The chill of the morning air bit at my cheeks as I stood at the edge of the road, peering into the mist that clung to the eastern horizon. My heart pounded a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I had nearly gotten caught by Lucian, my eldest brother, who was as sharp as a hawk, his eyes always scanning for any sign of mischief. Thankfully, I'd managed to slip out undetected, shamelessly threatening to jeopardize his relationship with Rosemary.
I squinted into the distance, hoping to catch a glimpse of the weathered carriage that lumbered its way down the road every Monday. It was never a nice thing to look at, that carriage, cobbled together from mismatched pieces of wood and metal, its paint chipped and peeling, its wheels groaning with every turn. It matched its owner perfectly—the Old Drunk Wolf, as he was known.
The Old Drunk Wolf wasn't a wolf, of course, but the name stuck. He had a face like a gnarled oak, weathered and worn, with a bushy beard that hid his mouth and a pair of eyes that seemed to see everything and nothing at once. Some whispered that he was cursed by a demon, that his apathy and lack of motivation stemmed from some dark, forgotten pact. Others said he was simply a lazy, good-for-nothing tinkerer who preferred to spend his days crafting useless potions and trinkets rather than working for a living.
He was a tradesman by identity, but he lived in the wilderness, venturing into the mountains to the east, a place forbidden to West Kingdom citizens. He was a mysterious man, a walking enigma, and every Monday, he passed by our house on his way to the city to sell his wares.
And there is a nice story behind our relationship. When I was younger, I used to stand at the edge of the road every Monday morning, watching the Old Drunk Wolf pass by with wide, curious eyes. I was fascinated by his weathered face, his wild beard, and the strange, colorful concoctions he carried in his cart. One day, as he lumbered past, he saw me, my gaze fixed on a strange, intricately carved wooden box he was carrying. He should have grown weary of my persistent staring because he stopped his cart abruptly, a gruff but oddly kind expression on his face. "You like that box, boy?" he asked, his voice a raspy whisper.
I nodded, unable to speak, mesmerized by the intricate carvings of mythical beasts and swirling vines that adorned its surface. He chuckled, a sound that was more of a cough than a laugh. "It's a story box," he said. "Every story has a place in it." He then opened the box, revealing rows upon rows of tiny, intricately carved figures, each representing a different creature or legend.
He pulled out a small figure of a dragon, its wings spread wide, and pointed it toward the sky. "This one tells the tale of the wind dragon who fell in love with the moon while she was married to the sun," he said, his eyes twinkling. "A powerful story, filled with love and betrayal."
He then pulled out a tiny figure of a man, a weathered shepherd with a crook, and pointed it toward the earth. "This one," he said, "tells the story of the shepherd who guarded the moon from the howling wolves that knew her disloyalty, a tale of obsession and truth."
He looked at me, his gaze intense, as if seeking something within me. "What's your story, boy?" he asked.I was speechless again, awestruck by his story box and the tales it contained. From that day on, I would wait every Monday at the edge of the road, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Old Drunk Wolf and his wondrous box. He would sometimes tell me a tale, sometimes show me a new figure, and sometimes, he simply smiled and nodded at me before continuing his journey. But every Monday, we shared a moment, a silent connection, a shared love for stories that transcended our worlds.
Over time, our interactions grew from stolen glimpses to brief exchanges to shared rides. The cart became a vehicle for both stories and adventures, and I found myself drawn to the Old Drunk Wolf's strange charm. The box, a symbol of our shared fascination with tales, became the key that unlocked a unique connection.
On this particular day, the carriage was nowhere to be seen. I looked down at the road, a thick layer of mud replacing the usual dust. The rain from last night had turned the road into a slick, uneven path. The deep, parallel tracks of the carriage wheels were clear, imprinted in the mud. Thanks to Lucian and Rosemary, I had missed it. The Old Drunk Wolf wouldn't wait for me. He wasn't a patient man. But he shouldn't be too far ahead.
