Prologue
“Run, boy. Run.”
Strutting down Foremourn Street, Death stalked her prey. As thirsty wails of a huntress of the night, its voracious breath slithered like a haunted whisper, resounding in eerie echoes against the storefronts and the brick walls of the houses lining the alleyway.
Suddenly, she came to a stop on the threshold of a house nestled in a corner of the street, torn between some macabre delight and a certain frustration at the idea that her hunt would end so easily. She knew it : her prey would not struggle. The game was over.
“Run, boy. Run.”
The ethereal sound of her voice permeated the dwelling, deftly slipping through every crevice and navigating through the slightest gaps between the bricks to reach the nearby stairs. From there, it stealthily crept into the bedroom at the end of the corridor, slipping both under the half-open door and through the half-open window. It parted the curtains, the light from the street lamps devouring the darkness which concealed a slander figure, barely perceptible from outside, seeking refuge behind the fabrics.
Although the boy frantically paced around the room, desperately trying to escape, the dreaded melody followed closely behind him. She slipped into every corner, preceding his every step, making his escape vain. She pinned him against a wall and nestled between each layer of his skin, sending shivers down his spine like venomous snakes stalking their prey.
Run, boy. Run !
This room would offer him no solace. He was utterly powerless facing this icy voice which invaded him, at the same time permeating the entire room with its dreadful presence. Each word echoed relentlessly, becoming more and more urgent with each moment. Far from the calming embrace of the ocean, the injunction undulated like the incessant backwash of the waves, each swirl of which only exacerbated his fear, tirelessly reminding him of his imminent end. He knew it, he would know no respite, not a second of silence, until his last breath.
Run, boy. Run !
Although the boy hurriedly slipped into bed, seeking refuge under the weight of his sheets, it was in a sinister embrace that the melody came to nestle against him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing himself to conceal every single detail – every single proof – from his mind. Yet, the frightening feeling which had assailed him in this wintery evening remained etched in him like an awful nightmare : one of a man who had deceived Death down here, one of a boy who himself had known the weight of the scythe and the feeling of its cold metal.
He had been the first, among so many Formourners who had yearned for it, to witness Death so clearly in the street. And yet, despite the rampant rumours spread in every nook and cranny, there will be no tales of how he had lured her by trapping a poor woman under the weight of Her scythe.
Amidst the hushed murmurs on the street, a sinister saying held sway, claiming that Death hunted her prey on their very doorstep. The tale spoke of a crimson shroud of terror, clinging to the white bricks of the buildings and draping the rooftops, casting an ominous presence over their head. It was this way, it was said, that with each visit, she appended her signature, sealing it here, indelible, for days to come.
Initially, her mark was subtle, a mere blemish, discernible only to the eyes who dared to see it – exclusively Foremourners – a single print foreshadowing the impending catastrophe,, an invitation to fear the imminent arrival of Death’s nocturnal procession.
Although confined to the cursed street, the voracious appetite of the macabre signature grew as each passing moment, transforming into a viscous puddle from which a crimson liquid oozed, seeping into the cobblestone crevices that led to the heart of the city. A crimson-stained celestial path opened its way to Foremourn Street, while the vicious liquid snaked through the cracks, pointing accusatory arrows at each dwelling. Gradually, it spread into the shallow gutters of the city, contaminating the entire capital.
The city was quickly submerged in a crimson tide. Like an invisible inferno, ashes raining down in heavy droplets, the liquid dripped from its web, staining every house, shrouding buildings and open markets.
The metallic scent saturated the air, thick in the lungs as one would inhale it, its stickiness hanging in here, unavoidable. Everything carried the copper tang of blood. The vegetables wilted with unnatural haste and the market gardeners swiftly dismantled their displays.
The once bustling city turned into a hauntingly macabre landscape. The children, once so joyful, wandered without enthusiasm, their faces pallid and their eyes filled with indefinable dread. Meanwhile, the adults, struck by the unsettling nature of the flooding, hastened homeward, exchanging anxious glances and murmuring silent prayers.
No amount of scrubbing or cleansing could obliterate the indelible stain of blood which coursed through the city’s veins. Noone knew where it had come from, but for the Foremourners who had always sensed its impending arrival. It had hung to their lips for quite some time now, written in big bold letters on the frontpage of their newspapers, shouted at the top of their lungs at the corners of every street. Alas, they were met with derision on the stages of the esteemed Royal Company, crying wolf, they were pretty sure.
Amidst their dreaded sleepless nights, as blood overflowed the city, the Foremourners grew accustomed to the clicking sound of Death’s heels pacing the street.
It was in the silence of anticipation that reverberated the mournful prelude to their impending sorrow. It was the mourning of a fictitious death that had yet to befall them, a haunting spectre that bestowed upon the street its poignant name – Foremourn street.
