So cold
The house on the ground level of the White City contains a chill worse than anything alive or dead. It is cold both inside and around it. Trees do not grow here, flowers wither and waste away as soon as they are planted in its surroundings, or placed inside. Animals have no chance of survival.
And neither do humans.
The sensation is like a cold hand gripping your heart, squeezing it tight, warning you that there is something out there, lurking and waiting to devour your spirits. The entity is in this very room, and you know that it is. It is evil. There is no other word for it. Pure, strong and destructive evil.
As soon as you approach the house, you can feel it in your bones. The cold runs down your spine, twitches your hands and fingertips and grasps the tightness that you already feel even firmer. It crawls into your boots and sets off an alert so strong that it cannot be denied. None who venture here can deny its existence.
So cold it is. Everywhere.
One resists the urge to flee. Yet we must stay, for only the strong ones can resist the danger from within, facing it and challenging it. The weak are long gone, chased by the deadly fear that haunts us all, deep down inside. We, the stronger ones, deny that fear and use it to overcome the almost physical pain.
The chill is so acute that it makes one want to leave the very house, hoping that the dead shall not follow. For, it is the dead that are here. The coldness is deadly in itself, going strong when it wants to chase the living away.
It is evil that rules here.
Ghosts and the dead do not want you near them. They detest you when you come into their surroundings, disturbing their ethereal world. They can kill at random, attack at will. I have seen and experienced that when we crossed the Paths of the Dead and took them with us to Minas Tirith, saving the city.
The dead can touch, they can hunt and they can destroy with their blades, and their army is more deadly than any that roams our Middle-Earth. Or at least it was, for I have set the Dead free and they have departed in peace, leaving us be, now nearly four months ago. I thought it would be the last time we would see them. Yet now I wonder if one of them might have stayed behind.
If that were so and the Dead are still amongst us, I must be to blame. It is my sworn duty to protect my people – whether it be the Dead or alive enemies that have come to plague us, I must put a stop to it.
And so, as I was asked by one of my citizens to come visit her home, I did. She wanted me to see for myself what lived and breathed in her house. In a futile hope I believed that I would understand what lived inside her realm, to experience it and chase it away. After all, if these were the Dead, they would answer to the King of Gondor.
Yet, I cannot aid her, for it was not them.
For that, which lives inside these four walls, is more deadly than the Armies of Death, more lethal than the swords slashing through Orcs. It is different too. It is an entity, an appearance, and it is angry, upset and very much in the mood for destruction.
I do not understand what this entity may be, or where it came from. But I do understand what it must be. Sometimes, you see, their world collides with ours. They are no longer a part of our universe, but desperately want to be. Or perhaps they want to move in and observe us. In all likelihood, they are not happy with their condition, being forced between that which is the netherworld of life and death on a plain of existence that is unapproachable by us mere mortals.
Only a few of us can enter their domain and live to tell the tale. I have done it. But now, I do not believe that I can anymore.
I find myself walking around in this house that is doomed, with Legolas, Faramir and Gimli behind me. We are not eager to enter the home, as we feel the cold take over our bodies from outside this home. Yet we proceed to move into the house. And we all feel the coldness drip throughout the building, and we can all see the dark stains of blood that have tainted the whiteness. It appears to be fresh blood sinking down from the ceiling to the floor, colouring the walls. It forms strange figures, almost as if showing us something.
The scent of death is the worst though. It nauseates us. Even Legolas turns his head and tries not to choke. “Breathe through your mouth,” I warn them.
Outside remain those who came to witness our visit. They turn away as soon as we open the door and step inside. But the woman who lives here follows us inside as if she has gotten used to it by now.
“Valar,” Legolas whispers behind me. “What has happened here?”
In shock we stare at the ghastly remnants of a death, caused undoubtedly by murder. For, the splatters are all over the walls, all over the floor and the bed and chairs and table. Someone must have been slaughtered here. There is no other explanation. Yet, when we turn to face the woman, she shakes her head sadly.
“At night I dream of the being in this house,” the widow whispers. She has lost her husband during the Great War and has stayed in her home ever since. “I open my eyes and can see fresh blood drip downwards. Sometimes it splatters me. It is cold blood, as chilly as anything I have ever encountered. It numbs me and I cannot move. I am paralyzed. Then they come. They look at me and believe that I am their prey.” The woman shivers. “I do not know what it is, but is terrible. I know that my end is near.”
The poor widow is frightened, and so are we.
“You must no longer stay here,” I tell her. “You will go with Faramir and be well at the Palace. Is there anyone who can look after you? Is there a home you can go to?”
“No,” she says.
“Then we shall look after you. Come and forget this tragedy.”
For the first time, the woman who has been a witness to terrible nights of terror and tragedy, smiles. She is hopeful again. And she leaves the house with Faramir, leaving my other friends and myself behind.
