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The UnderWorld

Author – LORDT

Page 1

On the rain-soaked cobbles of another dull day, a hesitant fog masks a man upon the road.
The weight of many years upon his shoulders and the quivering knees of a steed gone too far.

He would all but fall from his horse, and, in turn, his horse would all but drop to its knees.
Neither would rise again, but there was little room for introspection, for they were closing in, as do all such things who mark the scent of desperation…

Page 2

A ruined city…

A familiar city. Though they all seem alike these days…

Is there anything left?

The cracked lantern by your side offers some small hope and so you reach down to pick up your last match.
Much like the others, it is as unremarkable as your own reflection, though at least this one has a spark.

The flickering flame glimmers before you like a half-remembered dream as another gust of cold wind snuffs out its ebbing radiance.

And, just like that, you find yourself alone.

You slump back against the bulk of your horse, whose labored breathing has become little more than a distant sound, and gently fall asleep.

~

Something prods you awake.

Your horse is dead and you can’t feel your legs. There is an ill omen in the air and the darkness is now total.
The moon, long since departed behind a darkening shroud gives you no hope, but there must be a better way to die…

And, massaging life back into your legs, you resolve to journey on, to give it one last try, before your last gasp.

You look around.

No, this was all wrong.

What happened here?

You grub around in the night and find your belongings where you left them, in the saddlebags of your fallen steed.

And it is with grim realisation that you find you cannot take them all.
And so you grasp what seem to be the essentials; your cloak, lantern, and walking stick with a retractable blade – A handy tool in a fracas.

But you’ve room for one more item…

Tattered scroll

Alchemical flask (empty)

Urn of ashes

Page 3

Ah. You snatch up the tattered scroll forthwith and it provides a pleasing “Whipping” sound as you do.

Stuffing the thing into the folds of your cloak you trudge on into the night, lest that unnamed feeling at the nape of your neck turns into something more tangible.

Rain drives hard against your form, giving you a larval visage, and before long you find yourself hip-deep in hot mud, the road has given way to rutted tracks and loose stones broken and cast aside by some unfathomable architect of ruin.

Eventually, you succumb once again to fatigue and lay back on the slick earth. What a mess.

But then a sound alerts you and so you roll over onto your front, prone in the filth of the world.

Something moves in the shadows. Slowly… Nocturnally, a shape that melts into the murky pools before you and forces you awake like ice within the crack.

You draw your blade, unsure of what good it will do, and find yourself unable to move due to the sucking ground beneath you.

A flicker in your peripheral vision causes you to slash out with your steel, only to overbalance and land back in the mud. Looking up at the shifting clouds above, weariness takes you and, as your eyes begin to close, and wizened hand reaches out to clamp upon your mouth.

You begin to protest and a second stuff raw dirt into your gaping maw until seconds later you are choking on the very soil you came from.

A hand pins your sword arm to the ground, and so you try one last attempt to defend yourself from this unnamed denizen or some godforsaken plane.

Your hand finds the scroll!

You hold aloft the fabled document and swat the creature firmly in what you believe to be its face.

Page 4

Ah. You take up the alchemical flask forthwith and it provides a pleasing “clinking” sound as you do.

Stuffing the thing into the folds of your cloak you trudge on into the night, lest that unnamed feeling at the nape of your neck turns into something more tangible.

Rain drives hard against your form, giving you a larval visage, and before long you find yourself hip-deep in hot mud, the road has given way to rutted tracks and loose stones broken and cast aside by some unfathomable architect of ruin.

Eventually, you succumb once again to fatigue and lay back on the slick earth. What a mess.

But then a sound alerts you and so you roll over onto your front, prone in the filth of the world.

Something moves in the shadows. Slowly… Nocturnally, a shape that melts into the murky pools before you and forces you awake like ice within the crack.

You draw your blade, unsure of what good it will do, and find yourself unable to move due to the sucking ground beneath you.

A flicker in your peripheral vision causes you to slash out with your steel, only to overbalance and land back in the mud. Looking up at the shifting clouds above, weariness takes you and, as your eyes begin to close, and wizened hand reaches out to clamp upon your mouth.

You begin to protest and a second stuff raw dirt into your gaping maw until seconds later you are choking on the very soil you came from.

A hand pins your sword arm to the ground, and so you try one last attempt to defend yourself from this unnamed denizen or some godforsaken plane.

Your hand finds the alchemical flask!

You hold aloft the vial and watch as the pouring rain finds its way between the glass. Taking a swig you refresh your mouth from the wads of mud within and find enough breath to cry into the night.

Page 5

Ah. You take up the urn of ashes forthwith and it provides a pleasing “shaking” sound as you do.

Stuffing the thing into the folds of your cloak you trudge on into the night, lest that unnamed feeling at the nape of your neck turns into something more tangible.

