The Badlings

Chapter 8. The Forbidden Dungeon

Don't think that the longer the book, the more gripping its story. Some very short tales have penetrated the minds of generations and remained there, unwilling to leave. People like to call them "classics," although there is nothing classic in them, but plenty of blood, murders, and treachery.

The children were presently rushing toward one such tale. Murky fog whooshed past them, or they whooshed past murky fog—it was hard to tell. The lower they hurtled, the chillier it got. Even Grand's typically warm hands lost all feeling. A fine layer of dew formed on his hair. At one point he thought they would fall like this forever, sinking farther and farther into a uniform greyness that clung to them like spider webs.

It was spider webs.

They shot through a tangle of them and landed on stone with a muffled thwack. Shaken and disoriented, none of them moved.

A minute passed.

Grand patted the uneven floor, groaned, and rolled to his side. He was sitting in a dark room. Weak light trickled in from a barred window high up by the ceiling. The air was dank and drafty, and it smelled foul. He stood up, took a step, and froze. His worst nightmares had materialized right by his feet, splayed along the wall in a neat, gruesome row.

Grand stopped breathing. A single drop of cold sweat rolled down his nose and hung at the very tip. He willed himself to wipe it off and couldn't.

"Grand?" called Bells from the darkness.

"Um." The sound of his own voice startled him so much, he nearly jumped.

"Oh, good, you're here. Peacock?"

Peacock coughed. "I'm okay."

"Just making sure," said Bells. "It's so dark in here, I can't see a thing. Where are we, do you know?"

Grand swayed.

"Are you okay?" she asked, groping for him. "Your hands are cold!"

Grand opened and closed his mouth. No sound came out.

"I don't remember your hands ever being cold. What's wrong?" Bells glanced around until her eyes fell down and she stifled a shriek.

"What is it?" Peacock wiggled in between them. "Why are you guys shaking..."

Grand had forgotten about his friends. Nothing existed for him except the horrible dreams he had every time after visiting his mother at the funeral home. They were always the same: he entered the mortuary fridge, and someone turned off the lights and slammed the door shut, locking him in. For the rest of the dream, he blundered around the room, walking into dead people's clammy arms until he panicked and woke up drenched in sweat, his heart pounding like a hammer.

"Grand." Bells tugged on him. "Grand!"

He remained motionless, rooted to the spot.

Bells dug her nails into his palm.

He didn't flinch.

"Peacock," she squeaked, "help me!"

Peacock stumbled backward, retching.

"Come on, guys, don't fall apart on me now. We need to...we need..." She held it, held it, and lost it, hanging onto Grand so as not to faint.

Right by their feet, on the cobblestone floor blackened by wear and grime, stood a wooden block with an ax wedged into it. Next to it, carefully arranged along the wall, lay bodies of five dead women, their unseeing eyes open, their hair caked with blood, their stiff feet peeking out from under the hems of white nightgowns.