Legolas touches the wall gently with one fingertip. Blood rests upon the top and he sniffs it. “It is old blood,” he says, “not fresh. And it is human.”
“Then why did it not stale?” Gimli asks. “And where does it come from?”
“It is almost as if these walls bleed,” I say thoughtfully as I look around. “And every night, they bleed again, adding new blood to the old one. Constantly colouring the walls and ceiling.”
“Who has lived here before her?” Legolas asks, and I watch Gimli who is nervous in the presence of the cold.
“Nobody who died,” I say. “She told me she has lived here for years in peace, and when the Great War ended, this started.” I turn determinedly to my friends. “I wish to get to the bottom of this. Tonight, I shall stay in this house and hope that the entity will speak to me. Will you stay with me?”
Legolas tilts his chin. “Of course I shall,” he says. “Even though I know that any spirit may survive my bow and arrows, I shall still attempt to destroy it with mortal weapons.”
“No arrows will destroy this being,” I say amused, “but I thank you for your courage.”
Gimli grunts loudly. “I have once strolled behind you into the mountains and we came out untainted. I shall do it again, even though my heart quickens and my feet want to carry me out of here as fast as they can. I will stay too.”
I place my hand on Gimli’s shoulder. “I expected no less from you, my friend.”
A loud cry comes from outside the house. Shocked we stare at each other for a moment. Then we rush outside, to witness a tragedy.
On the ground lie two bodies. One of them is the woman’s whose fate seems entwined with the house. She is dead. Her eyes stare shocked at the skies above her, seeing nothing. Her face is distraught in pure fear.
Next to her lies Faramir. But he is alive, for he is on his side with his chest going up and down, and his eyes open. I kneel by his side as many rush towards us, and find him full of fear. Whatever he has seen has brought him into a state of shock.
I look up for other witnesses but the street has emptied, leaving us alone in the house of doom.
“Faramir,” I say concerned, trying to arouse him. He does not respond. I place my hand upon his face and touch the cold skin. Then I get a flash of something that he must have seen, for it is sharp, hard and it forces me backwards, dropping me to the ground. Shocked and confused I remain sitting until Legolas pulls me up and stares at me in distress.
“Valar,” I whisper, “it is strong. So strong. And so cold.”
“I know,” Legolas says, “I can feel it too.
*****************
It is dark when we return to the house with torches. Faramir is still asleep and cannot tell us what he has seen, for he is lying in the Houses of Healing where he rests peacefully with his wife …owyn by his side. We had to leave him there and go to this house, for it is my sworn duty to protect those inside the City. This being – entity – darkness - has caused one death and we must stop it before it destroys again.
“I am not looking forward to this,” Gimli grunts, “for I feel as if someone is walking over my grave. It is as cold here as it was in Balin’s tomb.”
“Nay, it is worse,” Legolas replies with a smile, “but we will again stay true to ourselves and destroy the enemy. Surely a ghost will not frighten you, Master Gimli.”
“It is not a ghost we are searching for,” the Dwarf says as we reach the house. “It is something worse.”
“Whatever it may be, it shall wait for us,” I say. “Come now, and be quiet. I do not wish to frighten our citizens. Already the death of that poor widow has alarmed them. If the entity seeks a new victim, it may roam from house to house. We must prevent that from happening.”
“And how are you going to exorcize it from the house?” Legolas asks. “Sing a song?”
I laugh quietly. “My singing is not that bad.”
The Dwarf bows his head in agreement and then sniffs the air. “The air is filled with senses of burning. What is happening?”
“I do not know,” I say and open the door. Feeling the coldness touch the palm of my hand. I pull back. Then, grasping the handle again, I push it open while holding the torch before me.
Blood drips off the walls. We smell it, for it is a strong, overwhelming coppery scent. It is powerful. But worst of all is the smell of scorching flesh, as if someone or something has been burned to a crisp. It is as awful as a pyre of Orcs being destroyed. I resist the urge to flee and forget all about our intent to see the truth.
“Tear apart the house,” Gimli grunts. “Pull it down and forget that it was ever here. The evil is lurking in its walls. With its destruction, we might destroy the darkness too.”
“Nay,” I say. “We might release it instead. We cannot risk drastic measures until we know what it is that plagues us so.”
As soon as Legolas, the last one of our little group of friends, enters the house, the door slams shut behind him. We turn and face each other. Legolas reaches for the door handle and I cry out for him, too late. He shouts when he is thrown backwards, the back of his skull hitting the cold, stone ground.
Dazed, he remains lying as we reach for him and aid him. I touch the back of his head and find a cut and blood, but he is awake and grunts quietly. As we look up, the dripping of blood starts again. It comes from the ceiling, out of nowhere, and it makes its way down in thick, drops of crimson red.
