Morning. How are you? New week and new story. This one was inspired by hearing the water under the street last night. I’ve never known if it’s a main drain or a hidden river, but something about the sound got into my head and inspired this story.
Stood in the kitchen, I listened to the water under the street.
We’d always known about the hidden river, tumbling the bones of the dead against bedrock until the remains powdered, gritting our kettles and food. In our knowledge we paid them no attention.
No-one took the necromancers threats seriously, the ransom note written in ash and pinned to the Town Hall door.
A council meeting was convened and dismissed in quick order. We gave little thought to the deadline as it passed.
When the dead returned, by shadows and gifted words, they did not walk the streets. They came alive within us, dust speck by dust speck agitating until they eroded their way out.
We tried to pay the necromancers then, but it was too late. One by one we were perforated by the remnants of the dead, only a few of us left to pass on the price of not agreeing to the necromancers’ demands.