in these foreboding, enemy-infested woods would be an unwise risk. Still knowing that I only had one day left to search for my

brother's missing cohort, maybe less, I reluctantly ordered the men to make camp here and erect their shelters before the rains came again. We also gave them permission to make fires to warm themselves and to heat their meals, the reins allowing, and instructed each cohort to have one of every three soldiers on century duty until we left in the morning. In my personal tent, I shared a meal of bread, bacon, mutton, and wine with my two cohort commanders, as we plan the next day's movements. Though I was confident that we were skilled and disciplined enough to defeat any of the savage tribes who may try to attack us, and fleet-footed enough to escape if we were not. Our biggest problems would be the rain, the mist, and our general unfamiliarity of the land on which we would be campaigning.

Satisfied that my men were rested but alert, and the security of the camp had been set. I bid commanders Evander and Rufus good evening, and settled down for the night. The rains, thankfully, were light, and their pattering upon the roof of my tent conspired to put my restless mind to sleep. I awoke, after the mid of night, with absolutely no sound coming from the oppressive blackness around me. I tried to recall the dream which I just had, remembering only my brother staring down at me. Staring down. Staring down. There was something wrong with his face.

I bore back the flap of my tent and stepped outside, grateful for the clear skies and the cool air. The rain had stopped. Is there something wrong, my liege? said the senior ranking of the two guards standing at my tent's entrance. No, I said, stay alert. As I lay back down on my blanket, wondering what had woken me up, the wind had picked up, driving down from the north, and a faint scent hit my nose. It wasn't overwhelming and seemed to drift in and out at the very borders of my perception. It was barely imperceptible, but it was there.

I'd smelled that scent many times in the past, usually after a slaughter of warrens. is lit at the battlefield. It was the smell of rot. At this point, the manuscript of Chief Centurion in Camp Prefect Lucius Latinemus Mesa came to an end, but it was picked up in the second scroll. More intrigued and horrified, I continued reading, as this seemed more the beginning of a fairy tale adventure than the apocalyptic calamity which it ended up becoming the second scroll. The night passed without incident and we continued our search in the pre-dawn hours the next day, leaving the open valley and descending up the misty slopes of the low foothills. The men broke there fast as they rode, chewing on hard-tack bread soaked in brine and washing it down with water.

It was a poor morning meal for the men, but our time for searching was rapidly coming to an end. The smell of rock which plagued my dreams was gone. However, that may have been because there was no wind to carry the foul scent. With a growing apprehension and dread in my heart, an affliction which I could scarcely explain, I led the cavalry further up into the hills, still following the trail left by my brother's cohort who had gone before me. Though I could hardly see the path ahead, I could sense that we'd rounded the top of the hill and were now headed down.

The view from the hilltop only gave me a picture of trees poking from the top nearby hilltops, their base swallowed by the thick mist. Even though I knew that hidden somewhere in those clouds were the enemy which had caused my brother's disappearance, I knew also that my brother was somewhere in those mists too. Shall I send some scouts ahead to flush out any ambushes? said Evander. The enemy has eyes in the damned trees and fogser, added Rufus. If they spied upon our travels yesterday, it would be a sure bet that they know we're taking the path of our brethren who came before us. If I were to plan an attack, it would be here, as we would be here, as we would be a sure bet that they know we're taking the path of our brethren who came before us.

it would be here as we descend into the mists. Well, of course, Evander and Rufus were right, but I hated to wait any longer for a scouting party to return. I was about to turn and give the order to have a scouting party from each cohort descend into the veil when I felt the wind's direction change. The sickening smell of death and decay assail my nose from somewhere down in the mists.

My men smelled the order as well, as I kicked my heels and spurred my horse into a quick gallop down the path, shrouded in clouds of fog, my man followed me without question. I was in the lead, following the trail of hoofprints left by my brother's cohort, looking for any trace that perhaps some of the hoofprints led back in the direction in which they came, indicating that some may have survived a retreat. Sadly, all I saw were hoof prints going in one direction, northeast, towards yet another hilltop. We splashed through an ice-cold stream before bounding up the shallow,

hill on the other side the senior ranks ordering the archers to notch arrows and the rest to draw swords the smell of death and decay surrounded us as we found out vengeance pumping in our blood as we were sure that this was where the enemy would strike with a roar we rushed up the hill towards where the savages had surely set another trap but we would not be caught unawares as our steeds charged up that slope the steel of spear and sword slicing through the mist As if in response to our charge, the winds picked up, blowing the mist into a white whirlwind which gradually removed our fog blindness as the smell of death increased and consumed us. As I reached the peak of the hill, I halted my horse abruptly.

It winnied in surprise as I yanked back on his reins and jumped from my saddle, my gladius in one hand. I yank my spear from my sleeve on my horse's flank and charged. screaming with rage the rest of the distance up to the top of the hill they were there they were there stacked one on top of the other by the dozens on four piles was our missing cavalry co-hold the fires which have been used to create their funeral pires must have been great indeed as the bodies of our men had been blackened to a crisp i walked on the burned ground in between the pyres of the corpses of our black charred men yelling for my brother albus albus i will still hope that he was still alive as someone must have been alive to have honored our fallen dead in this way albus brother where are you their heads where are their heads Evander and Rufus came up behind me, swords drawn after they ordered their men to form a defensive

perimeter around the hilltop. Why would those savages behead our men before burning them? Grunted Rufus angrily. This is something that they've never done in the past. These men have been defiled. I looked again at the bodies of the dead and cursed myself for my careless blindness. Beheading our men before burning them was a dishonour to them, cursing their spirits to search for for their missing heads and robbing them of the ability to travel to the afterlife.