I started running, not along the road, but through the woods, following a shortcut I knew well. It was quicker, but it added a few minutes to my journey. My breath came in ragged gasps as I emerged from the woods, back onto the main road. I scanned the road, searching for any sign of the carriage wheels, my heart pounding in my chest. It was worth the run. Within seconds, the carriage lumbered into view, its wheels kicking up dust, the old horses snorting with effort. The Old Drunk Wolf, his face hidden beneath a long, tattered hat, sat on the seat, his eyes squinting at me through the mist. He pulled up the carriage, the wheels screeching to a halt in front of me.
"Nice place you've decided to take a rest, boy," he said, his voice a raspy rasp, as if it had been dipped in gravel and left to dry. He wore a broad-brimmed hat, its' felt a faded shade of brown, making him look like a grim, medieval Santa Claus.
He took a swig from the bottle in his left hand, "Jump in."
I wasn't sure what was in the bottle, but it smelled like something I'd never smelled before. Llewellyn, my alchemist brother, said it smelled more like a wound-cleaning concoction than a standard drinking ale. The Old Drunk Wolf wolfed down whatever was in his hand, his expression unreadable.
I climbed into the back of the carriage, carefully avoiding the piles of assorted goods stacked inside. It was a chaotic mess, a jumble of tinctures, tools, and trinkets, each reflecting the Old Drunk Wolf's strange and unpredictable nature. The carriage lurched forward, its wheels groaning on the cobblestones, as we rumbled toward the city.
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It was almost noon when the towering outer wall of the kingdom finally came into view, a jagged line of stone against the hazy blue sky. A wave of relief washed over me, a sense of accomplishment. I was finally in the city, a place filled with possibilities. I had plans, so many plans. I yearned to devour the library's collection of ancient tomes, to get lost in the world of forgotten lore and hidden knowledge.
But then, a sudden chill swept over me, as if the sun had been eclipsed by an unseen shadow. The warmth of the midday sun seemed to fade, the air turning a shade colder. The horses, their normally steady steps, faltered. They whinnied nervously, their eyes wide with fear. I looked around, confused, and then I saw it. A small farmhouse had appeared out of thin air, blocking our path.
It was a strange farmhouse, a jarring contrast to the rolling green fields. The paint was a sickly shade of yellow, peeling away like a shroud, revealing rotten wood beneath. Seven skeletal heads adorned its fence, grinning down at us with an unholy mockery of life. Their empty sockets seemed to follow us, their bony jaws seeming to whisper curses in the wind.
I turned to the Old Drunk Wolf, but he sat rigid, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his expression unreadable. His face was a mask of stoicism, his eyes obscured by a wide-brimmed hat.
"I'm pretty sure there wasn't a house here last time we passed," I said, my voice trembling slightly.
He turned back to me, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before returning to the road. "You see those black bottles in the back? Drink one and sit down." His voice, though lazy, held a new edge of urgency.
"What about the house, Wolf?" I asked, taking the bottle hesitantly. The potion inside smelled like a potent blend of coffee and something foul, something like the reek of decay. "And remind me, why should I drink this rubbish?"
He nodded towards the house, his gaze lingering on the skeletal heads. "Just drink the bottle. If only you don't want to become like me for the rest of your life. And we're going through a Hell House. There's no avoiding one."
He started urging his carriage forward, the horses whinnied as if nearing their death. I didn't hesitate. My fear was a driving force, pushing me to obey.
I finished the bottle in one gulp, the bitter potion burning a trail down my throat. My thoughts raced, recalling the stories of Hell Houses, how they appeared to people in times of great need, warning them of impending war and calamity. They granted visions and riddles, prophecies of the future. And they were not alone. Seven Hell Houses, one for each Lord of Hell, appearing to chosen souls across the world. Each house represented a specific sin.
I have never committed any of the Seven Deadly Sins. At least, not in a way that would attract the attention of a Hell House. But as I looked at the Old Drunk Wolf, a chilling realization struck me. He was known for one thing—laziness, the sin of Belphegor. And he had been chosen, by the demon Belphegor, as his herald.
