Hastum
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120. Plans and schemes
🕑 Added 2025-11-14 22:43:01 +0000 UTC“Hello?” Astrid shouted toward the darkness. But no response came. She could barely see around her, as the rest of the forest was covered in dense fog, only lit up by the moon high in the sky, somehow shining through the milky white mist.
The woods around her creaked and moved lightly as if in a breeze, but the air was stale and unmoving. She walked on the damp green moss until she could hear something: the roar of fire.
She was aware this was a dream gifted to her as a form of “sight,” but they were never this vivid.
She slowly walked toward the sound as the fog around her began to take on orange hues, lit by a massive flame ahead. She finally left the thick forest and stepped into a familiar sight: the festival, the celebration before the choosing—or rather a strange dream-like rendition of it.
The table for the chosen new priests was completely missing. Only the tables for the elders and the guests were present. The rest of the people at the celebration were gathered, dancing around the massive bonfire, but it was not the lively and wild dance of her people. Instead, a slow, methodical dance of the dead as they silently whirled around in a massive circle.
The rest of the celebrants who didn’t dance stood around. She noticed all of them were blind, with their eye sockets empty, small trickles of blood dripping from where the eyes once were. As she walked out of the fog, all of them stopped moving, freezing in place, and they turned their empty sockets to her.
Run, her instincts told her—and so she did. She knew the dream would play out as it was supposed to if she only let it, so she closed her eyes and ran to where it wanted, until finally she hit a wooden table, and only then did she open her eyes. She was leaning against the guests’ table, looking toward the elders. They all sat there with wide smiles, their own hearts cut out of their chests and still beating on the plates in front of them.
They, too, looked to her—only the oracle was missing from the main table. Turning to the other participants, she saw that they were all standing in a large circle around her, not daring to approach.
Curious about what was keeping them out, she turned around and saw him.
Samuel, the man she met at the festival, was sitting there, frozen in a strange pose, like a statue, his face stretched into a predatory smile, one hand in the air, two fingers lifted. Five horns on each side of his head, and two black tongues spilled from the sides of his face through openings in the cheeks.
She could feel the vision slipping as she started to panic—what was the meaning of it? She hadn’t caught everything yet. As the edges of her sight went black, she heard screaming. It was the oracle. The old woman was in the middle of the massive bonfire, bound to a pole. Astrid ran, pushing the celebrants away as they hit and clawed at her. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she finally approached the flames and began pulling out burning wood to reach her teacher.
The oracle’s head snapped to her, thirteen stab wounds visible in her chest as she grabbed at Astrid.
The dream ended suddenly with the sensation of burning and a painful grip on her skin, but she noticed she wasn’t in her bed. She must have sleepwalked to her teacher’s room, as she realized she was staring at the oracle, the old woman’s hands firmly on hers, just as the dream ended.
The oracle then took a loud breath, as she came out of whatever vision she saw. Her eyes rolled into her head as her hands tightened on Astrid, and she started to speak in a strange, echoing voice, as if it came from somewhere below the woman rather than from her own mouth.
“The hinges whine, the shutters moan;
The dead will march on borrowed bone.
They know our names, they know our doors;
They sift like ash across our floors.
Carve those words so none debate:
Not under earth—nor through the Gate.
By earth and tree, whatever bait,
Go not below, nor past the Gate.”
As she said the last words, all of her muscles relaxed, and she fell back asleep. Astrid knew there wouldn’t be any waking her up any time soon. She took a step back, trying to understand what she had seen.
She then raised her hand to eye level, only to see reddened skin and blisters where she had grabbed the burning wood.
***
Helga’s fist made it clean through the creature’s skull, taking the head off its shoulders. Even with the head destroyed, the creature still took a few steps in their direction before finally collapsing to the floor.
She heard some movement behind her, but didn’t even bother to check, as before the creature could make an attack, a small silver dagger made its way into its skull, and it collapsed to the floor.
Helga took two steps back and reassessed the situation. There were three more creatures in front of her. Two were nothing much: corpses possessed by an evil spirit, moving mechanically, with the only danger being their sharp claws and lack of self-preservation, making suicide attacks a real danger.
But the third corpse gave her some not-so-pleasant feelings—this one was almost entirely demonized, with horns, sharp teeth, and large claws, not to mention it was capable of some elemental magic.
She tightened her fist—God’s Will tattooed over the four front knuckles of her hands. She moved. Her first two attacks efficiently dealt with the two weaker opponents, but the third one used them to get closer as it swung at her throat.