This was something that my brother would never have ordered, and my heart sank at that. Indeed, his charred headless body was lightly among those in the stacks, and still the smell of rot permeated the air. My leech, I fear that I have found the answer to the mystery. I raced to where the horrified soldier was standing at the misty edge of the clearing. the slowly lifting fog had initially hidden the dread from me which the soldier had stumbled upon the mists parted to reveal a large pile of the missing rotting heads of our fallen comrades filled with unrestrained grief i fell upon the pile picking through the heads with tears of my eyes like a madman as i searched for my brother's head there was something off with the severed heads which didn't seem right in a situation in which nothing seemed right These men died at least eight days ago, at the rate of decomposition seemed far too advanced, as if the men had been decapitated months after they died. To their credit, several of the men with strong constitutions began pulling the putrid,

maggot-covered heads from the pile, and reverently lined them up on the ground. In total, there were one hundred and six heads in the pile. My liege, said Evander solemnly, is your brother, among the fallen. No, I said, the flame of hope sputtering alive again. He is not among these honoured dead. I had examined every head lined upon the ground, and even their advanced state of decay, I could tell that none of these men was my brother. What happened to your hand, Evander? Evander looked down at his bleeding palm, now wrapped in a white cloth stained with blood. It's nothing, my liege. One of the heads took a bite out of

my hand a spasm that lingers after death well have one of the medicus supply medicine and poultices to your wound i advised just in case i shall have this tended to later my liege evander replied 14 of our men yet remain unaccounted for and i'll not let a small scratch hamper our mission any further we had gathered the heads together again careful to avoid the occasional post-mortem spasmodic gnashing of teeth which eerily made them seem both alive and hungry. We set another funeral pyre, burning all over the heads amidst prayers

that their spirits could now go in peace to the afterlife. By this time the sun was almost at the mid of day, the morning mists having long since burned away. We were in a wide clearing atop that hill, and we could see hoof prints which led down into another wide valley of green rolling plains, the clear skies revealing black ravens circling overhead. Death's hand has recently cursed that place, said Rufus.

A battle took place there. Our time is short, I replied. Before nightfall we must be on our way back to the wall. The terrain allows us to deploy our forces more advantageously here. Let's see if we cannot solve this mystery before our time runs out. The path we took weaved around the hilltop before dipping down into the valley. A giant ancient elm tree greeted us as we rounded the bend, great branches completely overhanging the entire path.

I stopped and gasped in shockers, hanging from the branches of the tree were fourteen bodies. Ignoring Evander and Rufus's offer to ride ahead and investigate the bodies, I galloped towards the tree, my heart now grieving as I suspected that my search for my brother had come to an end. He stared down at me with dead eyes. A sad expression on his wounded face. The rope creaking in the wind. Why, Albus, you survived. Why did you and the others who survived have to do this?

Why did you behead your honoured dead before sending their spirits on their way? Why did you leave so many mysteries? Who attacked you, Albus? The parchment was still gripped in my brother's gloved hand. and I gingerly slipped it from his dead grasp. Unrolling the parchment, I read the words written upon it in my brother's handwriting. May my horn had fallen forgive me

for taking their heads before burning their bodies. It was the only way to be sure that the cohort does not rise again. Those of us who'd survived the attack cannot be sure that we were not infected by the demonic sorcery of the Caledonians. We dare not return to the war bringing the pestilence of the Caledonians, with us so we have decided to end the curse here at this tree may we be forgiven but no other

choice was left beware the sorcerers for they control of the dead what madness taken over you and the 13 others who survived that caused you to write this witchery or the ambush which had taken the lives of your cohort had obviously driven sanity from you. At least we know for sure who committed this travesty. And when our campaign begins in earnest, I promise you, my brother, that the Caledonians will pay a hundredfold for every man we lost. I turned my horse to the tree, no longer able to stand the heartbreak welling up inside me. My leash, whispered Rufus, as he sauntered his horse next to mine. Cut them down, Rufus, I said.

Cut them down and render them the proper honours which they deserve. Of course, my liege, he answered, calling a work detail forwards to complete this grisly task. Evander attempted to call a work party of his own cohorts, but began coughing instead. I turned to see that he had grown somewhat pale and was sweating. Evander, are you okay? I am, my liege, he answered, clearing his throat. Curse the damn dreary weather here he. in Britain. I cannot wait until we subjugate these savages so that we can return to the warmer

climbs of Hispania. As the last fourteen of the fallen cohort were placed on the funeral pyre, I sat upon my steed, staring down into the valley where they fought their last battle. Evander and Rufus sat silently at my side on their horses. Silently, I cursed the ungodly savages who had done this. Come out. Come out, damn you. I know you're not. I know you're not. out there. I have twice the number of cavalry here. Come out that I may fertilize the valley with your entrails. My heart was a fire with a desire of vengeance. To hell with the coming main campaign, I wanted to begin the attack now, starting from this hill. My liege, said Rufus. I looked into the direction

where the cohort commander was pointing. Emerging from the trees which surrounded the valley was a pale, decrepit-looking figure. The thin man dressed only in ragged furs, which only covered his waist, shambled out into the field as if drunk. In his withered hand was a rusted axe. Grunted Evander in disgust. That one looks rough even for a savage. He is also someone who may lead us to who committed this atrocity. I grabbed up my spear and made to spur my steed forwards down into the valley, but Rufus stayed my hand. My leech, wait, look. Behind the figure came dozens more savages, dressed similarly to the first with ragged clothing

and fur, and just like the first, they had a shambling gait, as if unused to walking on their bony legs. They were deathly pale, some even missing limbs, those without legs dragging themselves across the ground. Many of them held makeshift weapons. pitchforks, spears, butcher knives, and short swords, all in various states of rust and disrepair. Haunted, howling and mowing and bellowed up from their abdomens, their skin so taunt that we could clearly see their ribcages. A lone figure and horseback emerged from the woods, hidden under a large robe, coloured a dark, mottled green.

