The Faceless Man

[blackhand7 191]

 

Spoiler

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z0SFTA24M-M&t=5s

 

The Faceless Man

 

 

It all started with the rats. Wilhelm had always had a strange affinity with them. Being a Jailor’s assistant was not the most glamorous job, and they were often the only living things he’d see throughout his day. They scampered about his feet as he waded through the darkness of the lower dungeons, lantern in one hand and trough of slop in the other. Should he have leftovers after feeding the many silent cells, he’d give them a piece, sitting on the cold stone floor as he ate the remainder. The rats were good listeners too, and as more learned of Wilhelm’s generosity they made an attentive audience for his many thoughts, which were often the only sounds in the long dark tunnels. At night, he’d finally be allowed to return to the surface, retreating to the warmth of his mother’s cottage with what little pay he had been given. 

 

Such was Wilhelm’s life, and he settled into the drudgery of routine without complaint, albeit occasionally to the rats. But as time went on, less and less of them came. They stopped flocking to his voice like they used to, and those few that did come were starved and terrified, taking Wilhelm’s gifts and then fleeing into the dark. He would still pass them in the tunnels, but the moment he would say anything, be it humming to himself or calling out to them, they would flee, scampering off down the corridors at breakneck speed. Eventually, none came when Wilhelm ended his rounds of the cells, leaving him alone in the black void with his thoughts. Sometimes, he’d swear he could hear his own voice softly echoing through the tunnels, but he brushed off this obvious paranoia. He did spend quite a while talking to rats, after all; he knew he wasn’t entirely sane. 

 

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Wilhelm continued his rounds, which now either ended with him talking to himself or merely listening; the faint whispers of his voice were now as constant as the darkness itself. Then he began to hear his mother’s voice. It started off much like his own, a mere whisper, but it grew in pitch and volume sharply as Wilhelm made his rounds. By the time he had fed the first row of the silent cells, he knew it was no mere hallucination. It was real, it was his mother, and she was in danger. “Help me Will, help!” the voice cried out in pain, calling him by the name she’d called him since he was a child. He had no choice but to follow it. He left his bucket of slop behind, grabbed his lantern, and began to follow the voice in the darkness. At first, the screams brought him over familiar ground, and he moved quickly. But before long he was passing cells he had never seen, turns he had never made, and stairs he had never descended. Still, he pushed deeper and deeper, into the boughs of the castle. The dungeons here were truly ancient, catacombs of stone and dust. Yet Wilhelm was drawing closer, and with every step his mother’s voice grew louder and louder.

 

Then he saw her. It was through a crevice, in a room that looked more like a cave than a cell, a pile of black tattered rags in the vague shape of a human. It continued to call out, seemingly oblivious of his presence as he approached, his lantern held high. The ground was slippery here, covered with what Wilhelm assumed to be large clumps of moss and pebbles, and a strange stench filled the air. But Wilhelm didn’t care about that. He only cared about his poor, lost mother. He called out her name as he approached, but she gave no answer, only continuing to beg for his aid. He finally reached her, almost tripping on the moss and stones, setting down his lantern by her side as he hurriedly withdrew the black rags that covered her face. 

 

What stared back at him in the darkness was not the kind, wrinkled face of his mother but an unpainted canvas of flesh. The thing had no eyes, no nose, no hair, no features apart from a horrible mouth filled with far too many long crooked yellowing teeth. Seemingly oblivious to his presence, the creature continued to cry for his aid in his mother’s voice, its mouth contorting in unnatural and disturbing ways. Then it made a clicking sound, and at once her horrible mouth morphed into what only could be described as a smile. Wilhelm retreated back in fear, in his haste tripping on one of the many small objects scattered across the room and falling on his back. The lantern’s light, which emanated from next to the now-rising faceless man, revealed the “balls of pebbles and moss’” true nature: they were rats. Dozens and dozens of rats, all dissected, all strewn about the cave in a horrifying combination of pattern and randomness. Their blood coated the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the same words scrawled over and over and over again: “The Prophet is lost, but his path is true. The Prophet is lost, but his path is true. The Prophet is lost, but his path is true. The Prophet is lost, but his path is true.” The creature now stood at his full terrifying height, towering over Wilhelm and leaning close to him. Her mouth still bore a smile, revealing dark red stains on his far too many jutting teeth. Then it spoke to him in his own voice. 

 

“Do not be afraid, lonely little puppet. I am here to cut your strings”

 

The next day a new boy was sent to feed the silent cells. 

 

Edited January 6, 2022 by blackhand7

[Nozgoth 2897]

The remnants of something old stirred, but what were they now? Just fragments of a bygone era, swept up by the wind. The Prophet was no-longer, but the antiquities of his work still were.