Session 34: Rose-Colored Madness

The oppressive gloom of the subterranean hallway yawned before Arthur Zorba, its darkness so dense that even the flickering lantern seemed hesitant to pierce it fully. Roots reached from the walls like grotesque skeletal fingers, stretching as if to grasp the visitors who dared intrude upon this forgotten chamber beneath the Lorien estate. Arthur, despite a brief recoil at the unsettling sight, hardened himself. His wartime nerves, though frayed, still carried him forward with a grim determination. Behind him, Viola Suttcliffe’s resolute footsteps echoed softly, her expression revealing nothing but a faint, unshakable curiosity.

Per Oskarson followed with cautious reluctance, his scholarly instincts warring against the primal dread that whispered warnings through his veins. The darkness around them seemed to pulse, breathing softly in rhythm with their apprehensive footsteps. They passed barred doorways that hinted at imprisonment and neglect, rusted iron and rotting timber framing forgotten cells, each filled with silent, accusing bones.

“An ossuary?” Viola ventured optimistically, her tone quickly souring upon closer inspection. “Or perhaps not. Something much worse, I fear.”

The cells indeed contained not reverent memorials, but grim reminders of cruelty—torture instruments sat like gruesome relics from a darker age. One cell, disturbingly juxtaposed with a luxurious chaise lounge, offered a perverse tableau of leisure and brutality. The sight turned stomachs, even as it stirred morbid curiosity. Arthur’s fingers tightened around his hidden revolver, the familiar weight providing cold reassurance against an indefinable dread.

Further along, chained remains—a skeletal couple, one draped in the faded remnants of a bridal veil—prompted collective horror, whispering an ancient, grotesque tale of twisted desire and domination. Arthur felt a surge of nausea, a whisper from his own past horrors in the trenches, memories of fallen comrades resurfacing briefly before he pushed them back down into the abyss of his subconscious. Claire Corning’s voice trembled as she whispered, “Who could do such a thing?”

Arthur answered her with grim certainty, “Fenelik.”

The corridor culminated in a strange, haunting vision—a wall adorned with roses of unnatural hues, softly glowing in a spectral palette of blues, violets, and oranges. These blooms dripped thick, black ichor, defying logic, flourishing impossibly beneath the earth, lit by no apparent natural source. Arthur’s wartime instinct screamed at him—such beauty was always deceitful, a mask for death and madness.

Closer inspection revealed a dreadful truth: embedded within the thorned tangle, illuminated by its own eerie glow, protruded a sculpted human arm, lifelike yet distinctly otherworldly. The grotesque spectacle tugged at something primal within Arthur’s mind. As he swung his shovel toward the roses in desperate aggression, splattering ichor and petals alike, a dark realization consumed him: the others were complicit. They had conspired, lured him below ground to suffer, perhaps to perish among these accursed blooms. The grip of paranoia tightened around him like invisible chains.

“You’re all working together!” Arthur shouted, his voice ragged with sudden panic, his vision clouded by a dark veil of distrust. He turned sharply, the shovel raised as if to strike down his betrayers, his eyes wild and unfocused. Per narrowly avoided the blow, stepping back swiftly yet cautiously, raising his hands in a placating gesture. Arthur’s breath came in rapid bursts, chest heaving, eyes darting wildly.

“Arthur,” Per’s voice was calm yet firm, drawing from a deep well of patience and understanding shaped by decades of witnessing supernatural horrors, “you are among friends. Let’s step back. Fresh air might help.”

The sincerity and steadiness in Per’s tone pierced the veil of Arthur’s delusion, offering a lifeline back from the brink of violence. Gradually, the haze cleared enough for Arthur to recognize the terror on his friends’ faces, the realization of his near-murderous actions searing through his fractured psyche.

Outside, sunlight sliced through the lingering morning mist, offering warmth and clarity that contrasted sharply with the oppressive darkness beneath. Arthur threw the shovel aside, hands trembling, shame burning hot across his scarred face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered hoarsely, unable to meet Per’s concerned gaze. “Something… something got hold of me.”

Yet the unsettling truth remained. The arm, that terrible, glowing sculpture embedded in the roses, had touched something deep within him. It whispered darkly at the edges of his consciousness, promising knowledge he desperately feared and yet found impossible to resist.

Below ground, Viola, Per, and Walter Lake discussed their predicament with grim resolve. Walter, ever the exorcist, prepared to confront the supernatural threat head-on, clutching his vial of holy water with a conviction born from faith and desperation. His prayers filled the corridor, ancient words echoing against cold stone, their reverberations challenging the unnatural silence. Yet, the roses remained unaffected, defiant in their alien luminescence and silent menace.

“Perhaps removing the arm will sever the hold it has on this place,” Per mused, his usually composed demeanor faltering briefly as the full horror of their discovery pressed upon him. The implications were chilling—the arm’s presence here, underground, mirroring the mysterious afflictions tormenting local villagers, left no doubt about its sinister power.

Gathering gardening tools from the Lorien estate above, the group resolved to excise the unnatural growths and extract the statue, carefully planning each move as though navigating a minefield. Viola, pragmatic as ever, insisted on preparations both practical and spiritual—tools to prune the roses, gloves to protect flesh, and prayers to shield the soul.

Their plans laid bare a terrifying yet necessary confrontation looming ahead. The darkness beneath Chez Lorien, though momentarily stilled by their retreat, remained alive with promise and threat. The arm, embedded in its dark, thorny cradle, waited patiently, a beacon of cosmic horror whose influence had already breached the fragile walls of sanity.

Above ground, Arthur stared at his hands, haunted by what he had nearly done and fearful of the knowledge now irrevocably burned into his mind. The others prepared to descend once more into the subterranean nightmare, knowing that whatever lay below would demand sacrifice, courage, and perhaps even more of their fragile sanity. Yet, for the sake of those afflicted and the souls imprisoned beneath Chez Lorien, it was a risk they had no choice but to face.

Arthur watched them gather, heart pounding with dread and resolve intertwined. He knew the roses—and the arm—would haunt his dreams forever, but he understood, too, that retreat was impossible. Their path was set, and each of them, in their own way, must descend once more into darkness, confronting horrors that defied comprehension, praying their fragile humanity would endure.