Sins of the Architect

Words can never come close to describing the unfathomable darkness surrounding you...

If you don’t get out of this place alive who will care for the dogs? You wonder about that but in a state of stupefied haste, you go through the wrong door. There is no turning back. You glance behind you but see no evidence of a door even being there.

With no alternative in sight, you have no choice but to make your way through a narrow tunnel—dark, dirt walls with undead, bodiless faces plastered to them, feeding off your fear. Each one of the horrifying images move with unnatural contortions, moaning wretchedly in agony.

Although you try, you have trouble steering your gaze away from their blood-crusted, hopeless eyes. They follow you as you whisk by, stirring fear to the edge of your lips. But you contain your screams. The last thing you want to do is draw more attention.

Their mournful wails gnaw at your nerves, rising the moment they catch sight of you. You can't assist them. You wouldn't assist them even if you knew how.

You look ahead and see brighter light in the distance, increasing the further you go. It's an exit. You thank God but are sadly mistaken. God does not exist here. Only the realism of fear and panic serve you.

Pink, disfigured tongues begin stretching out the faces yet to pass. The sight is nauseating, stopping you in your tracks. They stretch out far enough to slather you in the disgusting slime you see oozing off them. It does not feel safe. Your belief is it might cause warts or cancer. Or worse, burn your skin.

But you care more about reaching the light. Your hands come to the sides of your head, protecting your face from being touched as you run straight through the repulsive tongues.

You hyperventilate your way out the exit, dreadful moans lingering in the air behind you.

Another set of doors stand before you in a circular room with no ceiling. The sun beats down but you are shivering. It's not because of the lack of heat, it’s because you’re scared beyond belief!

There are four doors this time all facing you but only one of them have a knob. You look back the way you came and see tongues flailing, nullifying any attempts of going back that way.

You attention returns to the unopened doors, lined against a wood-paneled wall, several feet apart. Each of them now has a skull and crossbones painted on them in neon white... except the one with the knob. You think it's some sort of manipulative ruse to get you to choose that one.

As if your mind was read, it swings open, slamming against the wall flushed with it, revealing an evil-looking vulture with yellow eyes. He's pecking at something. It's a book. The bible! It rips at the pages then gives you a deathly stare. It repeats the action again and again before launching itself in your direction with a wingspan broader than the room itself. You duck just in time, avoiding its sharp talons by an inch.

You stumble towards the door at the far left, furthest from the open one. The skull and bones pixelate into a dark red, pulsating a slow rhythm. You don't know what it means. You only care about getting away from that humongous bird intent on doing harm.

Leading with your shoulder, you burst through the door, quickly closing it behind you. Your eyes jerk left to right, desperate for any sign of home.

Instead...

You see a dumpster. It's just sitting there in the middle of a parking lot lit by the light of a blue moon. Your eyes shift to the green motorbike parked near it. It's the only other thing in the entire space. You've never ridden one of those in your life but think of using it to get home. You step forward cautiously only to flinch back in fright when the dumpster's covers burst open, slamming back against the metal. The blast of sound reverberates right in your face, jolting you to the ground...

Before your mind can catch up, two hands clamp onto your arms from either side. Something is lifting you. You have no idea what it is, your head is facing the concrete. You look where your arms are being held and see what appears to be hands made of dark, rubbery seaweed. You struggle but the grip is too tight. Whatever it is drags you effortlessly toward the dumpster where a surge of glowing fog spills over the rim. Dozens of quivering fingers breach the fog, waiting to accept you as an offering. The thought of being thrown in there ramps up the pointless struggle you give.

There is no preventing what comes next.

The strong, rubber-like hands hoist you skyward, casting you into a sea of anxious fingers. They're grubby and all over you. Almost immediately, the covers to the dumpster slam shut, snuffing out the light.

Disoriented, you hear whispers overlapping, buzzing right at your ears as the fingers drag you down into the darkness and vanish, delivering you to whatever fate waits below...

