The wind moaned through the ruins like a wounded animal. It carried with it the scent of ash and something worse, the sweet, cloying tang of rot. Decay had a weight to it here, thick and oily, like it didn't just sit in the air but stuck to the back of your throat. Every breath felt borrowed, stolen from the dead that lingered beneath the rubble.
I stood among the collapsed buildings, snow falling in slow, uneven flakes that turned gray before touching the ground. My fingers trembled as I held out my right hand, letting a few land and melt against my skin. The cold stung, a reminder that I was still alive, for now.In my left hand rested the map. The paper looked almost alive in the pale light, lines shifting faintly as though they breathed with me.
The Map of the Dead.Someone has to die for it to reveal the way forward. That's what the voice said before I woke here.But whose death counts? Mine? Theirs?
The thought pressed against the edges of my mind like a migraine. My memories were smoke, I reached for them, and they slipped away. I only knew one thing: the map was waiting for blood.
The wind carried whispers now, faint and broken. I started walking. The crunch of snow under my boots was too loud in the silence, each step echoing off hollow shells of buildings that once held life. Doors leaned open, swinging slightly as though the ghosts were still coming and going.
I turned down a street that had no name. Everything smelled like old copper and burned meat.When the wind shifted, I caught something worse, the raw, stomach-turning sweetness of rot mixed with wet stone. I gagged, covering my mouth, tasting the air through my fingers. It was like breathing through a filter of mold and dust. My throat ached from it.
The first ruin I reached had once been a home. Only a doorframe remained, half-sunk in snow. The inside was a graveyard of memory, shattered dishes, a torn photo, a child's boot.Nature had begun reclaiming it, curling moss growing over the stones, roots splitting the floor like veins.
A sound rose behind the wind, a low, drawn-out groan.I froze. It wasn't human.
My heart thumped once, hard enough to sting, then again, faster.I darted into a nearby ruin, crouching behind a broken wall. The cold stone pressed against my back as I held my breath.
The sound came closer, dragging footsteps, wet and slow. Then another voice, higher, ragged, murmuring nonsense.I peeked around the wall.
Two shapes moved through the fog.One dragged a leg behind him, leaving a dark trail in the snow. The other hunched forward, its movements twitchy, wrong, like a puppet learning to walk. Their skin was pale and sagged in places, and when one lifted its head, I saw that its eyes were empty, no whites, just black pits swallowing the world.
They passed by me, close enough that I could hear the sticky sound of blood on their hands. I waited until the wind swallowed their footsteps before I dared move.
I followed the trail they left behind, dark, thick, and still steaming in the cold. The stench grew worse the deeper I went. The air tasted metallic now, sharp enough to make my tongue ache.The alley ahead was narrow and dark, the kind of place sunlight forgot.
My boot landed on something soft and wet. Squish.
I looked down.
A body.Or what was left of one.The head was twisted too far, the arms bent back at impossible angles. The snow around it was pink and half melted.
My stomach flipped. I stumbled back, hand over my mouth, breathing too fast. The air was thick, heavy with death, heavy with fear. It clung to my tongue, stale and sour.I could almost taste how long this place had been dead.
That's when the noise started again, closer now, all around me.
Shapes moved between the ruins, silent but watching. When one stepped into view, its jaw hung loose, blood dripping from where the tongue used to be. It saw me and screamed, a horrible, wet gurgle.
I ran.
Snow kicked up under my boots as I darted through debris, heart hammering. Shadows lunged from the sides, pale arms grasping, fingers brushing my coat. One grabbed my sleeve and tore it open, slicing skin. I bit down a scream and shoved it away, stumbling into the open street.
I didn't look back.
By the time I stopped, my lungs burned and the world spun. The wind whistled through hollow windows, and the smell of rot faded slightly. I dropped to my knees, tasting bile and stale air. My breaths came ragged and shallow. Fear had a taste, I realized, like metal and old dust.
Something popped in the distance, gunfire.Then a voice, laughing.
"Come on! Get some! Hahahaha!"