“Nathan!” she shouted, and the claw met a longer silver dagger before it could descend. A boy in altar-boy clothing appeared from behind the creature, stabbing with the second dagger. The thing dodged, but the boy only rotated, letting go of the weapon as it flew from his hand toward the demon. Nasty black magic exploded from it as it blocked the attack, but Nathan simply continued, now stabbing with a new dagger.
It blocked, then tried to bite the boy. He was clearly not ready for it, barely managing to get his scarred hand in front of himself—but before the teeth closed on it, a fist pulverized the jaw, followed by a kick to the chest, throwing the creature away.
Before it could get up, a silver dagger found its way to its heart as it slumped over in the corner.
“What did I tell you about overextending yourself?” she scolded in broken Portuguese with a thick German accent. She did make a grammatical mistake, but Nathan didn’t dare to point it out.
“I thought I had it,” he tried to defend himself.
“Yeah, you had its teeth around your throat. You are way too eager.”
“A priest should be eager to kill demons,” Nathan wouldn’t let go of that point.
“Did Marco tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“And where is he now?” Helga asked as if she didn’t know.
Nathan tightened his jaw. She really didn’t care about others or their feelings—but she was a good teacher. He remembered the battle he witnessed in the church underground, a battle that made him feel truly helpless, a battle they barely won.
“Is it enough?” he asked, looking down, waiting for her answer, tense. This fight was a test, and he wasn't sure about the outcome.
“You jump into battle without a proper plan. You almost suicide-charge into the enemy like demons might. Your instincts and drive are there, but you lack an attack plan beyond just ‘attack.’”
He could feel the weight in his stomach drop with each word.
“So… I’ll recommend you for the bodyguard spot.”
“Huh?”
“You are quick enough, and you are almost at the second circle. It’s not like we have that much personnel available. It’s not a sure spot, though.”
Even if she said that, he knew that a recommendation from Helga—the God’s Fist—would not be overlooked.
“So it looks like you will be going to the Vatican with me, boy. Just make sure to fix that recklessness of yours. There will be many threats there.”
The image of Samuel came to him—the man who would certainly be there. He had a long way to go to match him.
***
“Another,” Elio shouted at the barman.
He could see through his blurred vision that the man turned to him, concern mixing with pity on his face.
“I think you’ve had enough,” he said.
“Do I look like I’m still alive?” slurred Elio. “Then—not enough.”
“We’re closing.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We are—for you. Go home… please,” said the barman.
“Fuck off and pour me another one,” he shouted as he brought the beer glass onto the counter, almost shattering it in his hand.
“No. Go home, or I’m banning you and you’ll have to find some other place where they tolerate you.”
Elio was about to protest, but the rest of his consciousness stopped him. “Fiiiine,” he slurred and got up, staggering to the exit.
His hand met the car keys in his pocket as the heaviness that accompanied him for the past two years dropped even further, sobering him up slightly. He’d lost his license but still carried the keys, a self-inflicted torture he couldn’t really stop. Each time he did, the nightmares would start once again, like his mind was telling him he needed to suffer. Not like he disagreed.
He started walking home when he heard it. Something moved to his left in an alleyway—a strange, animalistic movement that warned some part of his mind.
“Hello?” he slurred, but no answer came.
He took another step only to hear something scurry on the other side of the street.
He looked around. The street was completely empty, unnaturally so. He couldn't even hear cars in the distance.
“H-hello?” he repeated, and what answered him was a sound of something moving once again in the alleyway, this time closer.
He didn’t want to wait to see what it was, so he started moving in the direction of his home, tripping and staggering over his own feet.
A shadow moved and glistened to the side as he passed the last alley before his home—then a strange squelching sound, like wet paws against pavement. He didn’t turn around to see what made that.
He quickened his steps. It was close—he somehow knew it. Clicking sounded to the side. He was almost running, and the thing behind him ran too, he was sure.
Faster—the adrenaline lifted the veil of alcohol as his panicked movements became sharper.
He slammed into his door, pulling out the key in the process. He could hear the old hinge on the gate squeak as something opened it. It was right behind him—he was sure he could hear the breath on his neck.
“Come on,” he half cried, as finally the key turned in the lock. He leapt into his own house, slamming the door behind himself as he crawled away from them, his back finally meeting a cupboard. His eyes were fixed on the door.
