Rufus

Rufus

Rufus picked up the last of the loot; the jewel-encrusted ring had the standard heft.

The remains the last raucous encounter lay scattered throughout the dungeon floor.

"I ... I just don't understand how this keeps happening," he said to himself, as he waded North.

The smell of old, buried blood slowly filtered into his nostrils as he neared the door.

Kneeling down, Rufus reached out to the body closest to the door.

"Goodbye, Alice," whispered Rufus," as he closed her eyes and crossed her arms on her chest.

After a quick prayer, Rufus slowly got up and quietly opened the door.

Stygian darkness filled the passageway.

"Man, I hate this stuff," thought Rufus as he eased his way into the darkness.

The nearly-silent hint of skittering in the quiet, sticky darkness picked up his steps.

Nearing the end of the hallway, Rufus could feel wind.

"I'm so confused," thought Rufus, as he stopped abruptly. "Was this the ..."

Catching himself from falling, Rufus fell backwards back into the hall.

The loud CHINK where he had just stood gently reminded him of the reason for caution.

"Waa!," cried out Rufus, as he ducked, narrowly missing the axe blade.

Wet, heavy breathing alerted Rufus to weave gently away from the wind.

Ducking and rolling, Rufus maneuvered closer to the opening and leapt!

"I think that was the quietest I've ever landed!" thought Rufus as he sprinted into darkness.

The hill ate his silent footfalls as the sound of a frustrated blade hit the wall.

History

'Seventeen years,' thought Allen, as made his way to the chapel.  'Seventeen years of memories, of pain and anger.  Of history.'

The uphill road drew him ever onward and inward; conversations with family, overheard hushed whispers, and ribald calls all reminded him of the once busy thoroughfare.  Feet faithfully finding their way, Allen was free to dwell on shadows of sound.

As he approach the closed door, a sudden chill crawled down his spine.

Newly drenched with old sweat, Allen quietly opened the heavy oak door.

His ears, expecting a small creek, were disappointed to hear only the wind shift slightly as the door opened quietly.

Stepping quietly inside, the man at the podium seemed about to speak - and Allen, not wishing to draw any more attention, closed the door and took a back pew.

Finishing a quick prayer, Allen looked up again - and realized the speaker had not moved.

The backs of fifty or so visible heads all seemed focused on the casket next to the podium.

'That ... I'd recognize that casket anywhere!' thought Allen, as he quietly stood and made his way to the casket.

'It doesn't make sense, ' thought Allen, as he walked slowly to the wooden box.  'That was for my brother.'

Halfway to the podium, Allen looked to the others in wonder - each seemed to be leaning toward the casket ... but not moving.

Turning slowly around, Allen looked in wonder as the man to his left looked to be entirely composed of wax.

Gasping quietly to himself, Allen quickly surveyed everyone in the pews.

'Wax!  They're all wax!' thought Allen, as he backed towards the podium in horror.

As he bumped into the dais, Allen turned around and looked into the casket.

The layers of cloth and heavily-applied make-up did nothing to hide the clearly-recognizable face of Allen's brother.

As Allen drew closer, he sharply took in breath as the smell of wax grew quickly too intense for comfort.

'But, if this body is wax,' Allen thought to himself, as he quietly made his way back outside, 'who did we bury seventeen years ago?'