Catacomb, page 1
CATACOMB
J. F. PENN
CONTENTS
Quote
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Till the monster stirred, that demon, that fiend
Grendel who haunted the moors, the wild
Marshes, and made his home in a hell.
Not hell but hell on earth.
—Beowulf
PROLOGUE
1,000 years ago
As the sun dipped below the horizon, it cast its final golden rays upon Castle Rock. The nascent settlement of Edinburgh stirred with a sense of foreboding as the shadows lengthened and bony fingers of darkness clawed at the walls of their humble homes. The chill of encroaching night swept through the village, a cloak of fear descending to silence any who might dare speak against the atrocity to come.
The dying light of day cast a sinister glow upon the gnarled and twisted trees that encircled the settlement, their skeletal branches swaying and groaning. A low, mournful wind wove its way through the ancient oaks, like the sorrowful cries of the damned.
A thick fog rose from the damp earth, slithering through the narrow lanes and curling around the huts of the settlement. It carried with it the acrid scent of decay, a pungent stench of rot and damp that seeped into the marrow of the villagers’ bones.
As the hour of the ritual drew near, the villagers gathered together, seeking solace and strength in each other’s company as, beneath them, an ancient force stirred.
Flora, a young mother, whispered a fervent prayer to the goddess as she cowered by her hearthside. Perhaps if she stayed inside, hidden, she would not have to witness what lay ahead. Her words were a plea for protection as the midnight hour approached, a time when the veil between the living and the dead was at its thinnest. Flora trembled as she clutched her baby girl, Ailsa, tight to her chest.
She had witnessed the price of defiance, the heavy burden that might threaten her precious child in years to come. To withhold an offering was to invite destruction upon their village, but she was terrified that her own blood might one day be demanded as payment.
As she rocked Ailsa, Flora reached out to touch the small clay pot that contained the ashes of her ancestors. They had done whatever they could to ensure the continuation of the village, and now Flora must do the same. She took a deep breath and walked outside to take her place amongst the gathering villagers.
The solemn drum beat began, the deep resonance marking the start of their annual abomination.
Ailsa, swaddled in a tattered woollen blanket, whimpered softly, sensing her mother’s fear. Flora gently rocked the child, her eyes welling with tears as she stifled Ailsa’s muffled cries so as not to draw attention.
A sliver of moonlight pierced the fog as the tribal elder led a procession through the narrow lane between the huts of the settlement. He was a hulking figure with a weathered face etched by time, like the rocky crags surrounding the village. Long, snow-white hair cascaded down his back, a stark contrast to the ritual cloak of tattered skins that hung heavily from his broad shoulders, used by generations of priests before him. He wore an obsidian talisman around his neck, the black stone seeming to draw the night inside it.
As the elder walked by, Flora looked up and met his piercing gaze. His eyes were the colour of storm clouds that held the weight of countless years of sacrifice and unspoken secrets. They seemed to bore into her soul, demanding unwavering loyalty and unspoken acquiescence to the ritual that was about to unfold. Flora looked away quickly, her heart pounding as she clutched Ailsa closer to her chest.
Behind the elder, two hooded priests walked at a deliberate, measured pace, carrying flaming torches held high. Their flickering light danced upon the damp earth, casting eerie, elongated shadows that seemed to twist and writhe like tortured souls.
Between the two torch-bearing priests, a slender young woman struggled to keep up with the sombre march. Her wrists were bound with coarse rope, the fibres rubbing her delicate skin to angry, red welts.
She stumbled on the uneven path, her bare feet bruised and bloodied by the jagged stones. With tear-streaked eyes, wide with terror, she desperately searched the faces of her kin for solace but found only downcast gazes and lips pressed tight with fear.
The young woman’s once-lustrous auburn hair hung in matted, tangled strands, her once-vibrant green eyes now dull from the herbs she’d been given to ease the way ahead. Her ragged breaths were loud against the silence of the villagers, each gasp a second closer to her last.
As the priests passed by, the villagers joined the procession, walking behind with solemn steps in time with the drum.
They reached the outskirts of the settlement, where the oppressive darkness of night seemed to coalesce and gather, hungry and expectant. The ground beneath their feet grew rougher, slick with moisture from the ever-present fog that clung to the earth like a spectral shroud. The air grew colder, heavy with the dank scent of decay and the metallic tang of blood that saturated the soil upon which they trod.
At the outer boundary of the village, a jagged, imposing rock loomed from the earth, its gnarled surface covered with layers of moss and lichen, marking the entrance to a dark and foreboding cave. The wind howled a mournful dirge as it swept past the entrance, carrying with it the whispers of restless souls who haunted this unholy place.
In the flickering torchlight, the elder raised his arms, his tattered cloak billowing around him like the wings of a malevolent bird. He chanted ancient words passed down through generations, a sombre incantation in a language long forgotten by all but the most devout practitioners of their dark rites.