The figure held a gnarled wooden staff in the air in one hand and was waving his other hand in such a way as that of a magician casting a spell. As the black smoke of the funeral pyre behind me swirled around my face, the sickening smell of flesh slowly cooking in the fires, I raised my spear and ordered, lances to the fore, fall upon the foe with vengeance and no mercy. A mighty roar echoed across the hilltop, and the ground trembled as the two hundred cavalrymen of my two cohorts thundered down the hillside,

every man eager for revenge and bloodshed. Yet strangely, there was very little bloodshed as the distance rapidly closed, and the first line of lances struck the foe. As we neared the foe, the stink of rotten decay assailed our senses, and I had to spur my horse onwards through the putrid stench as my lance crashed into the skeletal man who first emerged from the trees. My spear punched him through the chest, ripping the man in half, then pierced another through the side. The savage, though skewered on my lance, continued to grasp at me, using my own

lance to pull himself towards me. The sharp iron head of my spear struck yet another savage, easily taking his arm off before it finally snapped after punching a fourth savage through the head. I dropped my now useless weapon and drew my gladius, realizing that something was horrifyingly wrong with the foe. The man whom I'd ripped in half, was still alive, crawling towards me with his entrails dragging behind him, hands grabbing and mouth snapping in hunger. The second, still with a spear shaft through his chest, was shambling after me, waving a rusted sword crazily as if he did not know how to use his arms. The savage whose arm I'd torn off was also standing as if unhurt by the grievous wound. He'd been slashed a number

of times by my riders as they charged past, but the foe still remained afoot, clumsily grabbing at my men as if to pull them from their mounts. Only the fourth enemy, one whom I decapitated with my spear, lay unmoving on the ground. Though the foe was taking mortal injuries from my men, injuries which should have bathed the ground crimson with their blood, there was very little bleeding. We were stabbing and hacking limbs and gouging guts from the enemy, but there was very little bloodshed, as if the blood of the savages had congealed a long time ago. Even though many of the savages were armed with rudimentary weapons, they seemed to know how to use them even less than their own arms, preferring instead to grab a rider to bring

him down and to attack by biting. In this way, a number of our riders were pulled from their mounts and immediately set upon by the savages. but the gods were with many of them as they were able to fend off the enemy and regain their mounts. Still, others were not so fortunate. Their screams turning to chokes, their quivering arms and legs spasming as the damned savages tore chunks of flesh from their throats. Two of the foe cornered my steed, but he reared up, kicking one of the savages' head into mush with a powerful kick. The second foe reached desperately towards my arm, a hissed.

coming from his lungs as his mouth opened and closed hungrily. I struck him with a blow across the chest, which would have shattered his ribcage and destroyed his lungs and hearts, but the savage continued forwards. With his arms outstretched, I brought my sword down again, severing both. The enemy fell backwards, seemingly unconcerned, as he struggled to get back up, rage filling his dead-looking eyes. They are virtually unkillable.

growled Rufus as he fought his way to my side. What demons possess these savages? Hunger bordering on cannibalism, I yelled, and potions which have caused them not to feel pain, but have also driven them mad. As the armless savage lunged at my horse, mouth agape, I swung my sword downwards, sundering his head from his shoulder. The enemy finally collapsed on moving on the battlefield.

Likewise, Rufus swept. his sword in a wide arc, lopping off the heads of the two savages which were threatening him. We both yelled out to the men to sever the heads from their shoulders. But most of those that had survived thus far had already learned the secret of killing these seemingly unkillable savages. Though the enemy seemed to act as one, like ants. Individually they were weak and against the discipline of Roman training and sharpened steel. The savages fell headless in droves. As the threat to my men lessened, I began to wonder about this enemy. Their numbers were roughly equal to ours, so the end result of this battle was hardly in doubt.

But still, my brother's cohort should have been able to solve the riddle of slaying these savages and easily dispatch them. My angry gaze once again turned to the mysterious figure on horsemen. The rider's hood was poor back revealing a withered face, whips and strands of long grey hair sprouting from a liver-spotted head. He was smiling, revealing a mouth of yellow, ragged teeth. Four other robed riders emerged from the woods, each one also carrying a gnarled wooden star aloft, and each waving the other hand as if evoking some kind of barbaric incantation.

In an instant of horrific realisation, I knew how my brother's cohort had been defeated. this wasn't the ambush. This was the bait which sprung the true ambush. The smell of putrid rotten decay increased tenfold as a thousand more of the cannibalistic Caledonian savages shambled from the woods from the north, west and east. My liege, yelled Rufus. It was an ambush. I know, Rufus, I yelled, glaring at the four Caledonian riders who were obviously the commanders and masterminds behind this ambush. Trumpeters sound at the withdrawal. The piercing peals of my signal as trumpets

rang out across the battlefield and, in disciplined and uniform order, my men turned their steeds to the south and swiftly retired from the battlefield. Rufus, Evander and I rode last, observing to ensure that the units retired in good order. The ground was littered with hundreds of enemy, but I counted at least twenty of our fallen amongst the dead. Among our cavalry, I also saw that a few had suffered bite marks of varying degree, inflicted by those savages driven mad by hunger. Evander coughed again, his head hanging down. He was deathly pale. Evander, I said, are you well? It's nothing, my liege, he coughed. The damned weather. Hot and rain. cold and rainy, dreary and rainy,

no wonder all Britons look pale and mouldy and smell of swamp. Can you ride? Yes, my liege, Evander said, unsteadily, never looking up. Let us away. I looked at the wrapping covering his hand, and we started to see that the red blood had turned a deep purple. I looked over to Rufus, whose look of concern mirrored my own. With the encroaching enemy horde only a few paces behind us,

