Chương 15: The corridor of secrets
Nathaniel's every instinct screamed for him to turn back. Yet the faint, rhythmic tapping of footsteps continued, drawing him forward into the darkness. It was as though an invisible hand had reached out, compelling him deeper, whispering promises he couldn't quite understand. His heart pounded in his chest as he edged toward the narrow passageway, its dark, gaping entrance seeming to invite him—and warn him—at the same time.
He gripped the glowing stone tightly, its faint warmth grounding him as he took cautious steps forward. The air was cold, carrying the scent of earth and ancient decay, and he felt the walls narrowing as he moved deeper into the passageway. Shadows seemed to press in from every direction, thick and suffocating. He could barely see a few feet in front of him, but still, he walked forward.
The rhythmic tapping grew louder with each step. It was unmistakable now—the sound of someone walking, slow and deliberate, each footfall echoing off the walls. Nathaniel's mind raced with questions. Who was down here with him? And why had he been led here, to this strange underground corridor, with its carved walls and ancient symbols?
Suddenly, a faint glow appeared in the distance, like a tiny ember flickering in the darkness. He froze, staring at the light as it grew steadily brighter, illuminating the rough stone walls and casting long, eerie shadows. It was coming closer, and with it came the unmistakable sound of whispering voices, blending with the echo of footsteps in a haunting melody.
He took a shaky breath and continued forward, his grip tightening on the stone. As he approached the source of the light, he saw that it came from a small, ancient lantern held by a figure standing at the end of the corridor. The figure was cloaked and hooded, its face hidden in shadow, and it held the lantern high, casting a circle of dim light that barely illuminated its form.
Nathaniel stopped a few feet away, his pulse racing. The figure said nothing, only stood there, watching him. He couldn't see its face, but he could feel its gaze, intense and unrelenting.
"Who are you?" Nathaniel's voice was barely more than a whisper, but it echoed down the narrow passageway, merging with the murmurs of unseen voices.
The figure remained silent, its head tilted slightly as if considering him. Then, slowly, it raised a hand, pointing toward the wall beside him. Nathaniel turned, his eyes widening as he took in the symbols carved into the stone.
They were different from the ones he'd seen before—larger, more intricate, each symbol connected by lines that formed a complex, interwoven pattern. He felt a strange pull as he looked at them, a sensation that tugged at his memories, as though he'd seen these symbols before but couldn't remember where.
"Do you know what these mean?" the figure finally spoke, its voice low and hollow, like the echo of a distant memory. Nathaniel shivered, the sound unsettling in a way he couldn't explain.
He shook his head, unable to tear his eyes away from the symbols. "No… but they feel familiar, somehow. Like I should know."
The figure lowered the lantern, its light casting deep shadows across the symbols. "These markings are older than this forest," it said, its tone reverent. "They are the language of the ones who came before—the ones who understood the power that lies hidden in the darkness."
Nathaniel's skin prickled, and he glanced back at the figure. "What… what kind of power?"
The figure tilted its head, its hidden gaze boring into him. "The kind that bends life and death," it whispered, each word heavy with meaning. "The kind that can bind souls and trap them, forever lingering in the shadows."
A chill ran down Nathaniel's spine. The figure's words seemed to reach into him, stirring memories and fears he hadn't realized he held. "Why… why are you telling me this?" he stammered, his voice barely steady.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, it turned and began to walk away, the light from the lantern casting its shadow long and dark against the wall. Nathaniel hesitated, torn between fear and the strange compulsion to follow. And then, just as the figure was about to disappear into the darkness, he heard it speak again.
"You are bound to this place, Nathaniel. You always have been."
The words echoed in his mind, their meaning elusive but undeniable. Before he could respond, the figure melted into the shadows, leaving him alone once more.
Nathaniel stared into the darkness where the figure had disappeared, his mind reeling. Bound to this place? What did that mean? And why had the figure called him by name, as if it knew him, as if he were part of this strange, forgotten world?