Rain drives hard against your form, giving you a larval visage, and before long you find yourself hip-deep in hot mud, the road has given way to rutted tracks and loose stones broken and cast aside by some unfathomable architect of ruin.

Eventually, you succumb once again to fatigue and lay back on the slick earth. What a mess.

But then a sound alerts you and so you roll over onto your front, prone in the filth of the world.

Something moves in the shadows. Slowly… Nocturnally, a shape that melts into the murky pools before you and forces you awake like ice within the crack.

You draw your blade, unsure of what good it will do, and find yourself unable to move due to the sucking ground beneath you.

A flicker in your peripheral vision causes you to slash out with your steel, only to overbalance and land back in the mud. Looking up at the shifting clouds above, weariness takes you and, as your eyes begin to close, and wizened hand reaches out to clamp upon your mouth.

You begin to protest and a second stuff raw dirt into your gaping maw until seconds later you are choking on the very soil you came from.

A hand pins your sword arm to the ground, and so you try one last attempt to defend yourself from this unnamed denizen or some godforsaken plane.

Your hand finds the urn of ashes!

But the thing is, you fumble the vessel and you draw it out of your cloak and the urn cracks open upon the ground like a hundred-year-old egg, the ashes mingling with rainwater to develop a sort of grey paste simulacrum of a formerly living thing.

Page 6

Sadly, the scroll has no effect and the beast tears your throat out before devouring you wholesale, only to excrete your remains inside a large, fallen church bell later the next day. With no other obvious choice of toilet paper around, the creature uses the scroll before scrunching it into a ball and throwing it off into the distance.

Nobody will ever remember your last gasp.

Page 7

The thing before you morph into a rictus grin, leering evermore from the darkness. A flash of lightning reveals an eye pressed against your own and dripping words find their way unerringly towards your ears.

“Cry not into the Night. Hide not from the Rain”

The creature then laughs the deep, resonant laugh of a barkeep’s best jest, before it snatches up the flask and jams it deep into your left eye.

You feel nothing at first and then searing pain, followed by the odd sensation of rainwater filling up your skull.

You just manage to notice another pile of dirt enter your mouth before your mind shuts down to preserve you.

And the next morning you awake to a roaring fire, with buttons for eyes and a view of the top of the mantle.

As you stare down from the wall, a vast, leather wingback chair is laid out with a mirror angled in your direction.

The taste of mud never leaves your mouth and you never see soap again.

And nobody will ever remember your last gasp.

Page 8

You have inadvertently created a simulacrum!

As your foe draws nearer you hastily try to remember all you once read about the magickal use of such devices. And then, feeling confident, you thrust the tip of your blade deep into the figurine.

A shriek in the dark lets you know your efforts have been met with some success and so you try again, this time for the kill.

This second time, however, two things happen, which would prove your undoing; firstly, you carefully use your thumbs to open up a rear aperture in the simulacrum, in order to create a target for your next move.

Secondly, you manage to accidentally ram a lock of your own hair into the body of the thing at the same time, therefore linking it inextricably to yourself rather than to your enemy.

And, as you impale the figuring with three feet of sharpened steel aided from the pommel end of your trusty cane, you are surprised to notice that not only does your throat open up like a spring flower after heavy rain, but that you slowly become halved…vertically.

Which is why nobody will ever remember your last gasp.

What is the Gore?

The Gore is the unique platform where music intertwines with art, and brings together the worlds of horror and music with unparalleled innovation and originality. With a relentless commitment to delivering an immersive audio experience, PhantasmaGore™ merges each meticulously crafted music single with a spine-tingling horror story, transcending the traditional boundaries of music.

The power of storytelling is harnessed, as every note, sound effect, and word is carefully created to send shivers down your spine, ensuring synergy between the music and the captivating horror narratives. Find more readings below.

About The Author

He is often to be found working deep into the night whilst bent-double bedside a low-burned candle, or under the inimitable charm of endless autumn rain. And, whilst the summer months may hinder his creativity, he uses this time to pick through and prune such words as would accompany the dregs of a long-forgotten supper. They say that black coffee and iced chartreuse make up two-thirds of his blood type. I guess we’ll never know…

About PhantasmaGore

PhantasmaGore, a pioneering Horror Synth Music project, is redefining the way we experience horror stories through music. With a relentless passion for the macabre and a commitment to pushing creative boundaries, PhantasmaGore is carving a unique niche in the industry.

By seamlessly intertwining spine-chilling tales and haunting melodies, PhantasmaGore™ delivers an immersive audio experience like no other. Established with the vision of merging the worlds of horror and music, PhantasmaGore captivates listeners with its innovative and original approach.

Each music single produced by PhantasmaGore™ tells a gripping story, transcending the traditional boundaries of music and inviting audiences to embark on a journey of horror and suspense.