We spurred our horses on to join the gear guard of the cavalry, Rufus and I taking up positions on either side of Evander in case he should fall from his saddle. We gallop back up the hill which she charged down earlier, passing the still-burning funeral pyre which we had created for my brother and his men, past the smouldering fire over the heads which we'd set ablaze earlier, and finally past the charred remains of the bodies of my brother's fallen co-holt. We followed our own tracks down the other side of the hill, and back across the wide valley,

which we'd ridden through the day before. The foe was less than two leagues behind us, when I ordered the paster slow. Shortly thereafter, Evander fell from his horse. He was, by now almost white, his breathing shallow, and he was burning with fever. The medicus removed the wrapping from his hands, and the smell of rot exuded from his black, gangrenous wound.

They put more healing herbs and poultices on the festering wounds, But sadly the medicus said that, in order to save his life, we would have to take his arm when we made count. Not knowing how much of a lead we had ahead of the foe, I ordered that Evander be made as comfortable as possible and strapped down to his mount. Rufus offered to lead Evander's mount himself, as Evander's second in command took control of his cohort. As we crossed the valley, I kept the pace slow, as both horses and men were tired. As night approached, I halted the column about half a league from the forest at the base of the foothills, beyond which lay Antonine's wall and the safety of the Glasgow Bridge Tower. I ordered the men to make camp and allowed for fires to be set,

along with torches to be placed around the camp perimeter. Since the savages already knew we were here, there was no need to try and hide our presence. Thankfully the skies were clear, so for once the men could rest without the rains to dampen their spirits. As camp was being constructed, I raced to the medicus to check on the condition of Evander. Regretfully, the medicus informed me that our brave cavalry cohort commander's spirit had left his body sometime during the journey. Deeply saddened at his passing, I decided to bring his body with us back to Antonine's wall for a proper honouring of his passing instead of burning his corpse here.

It's a decision which I would later regret. By now the full moon and stars were illusion. illuminating the black cloudless skies. I scarcely had time to mourn the loss of Evander when the rearguard which I'd ordered to keep watch from the hilltop we'd abandoned came galloping into the camp. Their anxious commander reported that the enemy was on the march and had been joined by two more barbaric tribes, these men seeming much more fit and whole compared to the savages we'd encountered today, wearing primitive armor and brandishing better weaponry and shields. Curiously, these new tribesmen seemed very fearful of the savages we'd fought earlier and kept

a good distance from them. Separating the two groups were more of the mysterious cloaked riders, now numbering about twenty, and these riders seemed to be just as disdained as the foul-smelling cannibals which the riders commanded. Still the only men on horse were these strange cloaked riders, and their force of about 3,000 were advancing at a walking pace towards our positions. At that pace it would take them about a day to reach us, at which time I planned to be long gone. Still, I ordered that a small picket of rearguard scouts remain at least a league behind us, just in case. However, no sooner had I heard this than I was also informed by the medicus that at least 30 more of my cavalrymen had fallen ill, each having been bidden by those savages, their wounds severe enough to have drawn blood,

and were showing the same signs of advanced putridity as Evander. In the ensuing three hours, all of them fell into delirium, then coma, then death. The medicum had no answer to this mystery, and I ordered the bodies to be wrapped in cloth, to be taken back to the wall, as we needed to know what kinds of poisons the savages were using to cause such horrific afflictions on our men. It was only later on in the blackness of the after-midnight that I learned the horrific reason why my brother decapitated the men who died under his command.

No sooner had I fallen into a fitful sleep, and I was awoken to the terrified screams of men coming from outside my tent. They emerged, sawed in hand, to see that the sentries who guarded my tent were gone. Looking to my right, where I'd previously had the bodies of the body of the tent, fallen wrapped in their cloaks and lying on the ground. I saw that their cloaks had been tossed aside, the body's missing. Initially, I thought that the savages had entered the camp and was somehow

attempting to steal the bodies. However, in the silhouette of the fires, I could see shadows of my men bending over as if feasting on the struggling bodies of my other living men, their screams of terror echoing through the darkness. Something hit me hard out of the darkness to my right, and I tumbled to the ground, my sword leaving my hands. I rolled over and looked up at my attacker, clearly expecting to see a savage, cannibalistic Caledonian staring back at me. Instead, the animalistic eyes which met my gaze belonged to dead Evander, his hungry moor chomping.

I had no time to reach for my fallen sword as Evander fell upon me, but as I felt his jaws near my face, I also heard a violent yell, followed by a gust of wind, Vandah's head fell away as his body suddenly dropped heavily upon me, putrid smelling congeal blood soaking my tunic. Above me, Rufus stood with sword in hand. My liege, he gasped, how a dead walk, and they are attacking and eating the living. Pushing the body of Evander off me, I shuddered. Take the heads of the dead, and all those whom they've bitten. What follows is the most terrifying and tragic night of my life,

as one hour later all of the risen dead were finally decapitated and burning in the fires, but leaving me with twenty of my men, kneeling before me, their hands and feet bound by rope, each of them were suffering bleeding bites caused by their dead comrades. Despite their piteous cries for mercy, I ordered that each have their heads to be removed, from their bodies by the grieving comrades not wanting to spend one more second in this unholy land I ordered our survivors to pack what they could as quickly as possible and retreat back to the wall here ends the second scroll of chief centurion and camp prefect Lucius latinimus massir the last scroll of his writings

concludes its account and it is here that I pray that the last scroll will never be read as what is written within will reveal ancient and forbidden secrets that may plunge the world into hell. The third scroll. Late the next day, what remained of our force of cavalrymen, finally returned to Antonine's wall. Of the 240 of us who passed the Glasgow Bridge and crossed the River Kelvin, less than 160 returned. Once again the rains began to fall, and amidst the thunder which accompanied it, was the disbelieving anger of Lagart Titus, who was furious that I had lost so many of his valuable cavalrymen, to such an outlandish account that the dead walk among the enemy's ranks.