I forced myself up and ran toward the sound, anything to not be alone.When I reached the corner, out in the middle of the street, I saw him, a man in a tattered military jacket, firing into a small crowd of the pale creatures. Each shot was precise, almost casual. He grinned as they fell, and when the last one dropped, he twirled the pistol like it was part of a game.
He noticed me before I could hide.
"Now who the hell are you?" His voice was low but playful. The kind of tone that made your skin crawl.
I didn't answer. I ducked into a nearby building, pressing myself against the wall. The air inside was worse, stale, sour, full of mildew and old smoke. It burned my throat.I crawled across the floor, trying to keep my breathing quiet. Dust fell in thin streams from the ceiling with each of his footsteps outside.
The door creaked. His flashlight cut across the room, searching.I held my breath.My heartbeat felt so loud I thought it might give me away.
The beam swept past, then back again, and landed on me.
"Gotcha."
Cold metal touched the back of my neck. My blood froze.He grabbed me by the collar and yanked me upright, slamming me against the table. The impact knocked the wind out of me, leaving only a sour, metallic taste in my mouth.
He smiled, the kind of smile that doesn't reach the eyes. "You know the game," he said. "What's your trial?"
"I-I don't know." I fumbled with the map, my voice shaking. "It's supposed to guide me, but it won't show anything!"
He laughed. "You don't even know the rules of your own trial. That's pathetic."
He shoved the pistol against my chin. I could smell the oil and gunpowder. "Maybe I should help you move it along."
My pulse hammered in my ears. I thought about lunging, grabbing the gun, but his stance was too solid, too practiced. He'd kill me before I blinked.
"I'm not here to fight you," I said, my throat raw. "I just need to survive."
"Survive?" He tilted his head. "You think this is about surviving? You think you can just walk your way through hell and live?"
He chuckled low, almost to himself. "Well, prove it then."
He holstered the pistol and dragged me out of the building with both hands, tossing me to the ground next to a body, it looked fresh, not like the other pale creatures I had seen earlier.
He kicked a knife toward me. And pulls out his pistol again. "Pick it up. Let's see what kind of survivor you really are."
I stared at it, hands trembling. The handle gleamed faintly in the flashlight beam. I didn't move.
He sighed. "Come on. Do it. It's part of the game."
"I'm not going to kill you."
"Then you'll die here." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact, as if he'd already decided I was a ghost.
across the street, more of the creatures stumbled into the open. He turned and fired again, laughing, his bullets punching through skulls with terrifying precision. When the last one fell, he glanced back at me. "You see that? That's how you win."
"You call that winning?" I whispered.
He smiled, but there was something broken in it. "You'll understand soon enough."
He walked away without another word, boots crunching in the snow. "Don't worry," he called over his shoulder. "I've already killed one today. I'll save you for later."
I looked where he had pointed. A woman's body lay sprawled in the road next to me, half-buried in slush, a single bullet hole in her forehead. and a knife in her hand as well.
My knees gave out. I sat in the snow, staring until the world blurred. After some unknown amount of time, I came back to my senses
When I finally moved, it was to pick up the knife. I walked over to the end Woman next to me and slit her wrist to try and drop some blood on the map of the dead.
However, the map didn't react the way I'd hoped it would. All that happened was it glitched like a computer monitor spelling the words Too Old Must be Fresh.
"Of course... why would it ever be that easy?"She laughs once, sharp and bitter, then her voice cracks."I have to be surrounded by death just to move forward... every step soaked in it... I hate this place... I hate it." Finally snapping out of it, she looks to where all the Creatures came from and decides to go down the road.
A house loomed at the edge of the ruined street, small, half-collapsed, its roof sagging like it was tired of holding itself together. A single window flickered faintly with reflected light from the dying sun. Every instinct screamed to keep walking, but my legs carried me forward anyway. I needed somewhere, anywhere, to rest.
When I pushed the door open, the hinges groaned like something in pain. The air that greeted me was thick and stale, heavy with mold, rot, and the faint sweetness of decay. The smell of old water and burned wood mixed with something coppery. I coughed and covered my nose.
Inside, shadows clung to the walls like cobwebs. Dust floated in the air, and every step stirred it into lazy spirals. The place had once been lived in, a bed still stood in the corner, half-covered in a dirty sheet, and a candle rested on a nightstand beside it. For a moment, I thought the silence meant safety.