His skin crawled as a wooden knock came. Something was moving outside.
“Mr. Elio, could you please open the door?” came a voice. The man spoke in a flat, emotionless tone, in perfect Italian—though lacking any accent—as if a machine, rather than a human, spoke the words.
“Mr. Ishmael?”
“Yes. We came to deliver, as you requested. Please open the door.”
Those words took away all the fear and confusion—cut away from him as if by a surgeon’s knife.
“You delivered? Y-you… do you have them with you?”
“Yes. Your wife and daughter, as promised.”
The man scrambled to the door, almost falling over shoes strewn in the hall, as he grabbed the door handle. There was a slight hesitation. Could the two strange men really deliver? He made the deal, not really believing in anything. He knew he would sell everything—soul included—to see them once again, but was that really possible? A storm of thoughts went through his mind.
“A-are they really there?”
“Dad?” came a voice.
A voice he recognized—he would recognize it anywhere, at any time. A voice he was so desperate to hear.
“Oh—” He opened the door wide without hesitation. The first thing he saw was the unpleasant sight of the two men.
They stood there in long coats, their bodies hidden. They had identical faces, as if made not to stand out: not too handsome, but not too ugly. Not too tall, not too short. Everything about them was made so nothing stood out. Nothing—except one. The man who spoke had his eyes sewn shut, and his face always rested without expression, while the other man had his eyes open but his mouth sewn shut, and his face always mimicked what the other was saying.
“As agreed,” the man with sewn eyes said, and the other one smiled a warm smile that reached his eyes. He then stepped to the side and pointed at a… creature.
Elio had never experienced such horror. He recognized it—the amalgamation of flesh. His wife and daughter, or rather, a mockery of them. Their flesh was as twisted as after the accident. They stood on broken limbs, their bodies merged into one, where the skulls and the mouths merged into one deformed maw. A maw that spoke in his daughter’s voice.
“Daddy? Why did you do this? It hurts,” it spoke.
“N-n-no, I—I—” He fell to the ground as the creature stumbled forward.
He moved back on instinct as his eyes couldn’t break away from it. “I—I’m sorry, I—” he stammered.
“You did thiiiis. Selfish. It hurts, Daddy,” it spoke in a more and more deformed voice as it crawled onto him, the clawed hand scraping against his chest.
“Well, we will consider the deal fulfilled, then,” spoke one of the men as the other smiled the same warm smile.
They let the creature claw and cry for some time as the panicked man finally went limp.
“Mr. Omri, please transport the blessed,” he said, as the smile on the other man relaxed into a professional expression.
A muscular man pushed the creature aside, snapping the neck in one movement, and then threw Elio over his shoulder.
Elio didn’t fight. He just lay there limply, twitching, his eyes hollow and empty as his mouth moved up and down.
“Shouldn’t we let him walk around a bit? There might be eyes on us.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”
To that, the man threw Elio into the car, and they brought him into a large apartment turned into something akin to a laboratory. Many men and women lay there, propped up against the walls, their gazes hollow and unfocused. Over each person, a glass container with red liquid was hung, and the liquid slowly dripped into an IV connected to each person. They didn’t move or react as they just lay there, completely unbound.
Omri dropped the new body onto a large table with a complicated, arcane circle carved into it.
“Gently!” commanded the man with sewn eyes.
“What for?” sighed Omri, clearly tired. “Another piece of meat to be carved,” he said under his breath and then froze, realizing it was slightly too loud. Before he could apologize, the man with sewn eyes slapped him across the face, hard, as his twin showed an expression of clear anger.
“He is not a piece of meat! These are all blessed—gifted according to the lives they lived.”
He approached the man lying on the table. His hand gently touched the body’s cheek and stroked it as a smile spread across the man with the sewn mouth.
He took a look through the window, seeing the skyline of the Vatican, before bringing his gaze back to the body.
“A just God always listens. You killed your family in a drunken haze and then asked for the impossible, and yet… a just God listened.” He then brought his face closer and whispered into Elio’s ear, as his twin made an expression of reverie. “We all deserve the miracles we are given.”
Comments
Hastumo
World Lame-ificatio is amazing way of putting it
Hastumo
They will finally show...
Amelia Gaughan
Ah shit Miracle Makers
Freddyz02
Damn Cenobite looking Hastur ass loving freakzoids, Looking forward to when Sam and the Gang screw up their plans for world Lame-ification. Or whatever their weird goals are.
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