Chapter 5: Things That Linger

Chapter 5: Things That Linger

The spiritual hangover from Marco Santoro’s soul was a nasty, grinding thing. It left a residue of paranoia in Morrigan’s thoughts, a phantom aggression that made her want to swing her scythe at passing shadows. The power she’d absorbed was potent, but it felt like drinking poison for its strength; the side effects were brutal. She spent what felt like an eternity just trying to mentally scrub the grime of his existence from her own.

When the Soul Ledger chimed with its next assignment, the crisp, clean blue text was a relief.

TARGET: Alistair Finch STATUS: Terminal (Hypothermia/Malnutrition) TIME REMAINING: 24:18… 24:17…

The location coordinates painted a grim picture: the long-abandoned Blackwood Asylum on the outskirts of the city. A quiet, sad end for a homeless man seeking shelter. Compared to the bloody alleyway, it seemed almost peaceful. A return to the somber routine she’d expected from the job.

Phasing from the city center to the asylum’s grounds was like diving into a stagnant, cold lake. The general psychic noise of the living world faded, replaced by something far more unsettling. The air here was thick with old, curdled pain. Not the fresh, sharp emotions of the city, but the echoes of decades of suffering, worn into the very fabric of the place like a permanent stain. Muffled screams, whimpers of despair, and the low, droning hum of madness lingered in the ethereal plane, a chorus of forgotten miseries.

“Charming,” Morrigan muttered to the empty air, pulling the metaphysical collar of her jacket tighter. The scythe materialized in her hand, its solid weight a small comfort in the oppressive atmosphere.

The asylum was a decaying Victorian monstrosity, its windows like vacant eyes staring out over a field of weeds. She passed through a boarded-up entrance, the transition leaving a film of spectral dust and decay on her senses. Inside, the scene was one of predictable ruin. Overturned gurneys rusted in the hallways, peeling paint hung from the walls in leprous sheets, and the floor was a treacherous carpet of debris and bird droppings.

Her Ledger guided her, a glowing arrow pointing towards the asylum’s deepest levels. As she descended into the bowels of the building, the psychic residue grew stronger, the echoes of past suffering so loud they were almost physical blows. She had to actively shield herself, calling on the memory of Eleanor’s peaceful energy to keep the asylum’s despair from seeping into her bones.

The trail led to a small, isolated room in what must have been the old infirmary. A filthy, shredded sleeping bag and a collection of empty tin cans marked the spot where Alistair Finch had made his final camp. But something was wrong. Terribly wrong.

The Ledger’s timer still showed five minutes remaining, but the man’s life-thread… it was gone. Not severed cleanly, the way she had done. It was snapped off, ragged and chewed, the stump still bleeding faint wisps of life force into the cold air. It looked like a wire that had been gnawed through by some spectral rat.

Alistair Finch’s body was nowhere to be seen.

A cold that had nothing to do with the building’s temperature began to creep up Morrigan’s spine. This wasn’t on the orientation packet. Souls could be reaped, they could refuse to pass on, but this? This was something else entirely. An annihilation.

Suddenly, the ambient despair of the asylum sharpened, focusing into a single point of overwhelming, soul-crushing dread. It wasn't the echo of old pain anymore; it was a live broadcast of pure hopelessness, and it was coming from down the hall. It was a psychic weapon, a wave of absolute misery that made Marco’s rage feel like a minor annoyance. Her own trauma from the altar flared in her mind—the helplessness, the certainty of a meaningless end. She staggered back, fighting to keep her footing in a reality that was suddenly trying to convince her that all effort was futile.

Then came the sound. A wet, dragging scrape. Something heavy and boneless being pulled across the debris-strewn floor.

Morrigan raised her scythe, her knuckles bloodless. The corrosive energy from Marco’s soul surged within her, the aggression overriding the despair with a jolt of pure survival instinct. "Who's there?" she called out, her voice a defiant tremor in the crushing silence.

It emerged from the shadows of a collapsed doorway. It might have been human once, but it wasn't anymore. It was a grotesque mockery of a bipedal form, its limbs bent at impossible angles. Its skin was the color of old bruises, stretched tight over a skeletal frame. It had no eyes, only a gaping, weeping hole in the center of its face that seemed to inhale the light. Multiple mouths, filled with broken, needle-like teeth, opened and closed spasmodically across its torso, whispering promises of oblivion.

This creature had no life-thread. Where a silver or red cord should have been, there was only a void, a patch of sucking emptiness that pulled at Morrigan’s own energy.

This was a Hollow. A soul that had refused to pass on for so long that it had starved, its essence collapsing inward until it became a black hole of spiritual hunger, now feeding on the living to sustain its wretched existence. It was the thing that had gotten to Alistair Finch first.

The Hollow let out a shriek that was not a sound, but a psychic spike of pure agony and hunger that hammered at Morrigan’s defenses. It launched itself forward, its unnaturally long arm stretching, a claw of blackened bone reaching for her.

Reacting with the combat instinct she’d learned in the alley, Morrigan didn't retreat. She lunged, spinning the scythe in a wide, horizontal arc aimed at the creature's neck. "Get the hell away from me!"

The obsidian blade sliced through the Hollow’s form with a sickening, slurping sound, like a knife through thick mud. But there was no resistance, no satisfying impact. The creature’s essence simply parted and then flowed back together around the blade, completely unharmed. Her weapon, the ultimate tool for severing a soul from its life, was useless against a thing that had no real soul left to sever.

The Hollow’s clawed hand swiped at her, and she phased just in time, the attack passing through her intangible form. The brief contact was terrifying; it felt like having a piece of her warmth, her very identity, siphoned away. The creature wasn't just trying to harm her; it was trying to consume her.

She solidified a few feet away, her own form flickering. The corrosive energy from Marco was a double-edged sword; it gave her the aggression to fight, but it was a chaotic, unstable power. The Hollow seemed drawn to it, its gaping facial void turning towards her, sensing a more substantial meal than a dying vagrant.

It lunged again, faster this time. Morrigan thrust the scythe forward, shaping its tip into a spearpoint as she had against Marco. It pierced the creature's chest, but again, the effect was negligible. The Hollow simply flowed around the weapon, its tendrils of shadowy essence wrapping around the obsidian shaft, crawling towards her hands like hungry vines. It was draining the power directly from her scythe.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through her rage. She was completely out of her depth. This wasn't a reaping or a fight; it was an exorcism, and she didn't have the first clue how to perform one. Thanatos had sent her to collect a soul, not to do pest control on cosmic horrors.

The Hollow’s despair aura intensified, flooding her mind with visions of failure, of the grey, endless nothingness of Limbo, of the cold stone of the altar. Her grip on the scythe faltered. The obsidian weapon flickered, threatening to dissolve as her will weakened.

A tendril of the Hollow’s essence, black and coiling, shot out from its chest and lashed around her leg. An agonizing cold burned through her, a soul-deep frost that was pure annihilation. She screamed, a raw sound of terror, as the monster began to drag her in, its many mouths opening in a chorus of silent, hungry anticipation.

This was it. A more pathetic, more terrifying end than even her first one. Not a sacrifice to a demon, but a midnight snack for a thing born of forgotten despair.

Just as a clawed hand reached for her face, a flash of brilliant, fiery light cut through the gloom of the asylum.

Fzzt-THUMP!

A dagger, glowing with a golden, predatory heat completely alien to this place of shadow and decay, embedded itself in the floor, pinning the Hollow’s grasping tendril just inches from Morrigan’s cheek. The creature shrieked, a true sound this time, a high-pitched wail of agony as the golden light seared its shadowy flesh like a brand.