Chapter 8: Love Me Dead

"I will be with you on your wedding night"

-Mary Shelley

Drynixea. Birdie. Aldric. Myrrith. Winnie.

Somewhere beyond your light, a music box plays. Lost beneath the melody, a woman's quiet sobs echo through the darkness.

Winnie stops walking.

Both sounds stop.

Water drips from the ceiling. Ahead, someone draws a trembling breath and holds it. A voice whispers from inside the wall.

“Go on, sweetheart. You were doing it so nicely.”

A muffled sob. The music resumes.

You follow it deeper into the mountain. The scent of salt and crown moss give way to stale perfume and the thick sweetness of meat left in a warm room. Dead flowers lie along the passage, their stems bound into bouquets with human hair.

Iron nails stud the mortar. Wedding rings hang from them.

Some are still on fingers.

The passage opens into a vaulted chamber. Pews flank a narrow aisle beneath garlands of yellowed lace. At the far end, an altar has been laid for supper: tarnished silver, folded napkins, covered dishes. The music box sits among them, its little porcelain bride turning alone.

Then your light reaches the iron archways lining the walls.

Women hang beneath them.

Their wrists are fastened overhead, the bindings dressed in white ribbon. Their slippers hover inches above the floor. Someone has brushed their hair. Their gowns have been taken in again and again, the old seams still visible.

“I knew you’d come.” The voice emerges from a crack beside your ear. “I’ve been saving the good candles.”

The nearest bride wears a veil pinned directly to her scalp. Beneath the lace, four deep scratches run down each cheek. Her fingernails are packed with dried flesh.

A wooden plaque hangs around her neck.

SHE GETS FRIGHTENED WHEN SHE WAKES.

PLEASE DON’T ENCOURAGE HER.

Winnie takes a step backward.

“Oh, don’t look at her like that,” Carl whispers. “She’s much better once she settles.”

Aldric shifts his glaive. Every head turns toward him. Dry cracks pass down the chamber. Beneath one veil, something catches, stretches, and tears before the head finishes turning.

Empty sockets face the living. Their lips have been sewn shut. Separate threads run from the corners of their mouths into the lace at their throats.

The threads tighten.

One by one, the brides smile.

The nearest begins to shake. A thin, helpless sound escapes through her nose.

Carl sighs.

“We’ve discussed this, sweetheart.”

The wire above her draws upward. Her shoulders lift. A slipper falls into the aisle.

For a few seconds, her bare foot keeps searching for the floor. Then she goes still.

The music plays on.

At the altar, five chairs face five covered plates. A card stands at each place. Your names, written in a careful hand.

“I thought we might dispense with the paperwork this time.”

Stone scrapes behind you. The chamber door is closing. Above the archways, iron catches begin to open. White ribbons slip loose.

The nearest bride drops those last few inches. Her knees buckle. The threads at her mouth hold the smile in place as she struggles upright.

And from the narrowing gap beside the door, Carl whispers:

“I’ve grown tired of asking.”

DM Bonus:

If read before 10-30-2026 On free success on a failed saving throw of your choice. If all players have read before 10-30-2026

Throw in your coin and speak your need,

Not for a feast, nor greedy deed.

No bread, no wine, nor blade divine,

Just humble tools for paths designed. P.S. No promting other player to read the teaser.

DM Hint: When the groom runs, the veils grow thin. Tears remember longer than names. Each stitch binds; each breath takes. The vasal never fills; the Epithalamium never ends.