The Hut in the Mountain

Untitled Part 1

The Hut in the Mountains

Graham coiled his rope and slung it over his shoulder. Under the moonlight the figure of the thin, lanky man with that white rope glimmered like Satan's eye. He could feel the handgun squeak in touching the leather of his belt as he scrambled the hard rocky slope. There lay a stone hut in the mountain, camouflaged now in the shadows of the rocks. The villagers had warned against this hut. They said it was the dwelling of evil spirits. Just last month a gypsy couple were found cut to pieces in the woods, just beneath the cliff down the hut. Their bodies were savagely torn apart, their bones broken and exposed and half of their bodies eaten by big firm jaws unlike any animal's. Rumours said the hut once belonged to a Bohemian prince, banished from his home country and driven to madness in the silence of the mountains.

A high-pitched caw rose from somewhere near the hut. Graham clutched his handgun. The uncouthness of this bleak stony landscape prickled his skin. A voice in his mind told him he had no business in here; that he should go back to the comfortable life of a journalist, rather than poking his head into every dark unknown place that he sees.

But he didn't listen. He went up past a dried creek and rough-hewn torn gray rocks. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, feeling a bit dizzy. "What's wrong with me..." he wondered for a short moment, but then shoved away the idea. When he finally reached the hut, it was smaller than what he had imagined. A dusty timber door, rotten with cracking wood had covered the opening. With its walls dug into the mountain the hut looked more like a military bunker or a cave. His hand fumbled with the fastening of the door knob until the door clicked open. He hesitantly pushed the squeaking door, his heart quickening in his chest.

The walls were misshapen burnished rocks, and the floor was covered with unstable timber boards and sawdust. He blinked and squinted at the darkness inside. A smell of dank air and putrid fish wafted out as Graham stepped cautiously on the timber floor. He was feeling queasy now, his stomach churning when he looked around, noticing small details like dried blood drops on the ground near his feet.

There was a powerful force in this place; it was as if the walls emanated a radiant flux. Graham noticed a round stone lining at the corner of the hut and stumbled towards it, gasping from the pressure he felt. The stone lining was of a well, its dark mouth gaping open. At the end of the well, Graham saw the golden flashing of something. He squinted on the well's edge and burned a redhead to see what lay down there.

Under the red light of fire, he saw a crown, half of which sank in black waters. Fat, ghostly white maggots squirmed on its golden surface. It must be the prince's! He realised and then felt his nose bleed. He feebly fell on the ground near the stone lining. In his head inhuman voices echoed unfathomable words that the human voice box was incapable of uttering. He tried to crawl out of the hut, but he was too weak. He felt his innards imploding, his bones breaking and snapping, his skin being flaked and then regenerated. Daggers of pain shot throughout his body. He could hear a ringing human scream in his ears, someone shrieking and sobbing painfully, until the voice was no longer human but a monstrous hissing. He ran his fingers, or what remained of his fingers to his face. Long bony jaws now rested on his face and his skin was covered with bloodied scales. He had become what he was afraid of.