Silence fills the empty tomb...
...but questions linger on.
Bones rattle. Dried, calcified fingers scrape the stonework. Ulna and radius rattle, shifting weight from arm to arm. Tattered graveclothes rasp and tear as dust falls from the limbs. With great force, the corpse pushes itself up, craning its neck, lifting its head towards the light. Empty eye sockets scrape the air, hungry for the sun. The dessicated mandible drops open, the memory of lungs clawing for air.
And yet, a breath escapes the maw of the skull, kicking up dust into the darkness. Impossible. No lungs expell it. No vocal chords give it vibration. No lips part to let it pass. Yet the husk exhales, then draws breath back in to empty ribs.
It rises upon frail femur and trembling tibia. Rags cling to the husk. Scraping across a dusty floor, it shambles with force far beyond what it's frail frame ought to facilitate. Phalanges old and dry grip the stone that seals the tomb and push. The air shifts and hisses as freshness and light pierce the crypt.
Out across the graveyard and down through the field, the ghoul staggers steadily. Down the road and to the sea, across the pier and past the docks, its empty eyes trace the outline of an old ship, long broken apart for firewood. It climbs aboard the vessel's memory and staggers to the stern. There, its claws grip the wheel.
The hanging jaw hisses a command. The sails drop. The anchor lifts. A wind, unfelt, fills the sails. The wheel spins, and the ship obeys.
Empty eyes, lidless and invisible, lock upon the open sea. Bones long dead remember the salty breeze. The trappings of life long left behind, with all its cares and worries and lies and politics, the dead man's heart begins to warm.
One thought echoes in the empty skull.
I live again.
The memory of lips peel back into a smile as the spectral hull crashes against the waves.
Never before has the dead man felt so alive.
Bones rattle. Dried, calcified fingers scrape the stonework. Ulna and radius rattle, shifting weight from arm to arm. Tattered graveclothes rasp and tear as dust falls from the limbs. With great force, the corpse pushes itself up, craning its neck, lifting its head towards the light. Empty eye sockets scrape the air, hungry for the sun. The dessicated mandible drops open, the memory of lungs clawing for air.
And yet, a breath escapes the maw of the skull, kicking up dust into the darkness. Impossible. No lungs expell it. No vocal chords give it vibration. No lips part to let it pass. Yet the husk exhales, then draws breath back in to empty ribs.
It rises upon frail femur and trembling tibia. Rags cling to the husk. Scraping across a dusty floor, it shambles with force far beyond what it's frail frame ought to facilitate. Phalanges old and dry grip the stone that seals the tomb and push. The air shifts and hisses as freshness and light pierce the crypt.
Out across the graveyard and down through the field, the ghoul staggers steadily. Down the road and to the sea, across the pier and past the docks, its empty eyes trace the outline of an old ship, long broken apart for firewood. It climbs aboard the vessel's memory and staggers to the stern. There, its claws grip the wheel.
The hanging jaw hisses a command. The sails drop. The anchor lifts. A wind, unfelt, fills the sails. The wheel spins, and the ship obeys.
Empty eyes, lidless and invisible, lock upon the open sea. Bones long dead remember the salty breeze. The trappings of life long left behind, with all its cares and worries and lies and politics, the dead man's heart begins to warm.
One thought echoes in the empty skull.
I live again.
The memory of lips peel back into a smile as the spectral hull crashes against the waves.
Never before has the dead man felt so alive.
posted by Raoul The Destroyer at 10:27 AM
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