Unholy Saints

Lamentable Melodies

Please do not copy. This is not just a thriller. It's also a bit of a lot of genres. Don't be scared to leave me messages of what I can improve on, or if there are any plot holes.

The song I wanted would have started with the softest of melodies. Just a sweet little sound that you could hardly hear. It would then tease you and grow while you are listening to the softness of the melody, without you even noticing, until you found that you have been sucked into a crescendo of co-ordinated noise that would have made you lose any sense of self or identity, that would have stripped you to the bone. That would have left you helpless and quivering at the thought that this song must end; that it must reach a point where there will be nothing. Not even a whisper of the shadows.
You feel as if you are tied to that song, and that you must not let it end, no matter what. Because if that song ends, you too shall end...

I looked from the paper sitting on my mahogany desk and heaved myself from the wooden desk chair, groaning as my long-weary butt muscles began the pins-and-needles stage of returning feeling. I stared at the paper, the dry yellow parchment from the early 1800's staring back at me with words of my sadness. I've always liked 1800's paper and I'm still making myself accustomed with the chemically bleached stuff people use today.
Call me old fashioned, but I still prefer to use a quill or a pen over a typewriter or computer. And also it was a pain to preserve the paper for later use, so I might as well use it. I found out quickly and painfully that things happen to age when you leave it by itself, and that when you come back to your old childhood home 50 years later and try to sit at your extinct family's table, you only split your skull on the stone floor when the chair leg collapses with rot. Lying there for a few hours waiting for the bone plates to mesh together again was not very appreciated on my behalf.

Today was just another day in Melbourne, Australia. I've been all over the world and here is one of my favourite places to be. Maybe it's the obese mining magnates or the hungry dingoes with exotic tastes that call to me. I don't know. It just feels welcoming. I raised my hands above my head and stretched out while looking at my cosy dark office. It was 5 metres by 6 and covered with antiques from history. An Egyptian canonic jar here, a South American shrunken head in a pot over there, and, my favourite, an exquisite Chinese vase on a silk pillow. That thing cost a fortune, but it looks really pretty. I smile to myself as I walk out the door and down my hall lined with many doors. I reach the end which is a stone wall covered with a innocent tapestry of peaches. I lift the tapestry up and pull on the rusted ring set into the wall, heaving on it until the concealed door finally starts moving with a creak that says "I hate you for your neglect. Give me some oil."

I mentally swore to the door that I will love it a bit more as I walked down the grey stone steps and into the inky darkness. The solid blackness was punctuated by some glowing mushrooms feeding off the moisture on the walls.
"Upon reflection, this place looks like a medieval castle. I should really fix this up - it's like, the 21st century, the age of computers, smartphones and self-flushing toilets," I muse.
I come out at the bottom of the stairs to another door with a dragon carved into the heavy dark wood. I turn the big brass knob and enter. The first thing that hit me was the smell. Normal humans smell horrid if they miss a few showers, especially males. This particular male who was chained to a wall by his ankles hasn't had a shower for weeks and is covered with excrement and fear. And the stumps on his hands where his fingers used to be looked infected. I think the leaking pus and rotting flesh is a bit of a give away.

He came to me dirty and desperate and I've had him here for about a week - but I still can't remember his name. I believe he might of said it was Stanley.

"Morning Stanley," I said chipperly.

"M'namesnotStanley " he mumbled.

"No one is here to care about your name Stanley. You should know better."