Keys to the Demon Prison (Page 92)

"We should not measure him by age or appearance," the Beaver said.

"He seeks no knowledge," the Crone murmured. "No divination is required. What say you, Kattituyok?"

The proud face who had spoken first answered in a booming voice. "The evil behind the Alder Door has plagued us for many summers. The youth has named the four who control the Alder Door. This seems a good omen."

"He may not return," the Dancer said. "He should leave us tokens."

"The sword and the shield," the Hunter said.

"And the magical items from his bag," the Crone added. "The tower and the fish."

"Won’t I need my sword to fight?" Seth asked.

"Your sword and shield are well crafted from fine material, but they will avail you nothing beyond the Alder Door," Kattituyok said. "Leave behind the requested items to seal the pact."

"And I can reclaim my things if I succeed?" Seth verified.

"Purge the evil lurking beyond the Alder Door," the Crone said, "and you may depart in peace with Vasilis and the rest of your items."

"I say the same," the Hunter stated.

"I say the same," the Beaver echoed.

"I say the same," the Dancer sighed.

"Do you accept?" Kattituyok asked.

"I accept," Seth said, unbuckling his sword belt.

"The pact is made and sealed," Kattituyok thundered. His resounding words made the stump vibrate.

Seth set down his sword and shield. Then he fished out the onyx tower and the agate leviathan. He set the items down. A previously unseen door swung open near the bottom right of the wall. The Crone’s withered face filled the center of the door.

"Can I go?" Seth asked.

"Away," Kattituyok said. "Good hunting."

Seth climbed down from the stump and walked to the doorway, conscious of the many eyes of the Totem Wall scrutinizing his movements. Cold air wafted from the dark corridor beyond. A primitive torch on the wall ignited spontaneously. Stepping through the door, Seth pocketed his flashlight and picked up the torch. Behind him, the door swung shut with the finality of a coffin lid.

The crude, rounded corridor sloped gradually downward. No beams or stonework supported the crumbly walls and ceiling. The air grew colder as Seth progressed, and he held the torch close for warmth.

The Singing Sisters had warned him about the Standing Dead. He was unsure what exactly to expect, but he imagined they might be like the revenant. He lacked a sword, but perhaps the fiery torch would serve him better. The Sisters had told him that he could pass the Standing Dead only if he remained without fear. He knew that magical fear would fail against him, and tried to prepare his mind to resist the more natural variety.

The corridor stretched onward, deeper and colder. He walked briskly, partly to stay warm, partly hoping that haste might help keep him from freaking himself out.

At last the corridor opened into a rectangular room where the top of his head almost reached the ceiling. Despite the great width and length of the room, the low ceiling gave it a claustrophobic feel, like a sprawling basement.

The frigid air suggested the presence of magical fear, although, as expected, he felt no paralysis.

As the light from his torch revealed the scene, the hair stood up on Seth’s arms, and goose pimples erupted on his skin. Row after row of standing corpses filled the expansive room. And not just any corpses. They were bony and dry, as if their ancient remains had been mummified. What meat remained on their discolored bones looked like black jerky. What skin survived looked brown and stretched and utterly dehydrated. Evenly spaced, the cadavers stood upright, arms at their sides, like an army at attention. Rank upon rank of empty eye sockets stared vacantly.

Seth had been prepping himself not to react with fear. He had told himself that no matter what he saw, or heard, or smelled, he would shrug and continue onward. After all, if the Standing Dead only preyed on fear, he didn’t need to fret about them. He just needed to maintain control of his emotions.

But despite his intentions, Seth felt his control slipping. The sight of the torchlit bodies surprised him. It was creepier than he had imagined. This was how corpses looked when they had been buried in the desert for centuries. They should not be standing in orderly rows and columns, deep underground.

Some of the nearest corpses began to twitch. The movement made Seth gasp, and a few of them took steps forward. Rustling movements rippled through the entire assemblage. Doubt fully awakened inside of Seth. He became scared that he was becoming scared. Dry bones scuffed against the dirt floor. Desiccated arms reached toward him.

His mind scrambled. What was his problem? Why was he losing his grip? Was it being alone? Was it self-doubt? Was it the thought of walking through the undead crowd? Was it the cold? Was it the low ceiling? The quantity of corpses? The inhumanity of their appearance? The way their joints creaked when they moved? The fact that he had lost control enough to start them moving? Some snowballing combination of all these factors?

Perhaps he had been too overconfident, too assured that his immunity to magical fear would prevent natural fear. Like anyone, he still got scared.

He realized that he couldn’t hear their minds. He had gotten used to hearing the undead. For some reason, these were silent. That had helped them surprise him and made them feel more foreign.

Entire rows of mummified bodies shuffled toward him. The nearest had almost reached him. He could see stringy ligaments and tendons working. Was he about to die? What about his family? Who would save them? Would they ever learn he had perished because he was afraid?

Shame blossomed in his breast. He could almost hear Kendra disbelieving that cowardice had killed him. Courage was supposed to be his best attribute!

How could he change his feelings? When he had nightmares, the experience was always worst when he was alone. If there was ever a friend in his dream, somebody to protect, the fear lost potency. At this moment, as fleshless fingers grasped for him, he needed somebody to be brave for, somebody to not let down. He struggled to summon images of his family–his parents, his grandparents.

What came was the memory of Coulter. He saw his friend pinned under a beam, heard him gasping his last breaths. Coulter, who had saved him in the grove with the revenant, when magical fear had frozen them. Suddenly Seth no longer felt alone. There was no way he was going to let Coulter down. He had promised.

"Stop!" Seth yelled, swinging his torch angrily. The corpses paused. "I’m not afraid anymore! You just startled me." As he said the words, he realized they were true. Apparently the Standing Dead could sense it as well. None of them stirred.