Thankfully, his anger was assuaged somewhat by the testimony of Rufus, and all of the other senior centurions that indeed the Caledonians had somehow found a way to resurrect the dead, and it was the dead which had caused our losses. Though his anger was lessened somewhat, Legartite Titus stopped short. of accusing us of being gossiping wives believing in mystical fairy tales. He dismissed the senior ranking officers of the two cavalry cohorts,

living only me and Tribune Quintus, standing with him in his tent. The savages must have been driven to madness by hunger, exclaimed Lagarty Titus. And in this state, they have been reduced to nothing more than cannibals, cannibals who'd ingested strange potions that deadened their senses and reasoning

to the point where they no longer felt pain or humanity. We encountered the same foe during our campaigns in the dark continent of Africa. My leash, I insisted. I was with you during those campaigns, and at first I thought as well that the enemy had been afflicted with cannibalistic hunger and were under the influence of the strange potions which rob the body of feeling pain and which made one see visions and colors which weren't really there. I beg your forgiveness, my legate. But this was not the case. Some of Somehow the Caledonians who wear the green robes, who might believe may have some sort of witchery within them, have somehow managed to raise their dead, and by biting and drawing

blood from the living, that is how the plague spreads. My leech chimed in Tribune Quintus. There exists some forgotten legends in these parts of darked robe sorcerers, druids, they're called, who possess powerful dark knowledge of raising the dead. perhaps by studying the lot. Enough, below Titus. As I said before, Quintus,

you have all the time to drown yourself in your storybook fantasies after that Caledonians have been made to bend the knee to the empire. As for you, Mesa, Melaugati turned to me, his angry expression fading to one more sympathetic. I felt a sort of madness come over me when I learned that my own brother was lost. during the campaigns in the Middle East, not by the sword of the enemy, but by sickness which

struck his legion. So I will forgive your outburst this one time. I shall give you three days to rest from your ordeal and to mourn the loss of your brother, Prefect Mesa, after which I will need you to aid in the planning of this campaign. I seek to ride north of the war within 10 to 20 days, after we had gathered enough supplies for our trains. The rains will have ended by the then and the period of good campaigning weather will have begun. I retreated to my tent after being dismissed, the bright sun shining down on me, hardly dispelling the terrors which plagued my mind. I wanted nothing more than to sleep, but with sleep came dread dreams of gnashing and biting teeth. My age came to my tent with plates of food, which I left virtually untouched as the thought

of sinking my teeth into grilled mutton somehow made me ill. I knew, however, that I must eat, and without appetite, I forced myself to consume a bit of bread and boiled potatoes and washed it down with some wine. Restless and unable to sleep, I left my tent in the afternoon and sought out Rufus and his cavalry co-holds. Finding Rufus, he informed me that he and his men had been afforded two days to rest, but that his men are anxious and the desire for sleep escapes them as sleep brings nightmares. Those riders who'd returned were strictly forbidden to mention any fairy tales of the dead returning to ambush and slay Roman units, and any soldier caught spreading such morale-killing lies shortly before the Legion marched would suffer the loss of his tongue.

We talked in hushed whispers, knowing that the degrees of the Lagarty Titus pertain to all of his men, not just the lower ranks, and if anyone caught wind of what we were speaking about, it would cost Rufus and I have had tongues. When we next cross the river Calvin, it will be in far greater force. I said reassuringly. Since Lagarde Titus believes that the enemy is imbibing in potions which allow them to feel no pain, it will be easy for me to suggest the order that, when we meet the enemy in combat, the killing blow should be one which separates the head from the shoulders.

And what of our men who'll undoubtedly be bitten? replied Rufus. What of them? We must warn the man to avoid being bitten by every means necessary, I answered. But we shall tell them it is. because the foulness on the enemies will cause sickness that may lead to death. And when those who are bidden die and then rise again, repeated Rufus, then I fear Ligarte Titus will have seen the truthfulness of our testament, I answered. We already know how to dispatch the dead.

We must spread that knowledge throughout the Legion while keeping secret the true reason why their heads must be cleaved from the body until Ligarte Titus learns the terrible truth for himself. until then we must keep the number of our soldiers being bitten as low as possible Rufus nodded in agreement and promised that he would have his men spread the word while leaving out the part that the reason for our new tactic of removing the enemy's head was because the enemy was already dead. Feeling somewhat better after my talk with Rufus again retired to my tent.

Later on, Lagarte Titus sent a medicus to me, concerned as he was that I was not eating or sleeping well. well. The medicus arrived with a tea made of herbs which would allow me to sleep without dreaming, as well as some wine which would increase the tea's effects. Somewhat hesitantly, I did as the medicus bade me to do, and was pleasantly surprised at the calmness and tranquility which overcame me. I worked the next morning late, with a sudden start, hearing the sounds of horses and units moving outside. At first I thought that the campaign had started and that somehow I'd slept through the whole thing. I threw open my tent flap and stepped outside, seeing cohorts of cavalry and companies

of foot soldiers and charioteers moving north towards the Glasgow Bridge Tower, leading to the bridge which spanned the River Kelvin. What's going on here? I demanded of the sentry guarding my tent. Sir, he replied. Legate Titus has ordered that the vanguard of the Legion be dispatched this morning. Both of the cavalry cohorts whom I had led across the river two days ago were at the head of the vanguard column, looks of dread and apprehension etched on Rufus's face, and the cavalrymen who rode with him. My liege, I said as I entered Ligarte Titus's tent. Why was I not informed of this forward movement? Ah, prefect mesa, he said, looking up from a washing-bin of warmed water.

