4. Sick
4
SICK
KRYPT
The town thinks there are only ten of us. The history of Vile House has always worked in tens, so the theory remains mingled with all the other myths about the house, its occupants, and what we actually do. We’re more than a gang. We’re a society, one only possible because of the town itself.
In the real world, we might be considered a secret society, but in Moros, we’re just a fact. In a town already brimming with sinister people, wicked intents, and history so dark it draws attention from the outside world, we’re the bottom of the barrel.
Which makes us elite. Royalty, even. A belief that locals rely on and everyone else fears. Because we’re an offshoot organization that works in corruption. Not because we balance it, but because we challenge it. We’re that thing that goes bump in the night and acts like it’s nothing come morning. We are the literal definition of two wrongs do make a right.
And we’re run by a selective team of past members, almost like alumni. Our director, the only man who keeps us in check, comes from a long line of leaders who have run Vile House since it switched from an insane asylum to what it is now.
Virtue In Lives Exchanged.
Regardless of my moral compass, I understand what virtue is. I know goodness when I see it. I know goodness when I force it. I used to think the name was a pathetic attempt to keep the letters of the house the same, but over the years since I joined, I’ve come to appreciate the goodness that comes from exchanging one life for another. For taking one life to protect others. That's virtuous.
We aren’t the judge of good and evil, but fuck do we enjoy playing the part.
Leaving the house in the hands of our lower-ranking members, the ten of us walk through the tunnels that connect Vile House to the asylum. It’s an old portion of the sanitorium that got expanded and made into a modern-ish facility that still contains some of the original asylum. The world frowns upon that word, but here in Moros, it’s accepted willingly. Our asylum attracts as many tourists as it does patients.
Our director is a well-known scientist, responsible for creating a lot of the pharmaceuticals used by mental health patients, and now he sits on the asylum’s board of directors. But those who praise and award him don’t know he’s the leader of one of the most notoriously deadly societies in our area of the world.
“Director is going to flip his shit when he hears you made a bargain,” Ghost tells me as we walk. His voice echoes through the tunnel to join the sound of footsteps.
“Like you’re flipping your shit?” I counter.
Ghost snarls at me. “The fuck were you thinking, Krypt?”
I wasn’t. It was an impulse as soon as I saw him. And Ghost is pissed about it.
I’ve been in the Vile House society since I was a teen, but I’ve only been masked as one of the ten for three years. In those three years, I’ve made exactly one bargain. And it was last night. It’s not a requirement of the rank, but most of the others have made at least one, if not multiple bargains with locals, some outsiders. I typically prefer to keep to the dirty work, keeping Moros protected, and working in the cells with those we bring in.
But making deals with Vile House is a safeguard that Moros knows about. It’s always been a thing, and I think Director will be pleased that I’m doing my part.
Remiel Sauder is my first bargain, and fuck me, I still don’t know what I was thinking.
“I’ll figure it out,” I tell Ghost. His feelings about it mean little to me.
“How?” Menace asks with a laugh. “Once he finds out who you are?—”
“It won’t matter,” I snap at him. “I fucking own him now. It doesn’t matter who I am. His life is mine. He agreed to the bargain.”
“Better get that in blood,” Menace says, grinning at me.
Yeah, I will. And I’ll etch it into his flesh to mark him as mine forever. Even if I eventually free him, he will never be free of my mark on his skin.
“You gonna tell me what the bargain was?” Ghost asks as we fall to the back of the group. He can’t hide his hatred for this situation. Rightfully so, but fuck him.
“Eventually.”
Ghost is someone I can be around without becoming overwhelmed by his energy, so in the most basic sense of the word, he’s my best friend. His feet don’t make a sound as he walks, and his movements are so fluid you’d miss them if you blinked. He’s the same age as I am, and we initiated together when we were both seventeen. It’s hard to believe that was eleven years ago.
When we near the end of the tunnel, everyone straightens up to act their part as soon as we enter the asylum. Without our masks, our identities are only known to Director and the other Vile leadership.
We’ve all got a cover story to be at the asylum. Some of us work here, others are technically patients, and some, like Ransom and Facts, are on the board of directors, despite still being in their thirties. I just work in security. Well, I don’t, but that’s my cover story for coming and going from the building. It keeps people from seeing me leave Vile House.
“Have fun tonight, Krypt,” Menace says. Ghost gives me a nod of warning, and with that, we all part ways, spreading into the lower levels of the asylum tunnels to enter the main building from different places.
Before I reach the side exit where my vehicle is parked, Director runs up to stop me.
“You good?” he asks, wearing his lab coat. “Heard you made your first bargain.”
“I’m good. Handled.” I pull my keys from my pocket.