We know that we are trapped.
“No point in trying to run now,” Legolas says quietly and we know that he is right.
“Indeed,” I confirm.
*********************
Hours pass as we watch the blood drip down the walls, for there is nothing else that we can do for now. We have tried everything you see: To speak out loud and challenge it, to ask it to tell us what it wants, to reason with it and hope that it understands reasoning.
So far, no luck. Our hearts are filled with a sense of dread; our bodies feel cold and numb and tired.
“Can you feel it weighing down on you?” Legolas asks as he lies on the bed with his head supported on a pillow. He is not in good shape, for the cut to his head is deep and still bleeds. He is confused, I notice, and his eyes are unable to focus. He must have a concussion and needs aid.
We try to keep him awake by speaking to him. I have taken Gimli away for a second and explained to him that Legolas must stay alert. Since then, the Dwarf has been telling terrible Elvish jokes. But with every passing hour, the Dwarf’s voice becomes quieter until he finally stops speaking all together.
We know that we are in terrible trouble and that those who are on the outside of the house trying to get in, have given up.
“Aye,” I say, “I can feel it. My heart is heavy and my soul burdened. I feel as if I should feel guilty over things that I have not done. It is as if voices are whispering inside my head, telling me that I must pay penance for what I have done wrong. Only, I do not know what I have caused.”
“Indeed,” Legolas says, “it tells me that we must all stay here and feed the house, for it exists on our spirits and it feeds off our fears. We should not have come here. It drains our spirits, sucks on our life’s forces.”
“Must we then deny its existence?” I ask. “Should we have let that poor woman suffer until eternity? Denial was not the good approach.”
“You came here because you thought it might have been the Armies of Death that lingered about,” Legolas replies. “Yet they have long gone.”
“Then I have made a judgement error,” I say, “but I shall not apologize for my actions. We have done nothing wrong.”
“Yet we shall be punished for it,” comes Gimli’s voice and I can tell he is exhausted and withering away like the flowers outside this house, unwilling to grow and survive.
I stand and walk to the largest wall, looking at the thick drops of continuous blood. “I seek you out, evil, to speak with me and tell me what it is that you seek. It is retribution? Penance? Revenge? Tell us then who you wish to avenge, and we shall aid you. I do not wish to cause you any harm!”
A rumbling sound is heard from above us. Wearily I stare at the ceiling, fearing for one moment that it shall come crashing down to bury us alive. But then the rambling stops and it becomes calm again.
I slide to the ground, for my legs have become too weak to carry me, and try not to lean against the blood-soaked walls. Then, to my shock, I see shadows take form. I feel shivers run down my spine as I stare at the stone ground before me. I crawl up and away from it until I reach the bed where Gimli and Legolas are.
“Valar,” Legolas whispers, placing his hand before his mouth as we stare down at the stone ground, witnessing the appearance of four faces embedded inside the stone. The faces are distraught in pure pain; their mouths open as if they are calling out for aid.
The faces seem engraved in the ground and clear and in colour, as if someone has painted them.
Then, slowly, they fade again until there is nothing underneath us but stone.
I look up at the others, afraid that I must be going mad, but by the looks upon their faces, I know that they have seen it too.
“What devilry is at work here!” Gimli exclaims. “No human, Dwarf or Elf can help repair the damage done. We must escape now!”
I walk to the small windows that are tainted with dirt and almost as dark as the walls. We have tried to clean them before and crack the glass but were unable to do so. Whenever we touched the glass, sparks would run through our hands up unto the tips of our toes. Cold.
I try to overlook the street, the small patch of brown and dead grass next to the house in a futile attempt to create a garden. And then I feel the brush of wind behind me. I turn around too late, and see – to my astonishment – how Legolas is tilted into the air and thrown down to the ground, his face hitting the stone floor. I can see how Gimli already lays there, his hands losing their grip on his trusted axe.
“Legolas! Gimli!” I exclaim and I reach out for them, but then I feel something smacking me soundly on the side of my face. It is hard, like a rock, and I realize only then that something did not come at me, but that I came hard at it. The ground. I have been thrown to the ground.
I land on my face, then on my side and then on my back as I am grasped tight and held down. I open my eyes and see Legolas beside me. Then my face turns upward and I see something – the vision of a man. He holds me to the ground and makes certain I cannot move. I realize only then that he is not an entity, and that I have not been touched by the dead. This man is very much alive.
He came from the outside. The door has opened and shut briefly, allowing him in. I do not understand how he came to be past those standing outside. It is almost as if he was granted access by the entities inside these walls, invited in. But for what reason, I do not know.
He is dressed as a citizen of Minas Tirith, someone with enough gold to buy security long enough to survive the Great War. He is not a soldier or a fighter. I do not know what his connection to the evil inside this home is.
