Catacomb

I can smell it—a stench of mold, old paper, and dark humors, wafting down the corridor as it takes slow, shuddering steps towards me. The empty eye sockets don't hinder its pursuit; its tongue, purple and vascular, lolls out of a jawless mouth. I shouldn't have come down here, but I had to know. I had to see for myself why my brother never came back up. I do know now, but little good that does me with my back against the rough stone, and fingers—too long, too slender, with skin like rotted parchment—about to close around my throat.