Chapter 33: The Phantom River
Damien pressed forward, the forest's twisted undergrowth clawing at his boots and cloak. The air had grown heavier since his encounter with the blood-drinking vine, and an unnatural tension hung over the land, as though the trees themselves were watching him, waiting for their moment. Every step felt precarious, as if the ground might open beneath him.
Then he heard it: the faint, rhythmic murmur of flowing water. At first, he thought it might be a trick of the forest, another ploy to lure him into a trap. But the sound grew louder with each step, and soon he reached a break in the oppressive tree line. Before him lay a river unlike anything he had ever seen.
The water shimmered, reflecting an unnatural light despite the thick canopy above. It wasn't the crystalline blue of a mountain stream or the murky brown of a swamp—it was black, like liquid obsidian, yet it glowed faintly, as if the darkness within carried its own eerie radiance. The current moved sluggishly, as though the river itself was alive, breathing in slow, deliberate pulses.
Damien approached cautiously, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. There was something deeply wrong about this place. The river exuded a chilling aura, one that gnawed at his resolve. But he needed to refill his flask and clean the blood from his wounds. He crouched by the water's edge, hesitant to touch the surface.
As he dipped the flask into the shimmering black liquid, a faint ripple disturbed the water. Damien froze, his instincts screaming that something was watching him. The ripple grew, spreading outward in concentric circles, until the river seemed to churn with unseen motion.
Then he saw them.
From the inky depths, pale, spectral hands began to rise, their fingers long and skeletal, with nails as sharp as blades. They reached toward him, their movements slow but purposeful, as though drawn to the heat of his life. The water rippled and hissed where the hands broke the surface, as if rejecting the intrusion of the dead.
Damien scrambled back just as one hand lunged for his ankle. He slashed downward with his sword, the blade passing clean through the ghostly limb. But the hand did not waver. Instead, it seemed to grow more defined, its translucent form becoming solid, tangible. More hands emerged from the river, clawing at the air, their grasping fingers stretching toward him like the roots of a hungering tree.
He stumbled away, his heart pounding, as the hands dragged themselves closer to the shore. They moved as though they had no weight, floating effortlessly over the surface of the river, their movements synchronized and unnatural.
This is no ordinary river, Damien thought, bile rising in his throat. This is something cursed.
The hands clawed at the air between him and the riverbank, their silent movements unnervingly deliberate. One hand managed to grip the edge of the bank, its nails digging into the soil. Damien didn't wait for the others to follow. He turned and ran, sprinting upstream as fast as his legs would carry him.
The forest around him seemed to press closer, the trees leaning in, their branches creating a maze of shadows. The river followed him, its current pulsing faster now, the black water keeping pace with his flight. He could still see the spectral hands emerging from the surface, reaching, grasping, relentless in their pursuit.
Damien's lungs burned as he pushed forward, the uneven terrain testing his endurance. The river twisted and turned alongside him, but its haunting pull never wavered. He kept his focus ahead, scanning for anything that might provide a way out.
Then, through the oppressive gloom, he spotted something unusual. A faint glint of metal caught his eye, partially buried beneath a tangle of roots near the riverbank. He skidded to a halt, his instincts warring with his curiosity. The metal was attached to something—a skeleton, its bones bleached white and cracked with age.
The remains were sprawled haphazardly, as though the person had fallen in mid-stride and been left to rot. Their clothing had long since decayed, but the rusted fragments of armor still clung to their frame. A sword lay beside the skeleton, its hilt weathered but unmistakably intact.
Damien hesitated, his gaze flicking between the river and the remains. Whoever this person had been, they hadn't made it out of the forest alive. But the sword—it looked like it could still serve its purpose. His own blade had begun to dull from constant use, and he couldn't afford to leave a weapon behind, especially not here.
He crouched by the skeleton, careful to avoid the encroaching river, and pried the sword from the skeletal fingers that still clutched it. The blade was heavier than it looked, its iron surface pitted and scarred but still sharp enough to cut. Damien gave it a testing swing, the weight familiar in his hand.
A faint rustling sound drew his attention back to the river. The spectral hands had reached the spot where he stood moments before, their fingers clawing at the soil in frustration. The sight sent a fresh wave of fear coursing through him. He had lingered too long.
Sword in hand, Damien turned and sprinted further upstream, his boots pounding against the uneven ground. He didn't look back—he didn't need to. The whispers of the river and the faint hiss of the spectral hands told him all he needed to know. They were still following.
The trees ahead seemed denser, their branches intertwining like a prison of wood and shadow. But Damien pushed forward, driven by the knowledge that he couldn't stop, not here, not now. The forest might take his strength, his sanity, and his blood, but it would not take his life.
And as the haunting whispers of the river faded into the distance, Damien tightened his grip on the iron sword, a newfound determination sparking in his chest. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he knew one thing: he was not leaving this cursed forest without a fight.