The ghoul was alone once again. He rubbed the grit out of his eyes and looked at the town getting brighter as the sun set. He pondered whether to follow the departing figures, a longing for company that could be fulfilled in that town. But the pain curiosity dealt him was too great to ignore and uncertainty a constant companion. So, he propped himself on one knee and stood up. With one last glance, he firmly turned his back and walked toward the ruin, leaving all the light behind him.

Ahead of him was the now dark structure that invited no one to enter it. The crumbling walls, pitiful pillars, and swords that signaled of a horrifying past made sure of that. He steeled his resolve, all sense of dread in his stomach hardened by the resolute aim to gain an identity. He began his slow advance with care, his eyes anxiously sweeping the edge of the forest. The sense of safety had left with Alison.

"I can trust her. I know I can trust her. I have to trust her," the ghoul whispered to himself as he pushed his chest against one of the fallen pillars—his head only just able to jut out. He took a concerned look at the many blades that littered the ground between him and his dreary destination. "If I can't trust her…"

He pushed that thought out of his head and came away from the pillar. The sun had completely set, darkness reigning free where the moonlight did not reach.

That’s when the whispering began, a soft sound simple enough for him to dismiss it as the wind. He made his way to the black wooden door of the building, carefully treading around the blades whose hilts seemed to swing just ever so slightly with the wind. He maintained as much distance between each blade as he could, but each seemed to always be a hair’s breadth away from his pounding heart.

There were all kinds: small and large, thick and thin, curved and straight, gold and bejeweled. All coated in the same dark brown gritty matter which diminished each blades adornment.

The soft whispers became more audible, but there was only him and the swords. With each nimble step they became louder, the whispers—unintelligible hushed screams that called for his attention. He swiveled his head toward the exit Alison had taken but she was long gone. Too far to turn back and too dazed by the sound, he quickened his pace, coordinated stumbling toward the door. The whispers were now an insect perforating his ears: buzzing and hissing.

It was only a stray glance when the sound inside his head stopped and a single blade entered his vision, moonlight catching the hilt. It was no bigger or smaller than the others, but—where the others were ridiculously decorated— this one lay bare. A simple black blade with a plain hilt and pommel. He looked at the ominous worn door he was headed to and then at the darkness that had calmed the rash of sound in his head. Clouds passed overhead, moonlight shining off the blade, flickering. He crept closer, tentative steps. He had waited a whole day for answers, what were a few more moments?

Almost as if in a trance, he went closer, only just able to feel the chill that swept through him. There was a cool night wind blowing but icy daggers now bit down to his bone, sending shivers through his body, clamping his arms against his chest.

He stopped moving forward and thought about turning back; there was no need to satiate curiosity that didn't pertain to him. But the whispers began again, now a soothing sensation that urged him on. He got closer until he was only an arm's length away, the thumping in his temple now louder than the soothing voice. He makes to grab the glistening hilt with his right hand; faint black clouds emit to enwrap the sword.

A shriek blasts out and he stumbles backwards, black mist dissipating. He had lost his footing, a cold sting across his leg a reward for curiosity. He struggles to stand up as another inhumanely long shriek pops through him. His ears go numb, a dull throbbing drowning all other sound.

"What was I doing!" the ghoul shouts as he gathers his wits, questioning his actions. Once up, having ignored the cut on his leg, he makes to kick his staunch opponent when he notices slight movement at his feet. A single blade, this one as peculiar as the others but with an added streak of vivid crimson crawling down its body. A trail, droplets, nothing: blood quietly absorbed into the blade. It gives another shake and then a wild rattle as the loose hilt jiggles in place.

His chest went empty and his eyes widened as the blade slightly moves upward. It wriggled against the earth, every action getting it closer to freedom. The ghoul frantically pushed it down and lunged toward the black door, each thump reverberating through his ears, an imaginary puncture tingling in his back.

He got to the door, slammed through, stumbled and fell into a gaping hole, real points picking and prodding his body as he rolled down a flight of stairs. The trip longer than what it actually was, the world dancing in his eyes, he slammed into level ground.

"I shouldn't have trusted her. I shouldn't have…" moaned the ghoul as he squirmed. He settled on his back and examined his leg, the slight cut nowhere to be found. He claps his hands together, relieved to hear the sound. He focused and heard for any shriek but no sound came from above. He looked at the stairs travelling upwards into the darkness. Everything besides the stairs was in darkness. Any idea of exploring left him and his curiosity dwindled to a drop. Only his uncertainty grew.

Suddenly, blinding fires erupted erratically around him.

"We don't have all night," a calm voice echoed.