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The Betrayal Of Vorador: As English Creative Writing; Horror Genre. Got A

1753 words - 7 pages

The fire-light dipped as Sanctus lost his footing on the slimy surface of the granite and fell two stairs. With a reflex of lightning his free hand reached out behind him and stopped his body from plummeting further into the darkness. He stood up and brushed pieces of the dank moss that covered the stone from his ragged clothing, accompanied by the clinking of various archaic symbols and chevrons that were hung about his person. He raised the torch to eye level and in the depths of his hood dark eyes scanned the spiralled stairwell. Cobwebs hung all around him clinging to his every movement as if trying to halt his progress. A sudden thought struck him, how could the creature he was hunting possibly go in and out of the crypt without disturbing such fragile constructions? Perhaps it was just another one of its many powers. He continued his descent; watching the dark demons dance upon the walls to the melody of his illumination.As the stairs stopped and the light spread out before him Sanctus knew he had entered it's resting place. Undeterred he penetrated the deathly cold air and stepped into the tomb. His boots sunk into the ground. Surprised, he crouched on his haunches and waved away the layer of white mist that stretched out beyond the darkness. Under the gaze of Sanctus's torch droplets of water sparkled in the moist, dark soil. As the white fingers curled out once again, reclaiming the ground at his feet, realisation struck him. That was how it regenerated; it needed to lay in the womb of it's evil homeland to recover it's supernatural energies. Squinting in the darkness Sanctus began to sidle noiselessly against the wall, wildly searching for any sign of movement in the shadows.After a while a shape loomed out of the gloom to his right and Sanctus froze entirely at the sight of the fiend's sarcophagus. After a few seconds his breath returned in silent pants; warm jets of condensed air streaming from his nostrils. He ceased his strafing and approached the last few feet cautiously. Demons and gothic architecture were lavishly spread across the coffin's heavy stone lid: the last defence of the vampire. Sanctus laid down the torch and strained against the weight of the stone, trying desperately to keep the grinding noise of its movement to a minimum. White mist poured out of the opening and descended to join the rest on the floor of the crypt. When barely an inch and a half of the darkness within had been exposed he abruptly stopped pushing and withdrew speedily from the opening, his heart overloading inside his chest. What if the creature was awake and waiting in the murky depths? What could halt a gnarled hand darting out of the coffin? Or long, sharp teeth rising unstoppably from the darkness...Sanctus moved to the other end of the container; where he presumed the vampire's feet lay. With one arm and the weight of his body he resumed his effort, his free hand resting lightly on the stake at his waist. When there was enough of a gap to see...

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