6. Death On The Brain

 

Rotting mutilated corpses of masochistic monks litter the crypt. The air is heavy with the odor of meat and bodily fluids that have been left out for one week too long. Dance little bugs, dance little worms, to the music of the winged fly.

The blood on the walls has dried now, and looks much like ragged brown tapestries. A plethora of ropes hang from the rafters, and to each a cat, dog, or mouse is attached. Of all the bodies in the crypt, and they are all horribly grotesque, none can compare to the now unidentifiable corpse of Father Fernando. His head and brains are minced upon the floor, his body twisted and wrapped with his own intestine, and his arms are removed and placed in inappropriate positions. Beside his toeless feet, a small pickle rests.

Dill I believe.

There are various darkened circles of blood set in intervals around the floor, and a large stream leads from the main crypt, down the darkened corridor. It begins to taper and wind, and further down the hall it simply becomes a random trail of reddish brown dots. The blood-speckled path ends at a doorway to the right of a gargoyle. There is no light to warm this door, or the hunched figure at its step. He thinks he is safe, hiding here in the dark, but we know where he is. We smell his thoughts. He sits there now, gnawing on a bone, and there is death on his brain.

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