He’s a middle-aged man who treats us all like family, but I’ve known what it’s like to be on the receiving end of his brutality, too. I respect and appreciate him, especially for bringing the ten of us together, but I don’t love him. I don’t love anyone. I’m more likely to obsess.
“Well, I’m here if you need anything,” he says. “We all are. Don’t forget to use us.”
I nod, slipping out the side exit before he can say more.
The sun is setting, giving way to a grey night. Moros is a misty, foggy town where the weather always drizzles and the landscapes are wet and soggy. Forests, bogs, and swamps make up the flatlands, eventually drifting up the slopes of mountains that contain us in a protective bowl. There’s one road in and one road out, and I’ve never understood why tourists don’t see that as ominous. Especially since it’s lined with crows and ravens.
Horror lovers, occultists, history buffs, and those intrigued with the history of mental health and mad scientists flock to town to experience its pull and tour the asylum. We encourage it, luring them in with our strange history and unusual lifestyle, but it’s not always up to them whether they get back out. Crime junkies love Moros for the mystery it is. For such a small, secluded area, there are just as many missing persons cases here as there are in the country’s entirety. The world has tried to solve and fix us, but once they get spooked by being here, they pretty much leave us alone. The feds barely even step foot in Moros anymore. We’re like the Bermuda Triangle—no one looks for the things that go missing here.
Driving down the main street, aptly named Death Row, I watch the signs of shops flip to closed as the locals lock up for the night. We don’t fear the dark, but we consider any business conducted after the sun sets as nefarious, and we’d rather not tie it to our actual businesses. Dealings in the dark are meant to be made person to person. That’s an unstated Moros social contract.
Remiel steps out of his music shop with his tattooed friend Cain, locking up for the night. The Ambient Raven sits in the middle of Death Row, and it’s one of the busiest shops in town because there are so many musicians here. It’s been in the Sauder family for generations, passing hands as often as their lives pass. I don’t know how, but I will put an end to the Sauder curse. Remiel will not die before I permit him to. I hold his life to no value, but it’s in my hands now, and I’m nothing if not prideful about my belongings.
I’ll see you at midnight, Remiel.
Driving out the far side of town and into the misty mountains, I pull down a narrow lane and come to a stop. Monster is waiting and he climbs in the front seat, shaking off the dampness. We’re never allowed to leave the asylum together, but we meet out of sight to complete jobs.
He’s jittery, currently caught in a manic episode he’s struggling to shake. When the darkness takes over his mind, he’s hard to be around. Only Ransom can pull him back to reality so far, but none of us are allowed to know how. Today, he’s not too bad. As long as he gets to maim someone and let off a little crazy, he’ll be fine. At least he’s talking instead of mute at the moment.
“I’ve been waiting for this all week,” he says, pulling twin blades from holsters in his jacket. “Don’t rush me tonight, Krypt. I fucking need this.”
I try to grin as I start driving down the lane. Monster is tiny and batshit crazy, and when he gets lost in his mania, he really does become a little monster. Hence, how he got his name. He’s the shortest and smallest out of all of us, but he’s the most deadly with a set of blades. The guy has no gag reflex, no queasy stomach, and no off switch. But he has a few triggers, that’s for sure.
He flicks his dark choppy hair from his forehead. “And don’t even tell me you invited Ransom. He’ll only hold me back.”
“I didn’t invite him, but you know he’ll be here.” I look at him as he jitters. “Director always has him on you when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” he snarls at me, blades flashing. He has scars all around his mouth, dotted white lines like his lips have been sewn together, and he never talks about them, so I’ve never asked.
“I gotta be somewhere at midnight, so we aren’t dragging this out that long. You’ll get to shed blood, Monster. Don’t worry. I’ll even hold Ransom back.”
“You fucking better.”
Parking at the head of a hiking trail, we meet Ransom at the entrance to yet another tunnel. This one is an old mining tunnel, and if we walk another fifteen minutes through it, we’ll end up in a chamber that has the best acoustics. Kyd, one of us, loves bringing people here to scream. We call it the Mad House. It’s a vast network of chambers, caves, and tunnels under Trigger Mountain, and people tend to lose their minds in it. Maybe I’ll bring Remiel and his cello sometime.
“He’s not restrained,” Ransom tells Monster when we enter the tunnel, his light brown skin sweaty from dragging the prisoner. “Left him wide open for you, Monster.”
Monster’s eyes glimmer, and his smile is downright sickening. “Time to hunt.” He puts on his yellow-faced mask and hollers into the tunnel before he takes off running. Tonight, we’re going to scare, intimidate, and capture a man who needs to be taught a lesson before we send him on his way with a message for his rich friends.