Then I heard it.A wet, rattling breath.
I froze. The sound came from behind the bed, soft at first, then dragging, like someone trying to move with broken bones. The candle flickered even though I hadn't lit it. My pulse spiked. I took a step back, knife in hand.
"Hello…?" My voice barely reached the walls. The air itself felt thick, pressing down on me.
The breathing stopped.The quiet that followed was worse.
Then, movement.A sudden scraping sound, nails against wood, and a low moan that wasn't human. A shape rose from the far side of the bed, wrong, twitching, like a shadow trying to remember how to be a body. It turned its head slowly toward me, joints cracking with the sound of snapping twigs.
The candlelight caught its face, pale, gray, lips torn. The eyes were dark pits, but behind them something flickered, faint and desperate. It took a step forward, and the floorboards screamed.
My throat tightened. I stepped back, hitting the doorframe behind me. The air tasted of dust and iron."Stay back," I warned, though I knew it didn't understand.
It lunged.
I barely had time to react, its weight slammed into me, knocking me to the floor. The stench was unbearable, like rotting meat soaked in stagnant water. Its fingers gripped my coat, nails tearing through fabric and skin. I shoved upward, struggling for breath, its face inches from mine, the empty sockets dripping black tears that hissed when they hit the wood.
Its mouth opened, and from inside came not a growl but a voice, faint, broken, like a memory.
"...help…"
My blood ran cold.
I drove the knife upward into its chest. It shrieked, high and distorted, the kind of sound that scraped at the inside of your skull. I pushed harder until the blade met bone. Hot blood, too dark, too thick, spilled over my hands. It convulsed, claws digging into my arm, before I wrenched the knife out and stabbed again. And again. Each thrust came faster, more desperate, until it stopped moving.
Silence fell like a curtain.My breath rasped, loud in the empty house. The air felt heavier now, thick with the metallic tang of blood. I pushed the corpse off me and scrambled back, gasping, my chest aching from where it had hit me.
The taste of iron coated my tongue. I gagged and spat, wiping my mouth. My hands trembled as I looked down at the body. Its face had changed, less monstrous now.The features were human.
The thought made me sick. My throat tightened, bile rising.I dragged the thing outside, afraid to leave it near me, afraid to look at it too long.
When I came back inside, the air seemed calmer. The wind outside had quieted, though faint howls echoed from far off. The candle sat still on the table, unlit. I struck a match and brought it to life.Its light flickered across the wall, revealing a note pinned there with a rusty nail.
I tore it free and read:
Hello, if you are reading this, you may have run into me not long ago. I was in the trial like you, though I'm not sure if it was a long time ago or right after I'm writing this, as i won't have any sense of time anymore, but I couldn't accept what I have done. My trial was to speak my truth to someone, but I never could. Everyone I knew either passed or died. I asked Psychopomps what happens to those who fail. He said: "You become trapped in the Netherlands forever. You move, but you don't control yourself. You become one of my Nether Walkers." If you're reading this, please, don't stay long. This house is only for rest, not for living. - Alex
The edges of the note were stained with dried blood — and the handwriting trembled, uneven. My heart sank.
I looked toward the open door where the creature's body lay outside in the snow, the wind tugging at its sleeve.
"...Alex…" I whispered.
The candlelight wavered, and for just a moment, I swore the shadows shifted in response — as if something had heard.
The room suddenly felt too small, the air too stale. My lungs ached from breathing it in. I sat on the bed, staring at my shaking hands. Blood still slicked my palms, and when I rubbed my fingers together, it felt almost warm — still fresh. The metallic taste hadn't left my mouth.
I whispered again, voice cracking, "Thank you, Alex. I'll remember."
Outside, the wind picked up — low, endless, full of voices. The Nether walker's corpse twitched once, then stilled. The candle guttered but stayed lit.
I lay down with the knife in hand. The air was cold, heavy with the smell of decay and the faint echo of someone else's breath. my mind starts to drift without me realizing it. as if a clock and struck 0 and my batter life has ran out.
Day one was over. and little to show for it but Trauma...