Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The mausoleum stood where the dead forest kissed the broken earth—twisted trees arched over its crumbling stone like mourners frozen in time. Vines choked the iron gates, and something foul lingered in the fog like an exhale from the grave.

Solomon Wraith, his coat heavy with occult glyphs and ash, approached the structure, lantern dimly lit with blue ghostflame. The whispers had called to him again—same voices, same promise. A cure for the rot, hidden in the catacombs beneath. A lie, perhaps. But one too sweet to ignore.

Behind him, Talia Grimm trudged silently, her sketchbook hugged to her chest. She stopped suddenly, eyes locked on the mausoleum doors. She dropped to her knees and frantically scribbled. Solomon leaned over her shoulder and saw a crude drawing: a skeletal priest with a hollow face holding a lantern identical to his.

A warning.

He pushed the doors anyway.

The air inside was wrong. Wet stone, rotted velvet, and that same whisper—like parchment tearing underwater. At the base of a broken staircase, they found him: The Lantern Man—gaunt, floating inches above the ground, face a stitched void, lantern burning with green soulflame.

"Return... what was stolen..." the thing moaned, voice stitched from a hundred tongues.

Solomon stepped back, his breath freezing. "I stole nothing."

The Lantern Man pointed one long finger toward Talia. Her eyes rolled back. Blood wept from her ears as she sketched faster, her paper blackening as if inked in soot. She collapsed.

From the shadowed crypts, a wave of figures emerged—undead, yes, but not mindless. Each bore masks of flesh, each humming a forgotten hymn. They had once worshipped here. Now, they were bound to protect its curse.

Solomon opened the Book of Binding, speaking the Words of Unmaking he swore never to utter again. The walls wept blood. Statues screamed. The Lantern Man howled—but not in pain. In joy.

"You speak the Key, mortal. The first lock breaks..."

With a scream, Talia woke, eyes glowing briefly with ghostlight. Her drawing pulsed on the ground—depicting the mausoleum from above, surrounded by sigils in the shape of a spiral.

The Crimson Spiral. The infection had begun.

The two escaped as the crypt cracked open behind them. Something ancient stirred beneath—the first of many locks breaking, as the world slipped closer to the Eldritch.

Outside, Talia finally spoke, voice hollow and far too old for her years.

"He's awake now."

Solomon looked back at the mausoleum. It burned with green fire that no wind could touch.

The dead weren't the only ones whispering anymore.