You're looking much better and well-rested. Wiping his face and hands on a white towel, he poured a goblet of wine for himself and passed one to me. Smiling, he said, I gave you three days to rest and mourn, Lucius. I didn't feel the need to burn you with details that we'd already discussed before we arrived here. Once the weather cleared, we'd send a vanguard of a thousand cavalry, chariots and foot soldiers north of the wall to scout the way ahead and destroy any ambushes in order to break the will

of the savages. Granted, this move comes much earlier than expected, but the forecasters have promised several days free from rain, so it is best to move them soon in order to take advantage of the unexpected clear weather. I see, my leech, I responded, nervously taking a sip of the wine, and the order that when in combat with the enemy the killing blow should be to sever the head. Rufus and Toleron, Yvander's second in command, who now commanding. Nancy's cavalry cohort, explained to me how this was the swiftest way to deal with those savage

barbarians you encountered, who fell under the influence of their nerve-numbing potions, replied Titus. As such, I agreed that when an enemy appears, the killing blow should come to the neck. Titus grinned as he took a sip of wine, and, feeling much relieved, I took a much bigger gulp of mine. However, the Lagarty's mood changed to one of suspicion. So tell me, Lucius, he said, you still believe that the savages that attacked you were some kind of walking corpses? I, um, no, my liege, I finally answered. I fear that discovering my murdered brother hanging from a tree may have taken me to the, um, incorrect conclusions of our enemies.

Thank you for your patience and giving me the time to re-evaluate my opinion. Good, answered Tit. O Tribune Quintus is technically my second in command. He is, after all, a civilian and an annoyingly young one at that. His senatorial rag will not avail us in the slightest in the coming campaign, which as I will depend strongly on the clear-headed experience of my camp prefect. I shall not fail you, my liege, I answered. Go and enjoy the rest of your rest, Lucius, he replied.

I fear that you shall not get much. much time for leisure once the campaign begins in earnest. Be ready to join me and the other commanders in the morning. Once I get a report from the vanguard, we'll begin the main advance. We have enough sundries to sustain us for some time, so I shall have the rearguards escort our supply trains to us once all of our wagons have been filled. And when do we expect the first report from the vanguard on my leech?

I asked. I taught Rufus and Toleron to send their first messenger back no later than seven. days hence. That will ensure that our scouts will be not more than three or four days ride from us once we leave Antonine's war. I took my leave from our Legion commander, satisfied that I'd done all that I could to ensure that we would not fall victim to the plague of the walking dead. The next day I returned to duty and, as we met with the commanders of the forward and rear spears, the forward and rear infantry, the chariots, and the third in rear guards, I once again emphasised that when we encountered the pale-skinned savages who smelled of rotten decay,

a condition caused by the potions they drank, which caused them to feel no pain, but the killing blow must be to the neck. I ordered them to have their senior centurions refine and hone their men's skills in delivering this death-blow with all of their weapons as we awaited the return of the first messenger from our vancourt. As the days passed, I busy myself with overseeing the collection of foodstuffs, and barrier-making materials for our supply chains, though this was traditionally the task of Quintus, the Legion's Tribune. I especially insisted that our medicus double their supply of medicines and poultices

and to hone their skills in amputations of infected limbs. As the day that the vanguard's messenger was supposed to arrive drew nearer, I was actually convincing myself that perhaps Lagarde Titus was right in that our attackers were actually under the influence of a powerful potion which deadened the senses. My dreams were no longer haunted by visions of Evander's gnashing teeth, thanks to the herbs and wine which the medicus gave me prior to my slumber. However, my anxiety rose again after the eighth, ninth, and tenth day passed,

and still there was no rider and no word of the legion's vanguard. By the eve of the 11th day, Bogarty Titus would wait no longer. He called all of his commanders together and inform them to prepare their men to march in the morning. Clouds were forming in the south, which the forecasters predicted would bring more rains, and the legion should be on the march before the rains turned the ground to mud. That night my nightmares returned, despite the medicines which had been given me to help me sleep. Evanda returned, holding me down and bending over to rend the flesh from my cheeks. The smell of rancid death boiled out of his open moor, and I smelled the rot of decay.

Screams and shouts of warning echoed in my head. Screams, shouts of warning. In a panic I leapt from my blankets and grabbed up my sword. My sentries threw open my tent flaps, but before they could say anything, I ordered. Roused the men and tell them to prepare for battle. Remember, their first priority is the killing blow which cleaves the head from the neck.

Nothing else will work. As the sentries departed to carry out my orders, I stepped out into the early light of the night of the night. of dawn. To my right I saw Legate Titus also emerge from his tent. In front of me, tribute Silvius's men who were constructing the wall were shouting about something beyond the wall to the north. Many were wailing in fear, and by the smell drifting south, I knew all too well what it was. To arms! To arms! I yelled. The trumpeters call the Legion to arms, arches to the wall, quickly. I ran inside my tent and grabbed up my shield and pulled my helm upon my head before dashing out to make my way to the wall.

Prefect Mesa, the old Lagarte, Titus. What's the meaning of this? Why have you called the legion to battle when you scarce know what the commotion is at the wall? Forgive me, my liege, I answered, but I fear that you are about to witness the truth of my testimony. I raced at the parapets of the Glasgow Bridge. The wall, though stretching many leagues to the east and west, was not completely built to its full height, and in places only rose four cubits high. The Glasgow Bridge Tower only stood four cubits higher than that, but afforded the best vantage point of the plain beyond the river. Tribute Silvius was standing atop the tower, along with several centuries, all of whom stared with dread-filled eyes to the field across the river.