The moment our carriage hit the farmhouse, we plunged through its illusion, a wave of nausea washing over me. We were no longer on the road, but standing on a vast, desolate plain. The air was thick with a heavy, suffocating darkness. A rock stage, shimmering with dark energy, stood in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the oppressive night. A wave of despair washed over me, a feeling of utter hopelessness. The world seemed to lose its color, drained of life and joy. I wanted to lie down and sleep, never to wake up again. The living world, with its joys and sorrows, seemed pointless. I was exhausted, drained.
But suddenly, a strong hand grasped my arm, pulling me out of the carriage. I stumbled to my feet, my legs shaking. "Listen, no matter what, you have to stand on your feet. Do not try to lay down. The potion will do the rest."
The Old Drunk Wolf's words snapped me back into focus. I understood now. The potion wasn't just a concoction; it was a tool to combat the demon's influence, to fight the overwhelming urge to surrender.
A yellow blaze erupted on the stage, a living inferno that illuminated the night. In the middle, a tall, black figure sat on a throne, its ends shaped like spikes. He looked like a burned corpse, draped in black, his eyes gleaming red like embers. The throne emanated hellfire, a living inferno.
"Well, well, isn't it my favorite minion, the old drunk wolf," the figure boomed. His voice was long, lazy, and filled with a hopelessness that pierced my soul.
"And who is this visitor you have brought? Such a young age to give up all your dreams.Don't you think?" He chuckled, a high-pitched, chilling sound.
His red eyes swept over me, taking in every detail, as if he was examining a fascinating specimen. For a moment, I swore he winked at me, a malicious glint in his eyes.
"A Silvertongue, aren't you?" he said, his gaze intensifying. "But not so chatty."
I saw a flicker of amusement in the Old Drunk Wolf's eyes before his usual lazy gaze returned. "Lord Belphegor, this is unexpected."
"Indeed, my friend. Desperate times call for desperate measures. My brothers aren't happy. They wouldn't stop nagging me until I did my curse job."
The wolf knelt, bowing before the elder demon. I mimicked his movements, bowing my head in deference.
"What's your command, Lord?"
"You need to start howling the poem once more, my dear wolf. People need to learn how to listen. And he is already getting close." The demon's voice was a low rumble, filled with an insidious threat.
"As you wish, my Lord," the Old Drunk Wolf said.
The demon's gaze fell upon me, his red eyes burning with a malevolent curiosity. "Aren't you a wonderful soul, my boy? Or should I say souls?"
The world spun. The image of the demon, his throne of fire, his chilling words… it all dissolved. I jolted awake, gasping for breath, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Where is it?" I asked, my voice a choked whisper.
"Where's who, boy?" The Old Drunk Wolf asked, his voice a monotone, a lazy drone. It was as if nothing had happened, as if I had merely dreamed a strange and terrifying dream.
"How do you know it's a 'who'?" I asked again, my mind still reeling from the nightmare.
"Are you messing with old me, boy? Why don't you shut up and get ready to enter the walls," the wolf said, his voice flat, as if the events had meant nothing to him.
I looked around. The house was gone. The sun was bright, burning up the mist. I rubbed my eyes, trying to make sense of the events that had just unfolded.
"Wolf, do you think the stories of Hell Houses are just made up?" I asked, my voice trembling.
The Old Drunk Wolf turned to me, his gaze piercing. "Why do you ask, boy?"
"Because no one has ever seen one," I replied, my voice a mere whisper.
He let out a low chuckle, a sound like dry leaves rustling in the wind. "Then where do you think the stories come from?"
"I guess it's from people's minds," I said, as if dismissing the entire idea.
The wolf leaned back, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "And what makes you think what happens inside our minds isn't real, boy?"
His words hung in the air, a chilling reminder that the boundaries between reality and imagination were often blurred. And it was also the last thing he said until we reached the city gates.