The air in the tunnels was thick.
Not with dust or rot, though there was plenty of both—but with something heavier.
Harrison's breath came slow and shallow, each inhale like pulling water into his lungs. The golden sigils on his chest had dimmed to a faint glow, but they pulsed with every step, as if in rhythm with the whispers sliding through the stone walls.
"Left… left… left…"
The voice wasn't Evelyn's.
It was Nyarlathotep's.
Harrison pressed a hand to his temple, willing the sound away.
"You hear it again, don't you?" Evelyn asked softly. She walked a few paces ahead, her revolver in hand.
Harrison didn't answer.
He stared at her back, and for a moment, she seemed… wrong. Her shadow stretched too long across the cracked stones. Her head tilted at an unnatural angle, like her neck was made of rope.
He blinked.
It was gone.
⸻
The tunnels twisted and writhed.
Old sewer lines and forgotten catacombs intersected here beneath Arkham, forming a labyrinth that had swallowed more than a few wanderers over the decades.
Harrison wasn't sure which was worse: the stale air pressing on his chest, or the constant feeling that someone was following them.
Or maybe something.
"Do you remember when we first met, Prophet?" Nyarlathotep's voice cooed in his skull.
Harrison squeezed the dagger in his hand until the blade bit into his palm.
"Not real," he muttered.
"Do you remember the boy? His screams?"
Harrison's pulse spiked. His vision swam.
Ethan.
The woods outside Arkham. The black hands dragging him down.
Harrison stopped walking.
Evelyn turned. "What is it?"
He opened his mouth to speak.
And choked.
⸻
A hand was gripping his throat.
Cold. Slimy. Fingers too long, curling around from behind.
Harrison thrashed, his vision swimming with static.
"Don't fight me," Nyarlathotep whispered. "You're safer in the dark."
"Harrison!" Evelyn's voice cut through the fog in his head.
Suddenly, the hand was gone.
Harrison stumbled forward, gasping.
Evelyn grabbed his arm. Her eyes were wide, her face pale.
"You're bleeding," she said.
He looked down.
The golden sigils on his chest had spread further, curling like vines around his ribs. Tiny mouths bloomed along the glowing lines, teeth gnashing silently.
Harrison's stomach turned.
"It's getting worse," he whispered.
Evelyn's grip tightened. "Then we have to move faster."
⸻
They pressed on.
The tunnels grew narrower, the walls damp with moisture that smelled faintly of salt.
At first, Harrison thought he was imagining the sound.
A faint hum.
Low. Constant.
But as they turned another corner, the hum resolved into voices.
Chanting.
"Prophet… Prophet… Prophet…"
Evelyn's face hardened. "They're down here."
⸻
The tunnel opened into a vast underground chamber.
Harrison froze in the archway, his sixth sense screaming.
Dozens of Choir members knelt in a circle around a pit in the center of the room. The fog seemed to rise from that pit, curling and twisting into shapes—hands, faces, tendrils.
And above it all stood Clara.
Her small body hung suspended in midair, golden sigils glowing along her arms and legs.
Harrison's stomach clenched.
"She's still alive," he whispered.
"For now," Nyarlathotep murmured in his mind. "But I can fix that."
⸻
Evelyn grabbed his sleeve.
"Wait. Look closer."
Harrison squinted.
The Choir members weren't moving.
Their robes sagged, blackened and crusted with salt. Beneath the hoods, their faces—or what should have been faces—were hollow.
"Empty shells," Evelyn whispered.
"Then where's the rest of them?" Harrison asked.
⸻
The answer came in a rush.
The walls of the chamber pulsed.
Hundreds of hands bloomed from the stone—pale and long-fingered, dragging themselves forward. The Choir wasn't in their robes anymore.
They were the walls.
They were the floor.
They were everywhere.
"You're standing in their skin, Prophet."
Nyarlathotep's voice.
Harrison's stomach turned as the stone beneath his boots began to breathe.
⸻
"Go," Evelyn hissed. "Before they—"
The chamber shook violently.
The Choir's empty robes slumped to the ground as the walls erupted in movement.
Faces pushed outward from the stone, screaming silently.
The air was filled with whispers:
"PROPHET. ASCEND. ASCEND."
⸻
Harrison raised the dagger, its runes flaring bright blue.
Evelyn grabbed his shoulder.
"Don't let him in!"
Harrison's vision swam. His chest burned.
And then he saw it—Clara's body convulsing above the pit, her eyes wide with terror.
"Help me!" she screamed.
But her voice was layered—childish fear wrapped in the smooth tones of Nyarlathotep.
⸻
Harrison screamed and lunged forward.
The Choir surged as one.
Hands shot from the walls, grasping. Evelyn fired her revolver, the bullets sparking as they tore through pale fingers.
Harrison swung the dagger, slicing through hands and faces alike. Black ichor sprayed the air.
But for every hand he cut, two more appeared.
The whispers rose:
"YOU ARE US. WE ARE YOU."
⸻
They reached the edge of the pit.
Harrison looked down into the swirling void.
Clara's small body twisted in the air.
"Save me, Prophet," she whispered.
Nyarlathotep's voice wrapped around her words.
"Or join me."
⸻
Harrison raised the dagger.
His hand trembled.
His chest burned.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure which voice in his head was his own.
⸻