Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

Beneath the withered fields of Duskvale, past the dead orchards and silenced scarecrows, lies the Sepulchral Maze—a labyrinth of crypts stretching farther than the eye or soul can fathom. No map survives its winding bones. No voice echoes through its corridors.

Yet something watches.

They call him the Keeper.

Talia Grimm stood at the rusted gates, sketchbook pressed to her chest. Beside her, Hobb & Stitch bickered with themselves, one head claiming they were being followed, the other humming a forgotten lullaby.

"The doors opened," Talia signed to Hobb, eyes wide. "He knows we're here."

Inside, the air grew colder. Stone walls were slick with black moss, and the torchlight flickered unnaturally—casting shadows with too many limbs.

Statues lined the crypt corridors—hooded figures, eyeless angels, weeping gargoyles. Some seemed to change positions when no one was looking.

Talia's pencil danced across her sketchbook. She drew the hallway before them—and gasped. On paper, a figure stood at the end. In reality, the path was empty.

Until it wasn't.

The Keeper emerged.

Tall and gaunt, with a face carved of moonstone and robes stitched from burial linens, he floated rather than walked. Dozens of keys hung from his neck like trophies. His eyes, empty sockets, glowed faintly blue. A crown of bone circled his head.

"I remember every name buried here," he whispered, voice like dry leaves. "But you—none of you belong."

Hobb's riddle-head chuckled. "Neither do you. You're just what happens when the dead forget how to sleep."

The Keeper didn't respond. He simply pointed one skeletal finger toward Talia.

"You're drawing tombs that haven't been built yet."

Suddenly, the crypts shifted. Graves cracked open. From the earth, skeletal hands erupted, dragging with them the Gravebound—souls not entirely dead, not entirely alive. Mouths sewn shut. Eyes missing. Hearts still beating in jars clutched to their chests.

Talia sketched faster. Each drawing distorted the scene—doors appeared, lights flickered, paths shifted. She realized her art wasn't recording reality—it was rewriting it.

"Use it!" Stitch yelled. "Draw the exit!"

But the Keeper raised a key, turning it in mid-air. The pages of her book began to bleed, the drawings screaming.

"You may leave," he said softly, "but the sketchbook stays. Knowledge of this place spreads infection."

Talia paused. Then, she did something unexpected—she drew the Keeper.

His crown. His keys. His hollow face.

He staggered back, shocked.

As she added cracks to his mask, the crypt shook. Statues wailed. The Keeper screamed—a sound that shattered stone—and vanished into the walls.

The trio escaped into moonlight, the sketchbook burning in Talia's hands. She dropped it as it turned to ash.

"Do you think he's gone?" Stitch asked.

"No," Hobb replied grimly. "He just moved deeper."

Behind them, the gates sealed.

And somewhere below, a new statue was carved—its face hauntingly familiar.