The villagers, compelled by fear and tradition, hesitantly joined in. Their voices wove together to form a mournful chorus that echoed across the darkened landscape.
As the chanting reached a crescendo, the elder led the young woman to the jagged rock and secured her to its cold, unforgiving surface.
Her cries of desperation echoed within the cave entrance as the skies above swirled with menacing clouds. The air grew thick and a roll of thunder boomed out from the approaching storm. The wind howled like a beast in torment, its voice carrying the echoes of a thousand anguished cries, heralding the approach of the ancient creature.
From the depths of the earth, the Grendsluagh emerged.
It was a monstrous abomination born of darkness and chaos. Its vast form was a grotesque fusion of man and demon, an unholy testament to its malevolent power. The creature’s skin was the colour of a tar pit, slick and oozing with a foul ichor that glistened in the flickering torchlight. Towering above the trembling villagers, its hulking body was a twisted mass of sinew and muscle, contorted limbs ending in jagged, razor-sharp talons that gouged the earth.
Its misshapen head bore a twisted mockery of what once might have been a human face, its features warped and elongated into a snarling mask of rage and hunger. The Grendsluagh’s eyes were soulless, twin orbs of black that seemed to drain what was left of the light. Its mouth, a gaping maw filled with rows of jagged, yellowed teeth, dripped with an acrid saliva that hissed and sizzled as it met the dirt beneath.
As it loomed over the sacrifice, it gave a guttural growl, a sound torn from the bowels of the earth.
The elder and priests increased the tempo of their fervent chanting, beseeching the creature to accept the offering and spare the village from its wrath.
The Grendsluagh turned away from the lone sacrifice.
It looked at the gathered villagers and took a step toward them with malevolent intent. Flora gasped, holding Ailsa more tightly against her chest, as she tried to stop herself from fleeing. To attract attention now — from the creature or the elder — might only serve to seal their fate in blood.
The elder spoke ancient words of power as he lifted the obsidian talisman high.
The Grendsluagh reeled back with a growl, snarling with rage — but it turned away from the villagers.
It reached for the terrified young woman and ripped her from the rock with its massive, clawed hands. The Grendsluagh’s grip closed around her with a sickening crunch, the force of its grasp shredding the rope that bound her to the rock like mere thread.
As it dragged her struggling and writhing form into the cave, the Grendsluagh’s grotesque silhouette was briefly illuminated by the torchlight, casting monstrous shadows that merged with the darkness beyond.
The villagers averted their eyes. They could not bear witness to the horror that unfolded before them as the night was pierced by the young woman’s final, anguished scream.
Once the echo of her cries had faded into darkness, the villagers returned to their homes, the weight of the ritual heavy upon their hearts. Tonight they would grieve the dead, but tomorrow they would feast to celebrate the living.
As Flora tucked Ailsa into her nest of blankets, she kissed the tiny girl’s forehead and sent up a prayer of gratitude to the goddess.
In the coming months, the fields would deliver a bountiful harvest and their animals would remain healthy and multiply. The young mothers would deliver without fear of death in childbirth, and the settlement would grow richer and more prosperous.
At least for another year.
1
The Edinburgh theatre was a relic of an age gone by, its Victorian grandeur now faded, but still retaining an ethereal charm. The stage was a world in itself where stories came to life, where characters breathed and words written centuries ago still inspired the enraptured audience.
Walker Kane stood at the back, a solitary figure in the dimmed auditorium, his gaze riveted on the stage as he watched his daughter perform. The audience knew her as the compassionate, sheltered Miranda, daughter of the banished Prospero in Shakespeare’s The Tempest, but to him, she would always be his little girl, Emily.
At first glance, Walker appeared nondescript, just another man in the crowd. He wore a pair of well-worn jeans that hugged his lean frame, paired with a black leather jacket that bore the battered marks of time. His dark hair was cropped short with specks of white at his temples, and day-old stubble framed his angular jaw.
But his eyes were those of a man who had seen too much. They were an intense steel grey, with a flash of danger, a silent warning, lingering in their depths.
His hands, large and capable, bore the imprints of his past. Scars crisscrossed his rough skin, a map of every rescue mission, each dangerous extraction, and every life he had pulled from the jaws of death. Down the side of his neck, barely visible above the collar of his jacket, was the puckered trail of a burn. An ugly reminder of a near-death experience, a mission that had gone terribly wrong, trapping him underground in a burning tomb. The scar wound its path down his body, hidden under layers of clothing but always present in its reminder of a past he wished he could forget.
As Emily performed her lines with grace, Walker remembered when she used to prance around their old living room, a makeshift stage for her childhood antics and a precursor to the acting career she now pursued.