Golden light falls from above, illuminating the surrounding area. You look for the source but fail to find any.

The ground is a clean slate made of bronze and seems to stretch in every direction. It glistens in the light as if its wet. You touch it. It's not wet at all, but it is quite frigid.

There's something odd, yet quite familiar about this place. If you don't count that annoying drip, you'd swear it's quiet. Calm.

It's momentary...

Your thoughts spiral in disarray. If you plan to survive this place, clarity needs to be found.

You stand up, ready to move, looking in every direction, failing to decide which way to go. In front of you, just a dozen feet away, long, grey, marble steps rise twenty feet above the bronze floor, rumbling the ground as they ascend. Your eyes slowly travel up their form. The moment they reach the top, the sight waiting for you, redefines terror.

It's him!

The Architect, the very reason for your anguished fear!

You know it's him because a friend you can't recall at the moment is somewhere in this place too, looking for their way out. You tried avoiding this at all costs while searching for your way home. But now, you've come face to face.

He sits upon a black, crystal throne, tapping his fingers as if growing impatient for your arrival.

The gold light intensifies around the throne; dark smoke rises in the air behind it. Your eyes lock with his, trapped in a pull that neither of you can seem to break.

His skin is a hue of midnight green, and his hair is a mass of black curls, billowing in waves that rise but never spread. The red eyepatch over the right eye is unmistakable. You recall it from an image your mind can't seem to place. He wears a black suit with a winged-tip, white shirt underneath. Funeral attire. You look for an escape, but the light only isolates you and the Architect; everything else beyond it has fallen into darkness.

His lips, dark as coal, form a devious smile, exposing plaque-infested, rotting teeth.

Seated with legs crossed, he lifts his chin and raises a hand, stopping mid-motion. Your eyes follow the movement.

In one swift gesture, his fingers snap like a spark–

Instantly, you are lying flat on a gurney, arms and legs strapped to it. Indescribable mechanisms crowd the space around you.

In another instant, he’s standing at the gurney! You don't recall seeing him leave the throne.

Instinctively, you beg and plead for your life, but the Architect has no interest in your skill of bargaining. All that interests him is finding your threshold for pain.

You wriggle and twitch, trying to get loose. Nothing helps.

With a wave of the hand, he summons a small, black table full of sharp, pointy instruments he plans to make thorough use of. He pauses for a moment, distracted by the glint of the gold necklace around your neck. His left hand gently lifts it and examines the crucifix attached to it. With little effort, he breaks it free from your neck. Spit flies from his mouth onto the hallowed charm, which has suddenly tripled in size. He begins slowly pressing it to your forehead, searing like hot metal.

The image of a cross is being branded onto your skin.

The pain is overwhelming...

Unbearable...

His twisted grin is the final image carved into your mind before breaking free from the dream...

But you're not in your bed.

All the wires and tubes in your field of vision are attached to lifesaving equipment, leading to you.

Several friends stand diligently at your bedside, realizing you've woken.

Your parents are there on the opposite side caught between facial expressions. A crucifix dangles from your mom's right hand and a bible clenched in the left. She's been here for hours, praying your condition remains stable.

A wave of relief sweeps over the room at the signs of your progress. Family and friends are happy to see you survive that dangerous mix of barbiturates and alcohol. It was a mistake. You were aiming to have a good time last night and almost killed yourself.

The door to the room swings opens. Everyone turns their heads to look at the physician who briskly walks in to check your vitals. The sight of him raises your blood pressure meter—the scar beneath his right eye, the mass of black curls atop his head and the dark green scrubs, hit you at once.

The memory of your nightmare remains fresh.

You try to understand what it all means but haven't a clue where to begin.

Your mother steps closer, wraps her fingers around yours and offers a gentle smile. You smile back as best as you can. You're eager to tell them about the dream, but the tube in your mouth makes it difficult to say a word.

For now, you rest. You think deeply about opening doors that were never meant for you. How lucky you are to be alive.

You've had a vivid taste of Hell on both sides and never ever want to go back.