The Basement

[Azazeal849]

[Azazeal849]

There is no sense of Halloween festivity in the basement. It is dim; dank; cold. A single lamp hangs from the ceiling, guttering like a dying heartbeat. As it swings back and forth it catches the furniture and splashes their shadows up the walls. Chipped vases become faces; broken chairs become long-limbed creatures pawing at the wallpaper.

In the centre of the room, a ragged man sits humming to himself. His red cape and shoes would have been gaudy once, but time and the fitful light have drained them of their colour. His striped trousers are frayed, but the flute pushed into the belt has been kept immaculate. Black hair frames the man’s pale face, long and unkempt, but his eyes spark with the light of shattered musical notes. He hums to himself, smiling.

Something shapeless and tarry-black clings to the man, trailing inky fingers from his cape, his shoulders, his arms. Its liquid mass drinks in the lamp light and spits back darkness as the man begins to sing quietly.

“Oh I love to be the villain,
Spiky hair and grisly eyes…”

At first it is barely a whisper, but his voice gains strength as it twists through the air. The black mass responds. It radiates energy but no light - dense and glowering, like a neutron star. Paint begins to peel from the ceiling, drifting down in snowy flakes.

“I love to be evil,
Love to be the bad guy…”

The man raises his arms, the black tendrils stringing from his sleeves as he runs his hands through his shaggy hair. A quiet skittering sound begins to fill the room, small shapes darting among the shadows.

“Oh I get to be just trouble,
I'm bad to the bone…”

A grey rat stands up atop a broken gramophone horn, its nose twitching in the air. Another scrambles over the turntable. All around the room, rows of beady little eyes watch the singer intently.

“You wouldn't know the half of why,
I'm better off alone…”

At some unspoken signal the rats plunge forward, a grey and brown wave surging towards the door. The black mass clinging to the singer ripples, tendrils of shadow squirting out to grasp the walls, the ceiling, the doorframe. Everywhere they touch the plaster bubbles and begins to rot, sloughing away to reveal the skeleton of woodwork beneath. The chains holding the door closed age a hundred years in a few seconds, turning orange and brittle. The rats set to work, gnawing at the hinges and the rust-rotted chains.

“This is @Omac versus Piper,
Take the shot, be the sniper,
We all have a part to play
So follow…”

The chains disintegrate under the rats’ tiny teeth, whole sections dropping to the floor and bursting into orange powder. The Piper grins, rising to his feet. Somehow, the formless mass of black around his feet is grinning too.

“This is Omac versus Piper,
With my plan, I'll conspire,
Time for me…”

The Piper raises his arm and points a finger at the collapsing door, cocking an imaginary gun.

“...to break free!”

The door collapses with a groan of splintering wood, and the rats spill forth into the stairwell. The Piper steps out after them on light feet, and the rats surge around him in a whirlpool of tiny bodies.

“So follow…” he sings, “Follow me!”

He pulls the flute from his belt, puts it to his lips, and begins to play a jaunty tune as he prances up the stairs towards the unsuspecting party goers. The black mass follows in his wake, the walls peeling and flaking away as they fall beneath its shadow. Unlike the Piper’s lively singing, its voice is a hoarse whisper, the sound of sand draining through old bones.

“Give in to decaaaay…”