TORN

The air was thin and damp around the maw of the ancient temple. Colossal stone pillars stood scarred and weathered, like old men burdened by time, bearded by patches of emerald that moss clung to jiggered stone. The faded carvings of long forgotten gods were barely recognizable beneath layers of grime and lichen. Resting innocently, a small nut laid on grass, protruding from stone floor. A flash of russet fur darted towards it. A squirrel. Its tail twitched with anticipation as it scrambled towards the prize.

Its claws echoed as it approached. It reached the nut and stretched out its paws, ready to grab its treasure. Thud. The quiet evening was disturbed. Vibrations travelled through the ground. The squirrel’s ears flattened. Another thud. Closer this time. With a flick of its tail, the squirrel abandoned its hard-earned treat and bolted back into the dense undergrowth, disappearing in a rustle of leaves. A hooded man walked forward, his worn leather boots scuffing against the uneven floor. His left boot landed squarely on the abandoned nut. The sound of a sharp, dry crack squeaked beneath his shoe. The shell shattered, the kernel within reduced to fragments. From its concealed vantage point, the squirrel twitched its whiskers. Its tiny eyes, like dark beads, followed the young man as he walked further into the temple.

Sunlight filtered through gaps in the aged roof, creating patterns of light and shadow on the broken down statues. He navigated the fallen debris and overgrown thorns until, finally, he reached the center. A wooden altar stood alone. He ran his hand over it. In some places the wood was soft and spongy. In others, the wood was intact, yet it held a single object of interest. A scroll.

“There you are,” he said reaching for the scroll. He lifted it, noticing the resilient binding of thin, discolored string wrapped around it. His red eyes narrowed. The uneven texture and the faint sheen was unmistakably animal intestine.

His jaw tightened and his brows drew together. His other hand reached down. A glint of steel appeared as he withdrew a small dagger. He sliced through the moth-eaten binding. It parted with a soft snap, releasing the scroll. A significant portion of the border appeared darkened, as if kissed by flames or consumed by some form of dry rot. The damage was uneven but ignoring the imperfections, his eyes began to skim through the script.

“To the seeker who dares unseal this script,

Know that what lies within is not meant for the living

Nor the dead, but those who dwell between. The tether of spirit to flesh must be reformed. Through ash, through blood, through flame.

First, prepare the vessel:

The body must be whole or made whole,

Laid beneath a sky untouched by starlight,

Circled thrice in salt and bound with—“

Snap. His head flicked upwards. Jagged fissures, thick as his arm, like spider webbing snaked across the ancient ceiling. The cracks widened with alarming speed. Then, with a groaning shriek, a massive section of the ceiling detached. Tons of rock and rubble plummeted down towards him. Instinct took over.

He lunged sideways, deftly throwing himself out of harm’s way just as it crashed into the ground, a cloud of dust and pulverized stone erupted, filling the air with gritty haze. His dagger flew from his grip, landing with a loud clang in the distance. He gripped the scroll tighter. The paper crinkled under the pressure. Smaller pieces of the ceiling rained down, striking the statues, debilitating limbs and heads upon impact.

Without a second the thought, the man turned and sprinted towards the nearest hallway. The scroll flapped against his leg as he fled the collapsing chamber. His foot caught on a loose rock. His arms flailed as he stumbled, sending him crashing against the cold, rough temple wall. The impact knocked the wind from lungs, but he didn’t linger long. He pushed himself off the wall with a grunt, muscles urging him on. The hallway behind him was succumbing to its fate. The sounds were not just crashes, but deep, guttural groans. He swerved through falling stones like a hunted animal. A shower of smaller rocks peppered his back and shoulders, stinging like angry wasps. He dodged sharply to the left as a larger chunk slammed into the floor beside him. He lunged right to avoid another. His cloak hood slipped from his head to his neck, revealing hair flying wildly as he ran. Black as midnight. Each rugged gasp for breath brought a burning sensation as the fine particles stuck to moisture within his mouth.

He surged from the suffocating darkness. The sudden brightness of the outside world beaming through the exit momentarily blinded him. He staggered onto uneven ground. The roar of the temple still rang in his ears. Two enormous chunks of the temple’s outer structure were tearing free. His legs pumped as he sprinted, driving him forward just as the stone slammed to the ground, sending a cloud of dust billowing outwards. He made it. Barely.

As he turned to continue his escape, a sinewy hand seized the scroll, piercing through the jagged edges of the fallen stones behind, its fingers locked in a death grip around the parchment.

“Shit!” He exclaimed, his voice strained. He stared. Paralyzed. Frantically, his gaze shot upwards to the stones above the exit, still threatening to fall. His eyes snapped back to the scroll. He grit his teeth as he tugged on the scroll, expecting it to slide free from the trapped hand. Instead, the hand tugged back. Harder. He pulled again, a more forceful yank. The scroll didn’t budge. Above, new networks of cracks continued to spread across the ceiling. An icy touch brushed against his hand. The hand wasn’t just holding the scroll but creeping its way up the parchment, it’s fingers just millimeters from engulfing the remaining portion he held. His knuckles turned white as he slid his hand down the brittle surface. Each time the cold fingers moved closer. His hand recoiled, only to clamp down with even greater force. He planted his feet sturdily on the fallen rocks in front of him for leverage. He gave another pull, his vision blurring with the effort. But the hand held fast. His foot slipped. A deafening Crack screeched from the ceiling above. Dust rained down onto his face as the stones above began to sag. He squeezed his eyes shut. He was out of time.

With a heavy, choked growl, he turned around and dashed away from the ruins. From the hand. From the scroll. With one final push, he threw himself through the exit and onto the ground outside the temple. The cool breeze whipped against his sweat-soaked face and through his disheveled hair, his body still surging with adrenaline. The soft, damp earth steadied him as he gasped for breath like a fish pulled from the water. He slammed his clenched fists into the blades of grass beneath him. He twisted his head, eyes drawing to gaping mouth of the ruined entrance. He strained his eyes, squinting. Searching. And then he saw it. The hand. With a slow motion, it began to pull the scroll back through the ruins. The fingers contorted, flesh and bone grinding against stone. Inch by inch, it pulled his prize further into darkness. With a squelch it was gone. Swallowed by the tomb.

His head dropped in failure. Shakily, he pushed himself to his feet, his heart still hammering against his ribs. A faint burning sensation in his right hand drew his attention. He unclenched his fist, his eyes settling on the source. A piece of the scroll. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. His eyes traced the winding trails that snaked down the mountainside, down to a village that laid amongst the rolling hills. He looked once more at the torn piece of the scroll and chuckled.

Maybe. Just maybe it would be enough.