Impure

Chapter One As if in Dreams Some say that the eyes are a window to the soul. Then I guess one might think of the eyelids as shutters. I would rather liken them to inward facing mirrors; when we close our eyes, we don’t find ourselves lost in the darkness. We stare back into our own soul and, when we dream, we can’t look away. What do you see when you close your eyes? 1 Bloodcurdling cries. The death wails of something that didn't seem human crept across the darkened fields like an icy, groping hand. It could reach into your heart and squeeze it tight, choking the life out of you like your blackest fears. Worse still was the rattling. Chains. There could be no doubt; such a sound has a certain quality, a texture that can be felt down to the bones. Sometimes the sound was frenzied, like a terrified animal trying to tear its mutilated leg out of a trap. But other times, when the screams would grow silent, it was as if the chains were being dragged against each other; heavy, black links ground together by a terrible strength. The source of this chilling cacophony stood alone in a wide and shallow gulley. It was an old, ruined prison tower built from dark blocks of stone. Though there was a pair of heavy wooden doors at its base that had once sealed the structure from the outside, the tower’s east wall had crumbled years ago, revealing its guts to the open air. A clearly exposed stairway led to an iron door, laden with rust and age. But what was beyond that door, the top floor of the tower, was hidden from sight. This room had been built with more care, with the diligence of a craftsman who wanted whatever was inside to never find its way out. Living things had always shied away from this ground. Birds wouldn't land here. The structure wasn't choked by vines or the roots of nearby flora, nor was it touched by moss or fungi. Not even grass would grow. Only gray, decrepit trees, the sap of life having long since fled, were in attendance. They stood motionless, their cracked and withered branches drooping near the ground, like mourners weeping at a never ending funeral. It had always seemed such a dead place—until that night. It wasn't until daybreak, as the gentle sunlight poured over the horizon, that a lone figure approached the tower. The sounds of the night had been unsettling, and though he may have been too wary to approach before dawn, what terrifies us in the dead of night becomes more pale when touched by the sun. A gray cloak was draped across his broad shoulders, stitched with an image of the sun, licks of flame spiraling out in every direction. His dark hair hadn’t a single fleck of white, but his strong features had been weathered with age. The heyday of his youth had passed, but his limbs still retained their strength, and his eyes shined with awareness. The man shook his head in disgust, both with himself and with the heavy doors, one hanging by a single joint. The wood had decomposed very little, but everything that had once been metal had turned to rust. The hinges had broken, and with a stout shove it became clear that the lock had as well. The entryway was strewn with dust and rubble from the collapsed wall, and the stairs weren't as sound as they had appeared from the outside. The rough footing made progress slow, and the lighting was dim. Not dark—sunlight could stream in from the gaping wall—but diffusely lit enough to remind the trespasser of what he'd felt hearing those sounds in the dead of night. But there was more to it than that; the closer he came to the top of the tower, the more a sense of deep dread crept into his bones. It was this sensation that kept all other living things away. Animals are born with sense enough to pay heed to such intuitive dread, but the man only shuddered and continued his ascent.