He looked back at the symbols, the lines and shapes seeming to pulse with an unseen energy. The stone in his hand grew warmer, and he felt an urge to reach out, to touch the carvings and feel the power they held.
Slowly, he raised his hand, his fingers brushing against the cold stone. The moment his skin made contact, a shock of energy shot through him, and his vision blurred. Images flashed before his eyes—flickering scenes of people standing in a circle, chanting words he couldn't understand. They held hands, their eyes closed, and in the center of their circle was a figure, pale and motionless, bound to the stone altar by thick, blackened vines.
The chanting grew louder, a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence that echoed in his mind. The figure on the altar was struggling, their face obscured, but the terror in their movements was unmistakable. The vines seemed alive, tightening with each chant, draining the life from their captive.
Nathaniel gasped, stumbling back from the wall as the vision faded. The corridor around him felt darker now, the air heavier, as though the forest itself had been watching his reaction. He clutched the stone tighter, its faint warmth now almost burning against his palm, and stared at the carvings.
He knew, deep down, that what he had seen wasn't just a vision. It was a memory—a fragment of something that had happened long ago. Something that was tied to this place. Tied to him.
The whispers returned, louder this time, rising from the shadows like a sinister tide. They weren't random now—they were words, though still distorted and layered, as if spoken by a dozen voices at once.
"The binding… the sacrifice… the betrayal."
Nathaniel's breathing quickened as the words wrapped around him, pulling him further into their rhythm. His mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of the vision, the figure's cryptic words, and the growing sense of unease clawing at his chest.
Suddenly, the walls began to shift.
The symbols glowed faintly, illuminating the corridor with an eerie, pulsating light. The carved lines stretched and twisted, rearranging themselves as if alive, forming new patterns that rippled along the stone. Nathaniel stepped back, his heart hammering in his chest. The passageway no longer felt solid—it felt like it was breathing, each pulse of light synchronized with the whispers.
And then, from the depths of the corridor, came the sound of footsteps again. This time, they weren't slow or deliberate. They were urgent, almost frantic, growing louder with each passing second.
"Nathaniel!" a voice called, sharp and desperate.
It wasn't the figure this time—it was Ben. The voice was unmistakable, filled with the same urgency Nathaniel had heard the night of the storm.
"Ben?" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Where are you?"
The footsteps drew closer, and for a moment, Nathaniel thought he saw a shadow moving at the edge of the corridor's light. He ran toward it, his pulse racing with equal parts fear and hope.
"Ben, wait!" he called, his voice echoing through the shifting corridor. "I'm coming!"
But as he reached the spot where he'd seen the shadow, the air around him grew colder, and the light from his stone flickered. The whispers grew deafening, rising into a chaotic cacophony that pressed against his skull. He clamped his hands over his ears, dropping the stone in the process, and sank to his knees.
"Leave this place," the voices hissed, overlapping and relentless. "You don't belong here."
Nathaniel squeezed his eyes shut, willing the voices to stop, but they only grew louder, angrier. Images flashed through his mind again—scenes of the ritual, the altar, the figure bound by the vines. And then he saw something else: the shadowy figure he had glimpsed earlier, standing at the edge of the circle, its hands raised in command. It wasn't just an observer—it was controlling the ritual, directing the energy that flowed through the carvings and into the altar.
And as Nathaniel's vision focused, he realized with a jolt that the shadowy figure looked just like him.
"No," he whispered, his voice trembling. "That's not possible."
The whispers stopped abruptly, leaving a suffocating silence in their wake. Nathaniel opened his eyes, and the corridor was still again, the symbols dim and lifeless. The stone he had dropped was gone, swallowed by the shifting ground.
"Nathaniel…" Ben's voice came again, softer now, almost a plea.
He turned toward the sound, his breath catching as he saw a faint outline in the distance—a figure standing at the far end of the corridor. It was unmistakably Ben, his features clearer than before, though his body still flickered like an image struggling to stay in focus.
"Ben!" Nathaniel cried, pushing himself to his feet
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