I too stared. my heart sinking as the rising sun gradually revealed the growing horror which waited us from beyond the river. Before us stood row upon row and rank upon rank of the decaying, festering dead, at least 8,000 strong, if not more. And at the fore of this army of demon-possessed horror was our own legion's vanguard. Rufus's dead eyes seeming to stare right up at me. "'Preefect Mesa, have you gone mad? "'How dare you call the League's arms on the morning of—' "'And Lagarte Titus froze as he stormed up behind me.

"'Tribune Quintus by his side. "'Guards, save us,' shouted Quintus. "'The ancient legends are true. "'Is that the vanguard who walk with the dead?' "'Quiet Tribune,' reprimanded Ligarte Titus. "'He stood next to me. without looking at me, his grim face staring at the Legion's vanguard, who were very obviously dead, yet still stood in their bloody ranks, weapons still grasped in decaying hands,

and glaring at us with an evil hatred. Hisses and moans echoed across the field, hitting us like an ocean wave. Many of the soldiers lining the war below us wailed in despair, and some of our battle-hardened veterans passed out in sheer terror. Only the shouts and threats from our stout-hearted senior centurions kept the men on the line from breaking. Either dead or under the influence of sorcerous potions, the answer is still to cleave their heads from their shoulders. The old Lagarty, Titus, in a booming voice as he stood atop the ramparts. He looked down at me, and I nodded. The savage Caledonians have made this campaign easy for us, he continued.

Instead of the Legion having to search them out, they have instead gifted them, themselves to the Legion. Therefore, your orders are this. Take their heads, yes, even the heads of our vanguard, who have fallen under the sway of the savages, sorcery and potions. Make sure that you do not suffer the same fate as they, but strike as mercilessly as you would the enemy. Then, raising his spear into the sky, the Garty Titus yelled, Archers to the fall. As he did this, the hissing and moans of the undead army rose, and they began to shamble forwards as if of one mind, towards the river Kelvin and to the war beyond. As they did so, about fifty riders emerged from the forest behind them,

all hidden under mottled dark green robes, and all bearing wooden staffs, each waving their hands in the mystical incantations of their dark sorcery. While they did this, more of the barbaric Caledonians, living men this time also emerged from the forest, though armed with weapons of varying types, though of somewhat dubious construction, they looked upon their dead with as much fear as they looked upon us with hatred. See, Mesa, said Lagarte Titus.

The savages know that they cannot hope to defeat the empire, not with our superior discipline, tactics, horse and weaponry. So they use these as cannon fodder. Then, turning to Tribune Quintus, he grunted. Tribune, the arches are positioned. Take charge of the bows. Nervously, the young Tribune climbed upon the ramparts and yelled. Archers, notch arrows.

Almost in unison, 500 arrows were notched. The disciplined arches, gauging wind direction and distance to the slowly advancing army of the dead. Fire! Fire! Even as the arrows flew towards their targets, the Legion's archers already had another arrow in the bow. Commanders, yelled Quinters, take charge of your bows. Quinter stepped down from the ramparts,

relieved at having fulfilled his duty as commander of the archers, and now having turned that responsibility over to the archer's co-wock commanders. volley upon volley of arrows reined down upon the advancing corpses and many struck their targets hundreds of the dead fell only to rise again as only those few who had been struck squarely in their head practically between the eyes failed to rise again the caledonian sorcerers followed on horseback behind their undead army as while the living caledonian warriors who were little better than a peasant army of about four thousand follow behind their unhocleonian warriors followed behind their unhastardom army behind their unend army holy sorceress. The stench of death grew stronger as the moaning undead reached the banks of the river Kelvin and began wading in as if it were not there. And even though the river came up to their necks and shoulders, the dead continued to advance. At this range, the archers were able to target individual foes, and more of the dead fell, pierced through with arrows straight through dead eyes. But for everyone felled, four took its place, and arrows from the Caledonian arches began

finding their targets amongst our own Roman arches. Front and rear spears to the fore, yelled Lagarte Titus. The trumpeters atop the Glasgow Bridge Tower peeled the signal and our cohorts of spearmen leapt into the fray, creating two rows of spears which separated the dead from the wall. They charged the undead as they emerged on our side of the river. aiming the iron tips of their spears at their heads of the undead as they emerged from the water, most of whom were their former comrades in the vanguard. But, as bold as their attack was, it was not enough as the undead were too many. Though they were not overwhelmed, they were being pushed back towards the wall,

and the sound of the undead hissies and moaning were accompanied by the agonising screams of terror from those living soldiers who were being devoured by the dead. lances chariots swords to the fore yelled legate titus and the trumpeters sounded his command what do you plan to do my liege i asked you take the swords prefect secure the path to the bridge i should take the lances and chariots Legarty Titus cast a deadly gaze towards the Caledonian sorceress. I mean to sever the head from the snake. If we kill the heads of the dead, then the dead will fall. Unseathing my sword, I rushed down the tower, my muscles feeling infused with the might of Mars as I took command of two cohorts of swords.

We raced beyond the wall, hacking and slashing and beheading our way through the shambling undead to the bridge and beyond, until temporary but secure. path had been created. I was on the other side of the bridge with about 30 men as our cohorts chariots raced across, led by Legarty Titus. His 50 chariots carved their way through the wall of undead and turned towards the filthy, disgusting Caledonian sorcerers. The Caledonian sorcerers stood no chance as LaGarty Titus and his chariots mercilessly cut them all down with spear and swords. We cheered in triumph as the living Caledonian. The Caledonian warriors screamed in fear and desperation.