“Good luck restraining him tonight.” I snort at Ransom. “He’s fucking nuts right now.” I pull on my purple mask.
Ransom tries to act serious, but I can see the delight in his dark eyes. “Isn’t he always?” His red mask comes down and then we run after Monster, and neither of us can deny the thrill thrumming in our blood.
High on a blood rush isn’t how I should meet with Remiel for the first real time. I’m early, but I need the time in the night air to cool down the heat rushing through me. There’s nothing quite like a hunt through the tunnels, and when Monster leads the charge and really lets his dysfunction shine, it makes it even more thrilling. Not even Ransom could tame him tonight.
The cemetery in Moros is massive and gothic. Full of ancient tombs and crypts of families long since passed, I walk among their spirits with ease. I’m not alone here, so my mask stays on my face and I let the shadows of the trees and mausoleums conceal me. Moros is a town of the night, and graveyards are our playground. We’re deranged and criminal like Gotham, but historical and darkened like Salem. A reporter once described our town as a death trap and its occupants as its hellhounds. I thought that fit pretty well.
I quite like being a hellhound.
The Sauder plots are expansive. They take up a whole row of headstones, have their own crypt, and span back many generations. Sauder men far outnumber the women, but there are a few sprinkled in with the men. The women died of natural causes or tragedies. But the men? Every single one ended his own life. The prospect of a suicide curse intrigues me, and I’m blaming that for my rash decision to take Remiel’s bargain.
A group of teens trying to Necromance the dead look up from their huddle as I walk by, recognizing my mask and its meaning. They dip their heads in respect, fisting their hands over their hearts, and I don’t bother them. I hope they succeed someday. An elderly woman sits on a stone bench in front of her husband’s grave, whispering words at the ground like they’ll enter whatever plane of existence he lives in now. I press my hand to my heart and bow my head to her. She repeats the gesture.
When I get to the row of Sauders near the forest’s edge, I take a deep breath and remind myself why I’m here. My first bargain. Remiel Sauder and his list of three names.
“Excuse me?”
I turn, facing a woman I don’t recognize. A young and na?ve tourist, dressed in a cocktail dress with Neon Demon stamps glowing all over her body. She must be a city chick who came to Moros for the week-long Demon Week celebrations. The Neon Demon is a club in town. It’s the main attraction of Demon Week, turning our small town into a rave after dark, luring club-goers into its games. They think they’re here to partake in an annual tradition to celebrate the upcoming initiation, but they rarely realize how dark it is.
“Have you seen this headstone?” she asks, holding up a calling card. It has the club’s logo on it, and they usually give the tasks out with the promise of a prize once they come back to the club with photo proof of completion. Coincidentally, the plot she’s looking for belongs to my grandfather. “I’ve been trudging through this disgusting cemetery for an hour and can’t find it.” She shivers. “So many creeps out here, my god.”
I glance around to see if any of her friends are with her, and when I see she’s alone, I shake my head. What sort of skinny, defenceless little lamb actually comes to a cemetery in Moros at night on her own and talks to a masked stranger? Could she be any dumber? She obviously knows the town’s reputation. It’s what drew her here in the first place, but like so many, she doesn’t take it seriously.
“Did you hear me?” she snaps. “And what’s with the creepy mask, man? This place gives Stranger Things a run for its money. If I knew how weird this town was, I never would have come.” She rubs her bare arms and shivers.
“You should leave then.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “This gravestone. Do you know where it is?”
“Are you alone?” I ask her.
“What kind of stalker question is that?” She levels me with a look of disgust.
“You shouldn’t be out here alone at night,” I tell her. “It’s not safe.”
“I can handle myself, thanks. Bunch of fucking sickos here anyway.”
I bristle. The tremors start in my fingertips and slither up my forearms. A haze clouds my mind, and the blood rush that had been fading sparks back to life. She notices.
I taste her terror, but she’s severely lacking in survival skills. “God, you’re just like the rest of them.” She’s goading me when she should be running. “Fucking sick. All of you.”
I have three things I hate and one trigger word. And she just pressed my big red button.
“Sick,” I repeat.
She’s backing away from me now, her heels sinking into the grass of the plots she steps on. “I’m… I’m just gonna go. Fuck this contest.”
I don’t want to kill someone when their back is to me, so before she has the chance to turn and run, I grab her by her slender throat and inhale her scream.
“Sick,” I repeat a second time. I’m shaking all over, lost in the frenzy and triggered by the word. When her big eyes meet mine through the mask, I lift it and show her just how sick I really am.
Her second scream never leaves her throat. I snap her neck and listen to it gurgle to a halt.