“Who are you?” I grunt and know that I am not able to fight. Andúril lies helplessly on the ground. I see a cane in his hand, one that is made of strong wood and marble. That is what struck Legolas, Gimli and I.
“I am the one who buried them before this house was built,” the old man says. “I was young then. And now I have grown old. I knew it was them when I heard of the blood’s appearance. I just knew.”
“Who – who are they?”
He looks at me and I know that he does not care that I am his King. He does not pay any attention to my stature, to my position or my life. He is far away, lingering in dreams and memories of the past.
“My family,” he says. “They were – my family.”
“Why?” I ask wearily. “Why now?”
He shrugs. “They must have sensed that I am dying; that the secret and truth behind their disappearance would be buried with me. They must have sought a way out, a way of finding peace at long last.”
“Revenge,” I whisper. “Retribution for your harm done.”
“It was not my fault!” he shouts. “My father wanted me to become a farmer. My brothers teased me. My mother hated me. I wanted out. And I did. I became a merchant – a rich and wealthy merchant. I did what I had to do! For years everything was fine. I told people that I was redoing this house and started digging the foundation. I said my family had left and nobody cared. I built this house over them and sold it. It was all well!”
I am numb when he reaches for Andúril and raises it. I am going to be killed by my own weapon, I realize. Horrified, I stare at the blade rising in the air, ready to reign down on me with a cut hard and vicious enough to send me into death.
Will anyone realize what has happened to us? Will they understand that it was the fault of men this house was bleeding so?
As the blade comes down, I force my body to react with my last bit of will. I pry myself free and roll on my side, unable to lift my head from the floor, sending stars into my world, stabbing my eyes. I must fight for my life! He kicks me hard against my brow and I close my eyes, fighting off the nausea that surges through me.
But then he falls forward and over me, with Andúril dropping out of his hands and blood spurting from his mouth. He is off of me. But then I catch him looking at Legolas, who has crawled on his knees and shot his lethal arrow in the man’s back.
I crawl away from him, reaching for my sword but am too weak to use it for my own protection. I see Gimli open his eyes. And Legolas, with bleeding forehead, stares at the unknown man lying next to me.
The assailant lies on the ground, his eyes proving he is not dead yet. He is partially turned to the side, with Legolas’ arrow sticking out of his chest. He sees what we all do: a black cloud entering the room It swirls down and surrounds him, and him alone. The cloak of darkness is made of entities, of creatures, ... of visions perhaps. They are everywhere and they are angry. The man cries out.
“No!” he cries out but his pleads are lost to them.
The cloud is all over him now, smothering his body, devouring it. I manage to sit up straight and crawl over to Legolas and Gimli. Then it is over. Before us lies the man’s body. It is purged of all clothing and outer skin. All that is left is pure muscle and nerves and organs. Only his face has remained intact. It stares into nothingness with an expression of pain and fear.
I look at Legolas and Gimli, and they look at me when the door slams open and Faramir stands before it with his guards. I smile when we notice that the scent of copper has evaded the room and the blood has disappeared before our eyes. I sink forward, falling deeper and deeper until I reach a place where there is only blessed pain free sleep.
*************************
The Minas Tirith Cemetery carries four new nameless graves. A family, murdered by one of their own, now found its final burial place. Their murderer has found a grave outside the city walls, for he has no right to be amongst us.
We do not know their names or how long they have been buried there. All we could find when the stone floor was broken open, were bones. All flesh had long gone from their skeletons. We shall perhaps never know, until someone remembers a family that has disappeared a long, long time ago. In a city like this, people come and go all the time. It shall be an impossible task.
I turn away when the graves are closed and look at Legolas and Gimli. All three of us are quiet, for we still experience what we have seen and sensed inside that house. I still suffer from headaches but they are slowly improving. Legolas still needs a lot of rest, for he suffered a concussion, as I feared. Gimli however is back to his old self, keeping his Elvish friend company.
“It was not the beings that killed that woman,” Faramir explained earlier as we discussed what has happened in that house. “We were attacked by a man. I saw his face. He was angry. I thought I had died too. No evilness touched me. In fact, I swear that I was helped, for the man raised a cane and tried to kill me with it, and then he changed his mind.”
“The evilness in that house did not come from them, but from the presence of the man who had murdered them,” I say. “He has paid a price, but it came too late. Let us hope that he shall dwell in the fires of eternity, for that is where he belongs.”
“Aye,” Legolas says, his eyes recalling what we have all seen.
Yet, as I take my friends back to the house the next day to assure that the feeling has gone, I can feel a strange sensation overcome me. It is not a sense of fear or dread this time, but one of hope.
For finally, after all these years, a family has found peace. That thought alone replaces any suffering.
End