The Halfling

Chapter 5

Humming.

The boy looked up. Encircling the chest was a lake, perhaps connected with that previous lake, illumined by some light that reached in through the cracks in the ceiling, as if a whisper in a rambunctious cacophony.

And it smelled like the previous one too. That stench of rotten eggs stirred the boy. The pang of iron gave life to him, as if it were the very vial of life itself.

Then, he heard something clack from beyond the veil of ill-lit darkness, the light not reaching it. It shifted in the darkness, a cloak dancing in the air, a soft moving-about, a whisper, a quiet, forlorn phantom.

It grazed the walls, running its limbs (or whatever that figure had) along the creases and the folds and the recesses and bumps. It let out cries, voices, a thousand of them: one of a petrified woman screaming, another of a young child crying, and one of a man haunted, choking on his tears.

The boy tried gripping his staff. His hands, like loose clothing, fell off. The trek had drained him of every ounce of strength he had left. No food, no water, and the most withered air had made him delirious.

He was seeing things. That was it.

But the phantom lurked still, now hovering above the treasure, its blighted cloak frittering over the lake. The waters were still.

There was silence. There was emptiness.

It had no face. Nothing to its name. Only eternal quietness and hollowness. And even though it had devoured and consumed and wolfed and noshed on millions of souls, it hungered for more, was restless, unsatiated, remained incomplete.

It stared at him, let out a sound like the growling throats of hounds. Then, it raised its hands and, like white, broken ropes, they twisted around the boy's neck, pressing him down and choking him.

The boy's eyes widened. He tried to scream—failed. He reached for the staff. From the phantom's body emerged another hand, crooked and pale as the other two, that locked around the boy's arm, just as he touched his staff.

Like a trap its jaws opened. The boy watched the now-open casket of death. And as he stared into it, his body wearied, failed. His limbs went limp as a soft and careless curtain, flung here and there by the wind.

The creature seemed to suck his soul, stealing his essence. He tried to think but thinking was a waste of energy. In fact, all his grasping and seizing and clasping were useless. The nebulous things stayed as nebulous things. He could neither devise a plan nor string enough coherent words to scream in anguish.

The halfling felt himself slipping away.

He could see the things floating in the air, bits and pieces of his flimsy and gray soul. Within those memories perhaps, his identity, all being devoured by the wretched beast.

Then, feet snapped off in the distance and there was a great heave and a yell until the phantom was tackled by a figure. It was Theresa, who, though her eyes shuttled between temporary death and wakefulness, managed to subdue the monster, if only for a moment. Her dagger shimmered in the air, an illusory light.

The phantom growled and launched into the air, throwing Theresa to the side. It whirled downward and seized the princess. Then, it started the same act of theft that it did towards the boy and the thousands before him, all various shades and tones, all peoples devoured in order to recreate a hideous soul.

The boy sprung for his staff. He raised it. Only a flicker of light came out. He hit it on the ground, smacking it as if violence could make it work. But nothing.

So, he opted instead to make the same decision the girl had: to crash like a bull against the phantom.

He charged.