Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

Deep beneath the fractured city of Dredholt, a network of tunnels wept from the earth like forgotten scars. They called it the Undercrawl—a place where the dead didn't stay buried, and doors led to places that were never built.

Gideon Moth, monster hunter and former grave digger, had made the Undercrawl his personal warzone. He moved through the passageways with his lantern flickering low and shovel slung over his shoulder, muttering to himself, counting corpses.

That night, he wasn't alone.

The stench hit him first—rot mixed with something metallic, like old blood clinging to brass.

Then he saw it.

A figure hunched in the dark, gnawing on bones. Long limbs. Ragged flesh. Hollow, glowing eyes. A ghoul, no doubt. But what caught Gideon's eye was what dangled from its neck: a golden key, too pristine for a creature that lived among decay.

Gideon raised his shovel.

The ghoul turned and spoke.

"You're not ready for the door."

Its voice was like gravel scraped over bone. And its eyes—sunken, yet aware—studied him like a riddle.

"I don't care about the door," Gideon growled. "Just the key."

The ghoul grinned wide, exposing yellow, cracked teeth.

"It opens more than just doors, you know. It opens memories. Opens sins. Opens… yourself."

Gideon struck.

Steel met rotten flesh, and the ghoul screeched, vanishing into the dark. Gideon followed—deeper into winding tunnels lined with skulls and bones. But each turn twisted wrong, and each step brought him back to where he started. The ghoul always waited ahead, never far, always grinning.

The tunnels weren't real anymore.

At last, Gideon cornered it beneath a vault door carved with symbols he couldn't read but felt deep in his stomach—like nausea and déjà vu.

The ghoul sat there, cross-legged, holding the golden key.

"This place remembers you," it whispered. "Before the world broke. Before you buried what you did."

Gideon hesitated.

He had buried many things: bodies, secrets, his own name once.

"What's behind that door?" he asked, voice low.

The ghoul laughed. "The part of you you forgot. The part that still screams."

Gideon snatched the key.

The ghoul didn't fight. It only watched, almost reverent.

Hands shaking, Gideon slid the key into the lock. The door didn't creak—it breathed open, exhaling stale air filled with crying echoes.

Inside was a coffin.

He knew it before he saw the inscription. It bore his name.

Inside… was himself.

Eyes open. Mouth sewn shut. Hands clenched around a child's locket.

His daughter's.

Gideon fell to his knees. The ghoul stepped beside him, placing a cold, clawed hand on his shoulder.

"You locked it away. That grief. That rage. That truth. But now it's free."

The door slammed behind them.

When Gideon returned topside, he carried no shovel. Only a lantern burning with golden light—and a look in his eyes that hadn't been there before.

Now, he was hunting more than monsters.

He was hunting answers.