“O, brave new world, that has such people in it!”
Emily’s speech as Miranda resonated with emotion, carrying a pitch-perfect blend of hope and innocence. Walker heard in it an echo of the girl she once was, and the woman she was fast becoming. He stifled a sigh. How many years had he missed that he could never get back?
His military service had been a tempest of its own, a maelstrom of violence and despair that he’d refused to let touch his daughter. And yet, standing in the shadows of the theatre, he wondered if his absence had inadvertently summoned its own kind of storm in her life.
As the last act of The Tempest came to a close, the curtain fell on the final scene and the theatre erupted into applause. Walker joined in, clapping until his palms stung.
The curtain came back up, and the actors walked on stage for a bow.
Emily stood hand in hand with the young actor who’d played Ferdinand, the chemistry between them undeniable. As she glanced up at him with mischief in her eyes, Walker wondered what else he didn’t know about his daughter’s life.
The final curtain came down, and the theatre began to empty. The worn-out velvet seats creaked as people rose. The cacophony of chatter filled the air; the heavy scent of perfume mingled with the musty smell of the old theatre.
Walker made his way outside and around the back of the theatre to the stage door.
It was a balmy night and the excitement of the festival that captivated the city every summer was in full swing. A small crowd of family, friends, and well-wishers eagerly awaited the actors. They chattered and laughed together, some swigging from bottles of prosecco or craft beer as preparations began for the night of celebration ahead.
Amongst the crowd, a familiar face stood out.
Maggie, Walker’s ex-wife, with Bill, her husband of more than a decade. Their arms were casually draped around each other in a familiar embrace. They seemed happy, content in a way that Walker could only remember as a faint glimmer from the past he had run from.
Time had etched its presence on Maggie’s face, softening the sharp angles of her youth to a mature beauty. But Walker could still see the vibrant woman he had fallen in love with so long ago, and the echoes of her in Emily now.
Maggie’s gaze was focused on the stage door as she chatted with Bill, his quiet words eliciting a laugh that rang out in the evening air. She used to laugh like that with him years ago, but Walker had left to protect both her and Emily — at least that’s what he told himself back then.
Over the years, Maggie had sent him pictures of Emily, and Walker was grateful for her attempt to keep the dying embers of their connection alive. He had been a ghost, lingering on the outskirts of their lives, too tangled in the adrenalin of constant missions to realise what he was losing as the days ticked past.
A part of him ached at the sight of Maggie’s happiness, a sharp reminder of what he’d given up. But the better part of him was glad to see her smile, glad that she had found someone who could be there for her and Emily. Walker couldn’t make up for the past, but perhaps he could now build on the embers of what he’d burned down.
The stage door creaked open, revealing a group of actors basking in the afterglow of their successful performance. Emily stood among them, her fingers interlaced with those of the young man from the stage, their shared triumph evident in their beaming smiles.
A burst of applause erupted from the crowd as the actors walked out to join the well-wishers. Emily and her boyfriend walked straight to her mother.
Maggie enveloped Emily in a warm hug. “Congratulations, Petal! You were fantastic — and you too, Tom.” Maggie put a hand out to touch the young man’s arm. “I hope you can have a wonderful evening celebrating together.”
Walker’s heart beat faster as he heard Maggie say Emily’s nickname. They had started calling her that when she had eaten May cherry blossom petals as a baby, her chubby fingers stroking the soft pink as she chuckled with happiness.
He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the small jewellery box nestled within.
It contained a locket, a delicate piece he had chosen carefully for Emily’s eighteenth birthday and engraved for her. But was it appropriate? Would she even be happy to see him here?
Walker had often faced uncertainty in his line of duty, but this was different. This was personal, a battle with his own fear and insecurity. He was trained to face enemies and overcome obstacles, but now he was as vulnerable as a ship caught in a tempest, unable to find a way ahead.
He clutched the jewellery box a little tighter, the sharp edges pressing against his palm. He couldn’t leave without seeing Emily. He had to step back into her world, regardless of the outcome.
With a final, steadying breath, Walker stepped out of the shadows and made his way toward the family group, his stride purposeful.
Maggie saw him first.
Her eyes widened in surprise, then confusion and concern. “Walker? I… didn’t know you were coming.”
Emily turned, and a shadow of uncertainty flickered across her features. “Dad?” The word was a hesitant question, a cautious hope.
Then, as if the clouds had parted to reveal the sun, her expression transformed. The uncertainty dissolved, replaced by a radiant happiness that took Walker’s breath away.
“Dad!” Emily said once more, the single word carrying so much weight.
The world seemed to pause in that moment, the noise and the crowd fading away. All Walker could see was Emily, her face illuminated with a joy that was directed solely at him. It was a moment Walker wished he could capture, a snapshot of happiness that was as fragile as it was beautiful.