Cheers quickly faded as, although the sorcerers had now been cut down, the dead did not fall as we'd hoped. Instead, the dead became more savage and violent, as if a slaver's neck chain had been removed. The dead no longer acted as if on one accord, but instead acted individually, attacking and devouring all living things, including the Caledonian savages. The Caledonian sorceress had been acting as a means to temper and control the dead, choosing them only as a weapon against us. With their masters slain, the dead were now free to unleash their unbridled hunger upon all who lived. The gates of the zoo had been torn down, and the starving lions were free to feast. Amidst this carnage and chaos, by witness Lagartite Titus and his chariots become overwhelmed

and taken under by an ocean of the undead. Back! I yelled to the soldiers. Back to the Glasgow Bridge Tower. We retreated back across the bridge, it was only the discipline of heart training that allowed us to cross the wall in good order, though many of our number fell screaming to hungry jaws, the battlefield now echoing with the gut-wrenching sounds of crunching and chewing, and the gargled screams of the devoured. Even the living Caledonian warriors were filled with terror, as their dead countrymen now stalked hungrily after them.

By now the dead had swarmed the walls, their hunger and savagery far worse than before. As bravery as our soldiers fought, it was obvious that the Legion could not hold. I ordered what remained of the forward swords to reinforce the wall, and then raced to the Glasgow Bridge Tower to get a better vantage point of the battlefield. With Legate Titus now gone, I was in overall command of Legio 9, Hispania. I found the stone steps to the rampars blocked by hundreds of the dead, who were climbing up to make a meal of the unfortunates who'd been trapped at the top. By now the dead were in the Legion's campsite, and I raced at my tent to find my horse.

Along the way, I tripped over Tribune Quintus. Quintus, I yelled. Where are you going? He was pale with shock, but he was. but unbitten by the dead. Prefect, we need to leave. We need to go back to Corbridge. The library there.

The library must have the answers. You and your damned fairy tales, I yelled. Is this a fairy tale? The skinny young tribune answered as the moans of the hungry dead mingled with the screams of the dying. I gritted my teeth as surrounded soldiers cried to the gods for salvation.

The pleas of those once valiant soldiers impaled me. I pulled him up and snarled. Come with me. Finding our horses I collected the seven soldiers who remained of my personal guard, and we rode south, away from the Battle of Antonine's Wall and back to Hadrian's Wall. We rode non-stop for four days until we passed through Portgate and into the squalid town of Corbridge,

to the grounds where the library stands, and, indeed, Quintus found the tome which contained the ancient and mystical spells and incantations which those demon-possessed Caledonians had used to raise the dead. Upon studying the tome, which the caretakers of the library watched with utmost fear and trepidation, Quintus recited the spell and incantations which I now repeat here. At this point in the manuscript, Prefect Mesairenautates word-for-word the spells and incantations of the Caledonian sorcery which they supposedly used to bring the dead to life. And these are the spells and incantations upon which the dead can be brought to life, I asked.

Yes, Prefect Mesa, he replied. I see, I answered, running Tribune Quintus through the heart with my Gladius. Well, for your sake, I hope it works. We lay the dead body of Tribune Quintus on a stone slab, and to the horror of the library caretakers, I performed the incantations which I'd previously described. And to my complete joy, the eyes of Tribune Quintus flickered open. The horrified caretakers of the library screamed some nonsense

about how I cannot possibly control an entire Roman legion of Undaird, as it would require many druids to do so. They screamed this as we put their lives and their library to the torch. May their bodies and their accursed library burn in the eternal fires of Hades. And so, my liege, Emperor Pius, your faithful and loyal servant, Lucius Latimus Masser, chief centurion and camp prefect, Legionne, Hispania.

I'm now riding back to Antonine's war. The Legion must be reborn. Here ends the manuscript of Lucius Latinemus Masser. Chief Centurian and Camp Prefect, Legionineine, Hispania, to His Highness, Emperor Pius. And so, officer, that is it. That's the whole corrupted and evil account which Chief Centurion Massa, who had undoubtedly been driven mad by the loss of his Lady 09, had written to his emperor. Don't you see, officer, the demonic spells and incantations

which were written on the last scroll must never be allowed to be read, much less published, or ever even see the light of day? The resurrection of the dead is a holy and blessed event, where we will join the Son of God in the skies, whole and pure. What was written on those scrolls was an abomination, an attempt by Satan to blaspheme the will of the Lord. You see, officer, who knows how many scrolls of such type lay undiscovered in the Vatican's archives. I had to do what I did. I pray that was enough. Italian newspaper Ilmas Segero, Volume 66, 45, 7th November 1903.

On the 1st of November 1903 at around 8.30 in the evening, there was a fire in the Vatican, which, upon further investigation, was found to have originated in the basement of the Vatican Library. The chief of Rome's fire brigade coordinated the firefighting efforts, and by 11 o'clock in the evening, the fire was under control. There was no loss of lives but the extent of the damage is still unknown, although an ancient wooden box is rumoured to have been discovered miraculously spared from the heart of the flames. The event has caused his holiness the Pope to return to Vatican City from his trip to visit the churches in Austria and Hungary. A Mr. Giuseppe Barbieri, who is in the employer of the Vatican, is currently under police

custody pending questioning. And so once again, we reach the end of tonight's podcast. My thanks as always to the authors of those ones. wonderful stories and to you for taking the time to listen. Now, I'd ask one small favor of you. Wherever you get your podcast wrong, please write a few nice words and leave a five-star review as it really helps the podcast. That's it for this week, but I'll be back again, same time, same place,

and I do so hope you'll join me once more. Until next time, sweet dreams and bye-bye.