Irvine didn't know how long he had been running.
Every tunnel looked the same—narrow concrete, cracked beams, rusted pipes
weeping old water. But somewhere beneath the echo of his boots… there
were other footsteps.
Two sets.
One human.
One not.
His flashlight flickered as he pressed himself against the wall,
panting, listening.
Above him, he could hear muffled screams—Inara's forest nightmare unfolding.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt.
"Inara… just hold on," he whispered to himself.
The walkie crackled.
Only static.
Then, faintly:
"Irv…ine…"
His heart lurched.
"Inara! Inara, talk to me!"
But the voice that followed wasn't hers.
"…wrong tunnel… groom's path…"
The words tore through the static like a whisper dragged across bone.
Irvine's stomach dropped.
No one should know the tunnels' names.
Not even locals.
They were erased from maps decades ago.
Yet the voice… spoke with certainty.
He moved deeper.
The tunnel widened into an old trench corridor lined with decaying wooden
supports. Carved markings covered the beams—scratches, tally marks,
symbols like wedding rings with nails through them.
Then he saw them.
Handprints.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
All clawing downward.
As if people had been dragged to the earth like offerings.
A chill crawled up his spine.
He raised the walkie again. "Inara, if you hear me… breathe. Just breathe."
No answer.
Only the distant drip of water, echoing like a countdown.
He continued forward, one careful step at a time, until his boot hit something.
A helmet.
Old, dented, split open like a cracked skull.
Dried blood stained the inside.
Next to it lay dog tags.
Irvine lifted them, brushing away dust.
**PRIVATE ALEXANDER W. CROWLEY**
**BRIDE UNIT — 1943**
Bride unit?
Before he could process it, something scraped behind him.
He spun around.
His flashlight beam cut through the darkness—
And landed on a figure standing at the far end of the tunnel.
A soldier.
Or the ghost of one.
Helmet dented. Uniform shredded.
Hands trembling as if holding an invisible rifle.
But the worst part—
his head twitched at angles no living man could survive.
Irvine stepped back, breath catching.
The soldier's jaw cracked open, unhinging wider… wider… as if stretching into a scream.
Instead, a soft, broken whisper fell out:
"Bride… chosen…"
Irvine's pulse roared in his ears.
"Stay back," he warned, though he knew warnings meant nothing to the dead.
The soldier tilted his head sharply, then stepped forward.
But he wasn't alone.
Two more emerged behind him.
Then another.
And another.
All converging toward Irvine with synchronized, broken-limb movements.
"I don't have time for this," he muttered, backing away.
Then—
A drumbeat.
One single thud echoing through the tunnel.
The soldier-creatures froze instantly.
Like soldiers snapping to command.
Irvine's blood ran cold.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Heavy footsteps entered the tunnel from somewhere unseen, each step making
the ground vibrate like a heartbeat.
The Groom's March.
He recognized it from stories his grandmother once told—war brides taken
by soldiers who never returned. Spirits marching to claim new ones.
Irvine clenched his fists.
"Not her," he hissed. "Not Inara."
He spun around and sprinted deeper into the tunnels. The soldier-creatures
chased after him, limbs scraping stone, boots dragging.
He turned a corner—
And froze.
Carvings covered the wall ahead. Primitive… ritualistic. Dozens of symbols
depicted the same thing:
A bride.
A groom.
An altar.
And beneath them, a line carved with shaking hands:
**THE GROOM WALKS THE PATH TO HIS BRIDE.
THE BRIDE RUNS THE PATH TO HER GRAVE.**
His breath hitched.
The Groom always moves closer.
The Bride always gets lost.
"No," Irvine growled. "Not this time."
He lifted the walkie, forcing calm into his voice.
"Inara… if you're alive… listen carefully.
I'm coming for you.
You're not dying tonight."
Static.
Then a breathy sound—hers.
"Irvine… please hurry…"
He froze.
"Inara?! Inara, where are you?"
Silence.
Then, softly:
"…behind you…"
His whole body went rigid.
Not her voice.
Her pitch—yes.
Her breath—yes.
Her fear—yes.
But her tone?
Wrong.
Too calm.
Too steady.
The Groom… mimicking.
Irvine turned slowly.
The tunnel behind him was empty.
But a cold breath brushed his ear.
"Your bride… waits…"
Irvine swung his flashlight in a panic—
Only to see a fresh carving appear on the wall before his eyes.
Not old.
Fresh.
Scratched by invisible claws:
**MIDNIGHT.**
A countdown.
And beneath it, another line:
**RUN, GROOM.**
Irvine's heartbeat crashed into his ribs.
He didn't think.
He sprinted.
Past the carvings.
Past the helmets.
Past the soldier spirits regaining motion.
He ran with one truth burning into his bones:
If he didn't reach Inara soon—
The Groom would.
Irvine had always believed fear was simple.
A spike of adrenaline.
A quickened pulse.
A threat you could punch, run from, or outthink.
But this tunnel…
this place…
It rewired fear into something slower.
Colder.
Patient.
Like the village was watching him breathe.
He pressed his palm against the damp wall, grounding himself. The concrete
felt strangely warm, as if something crawled beneath the surface—like veins
pulsing behind stone.
"Inara… just hold on," he murmured.
But saying her name only made the silence heavier.
He stepped forward, following the faint tracks of collapsed soil and old
boot prints, when a metallic clang echoed behind him.
He spun fast, flashlight slicing through the dark—
Nothing.
Just dust.
Dust… falling from the ceiling like ash.
He raised the light upward.
The ceiling beams were carved too—names scratched with knives, nails,
teeth marks. Some names crossed out violently. Others circled, as if chosen.
Then Irvine's breath hitched.
At the end of the row…
fresh marks.
**INARA.**
Scratched deep.
Just made.
His jaw clenched so hard he tasted blood.
"This place isn't haunting us," he whispered.
"It's hunting."
He stepped back, gripping the walkie.
"Inara, listen to me. If you hear this, don't say anything. Just tap twice."
Static.
Then—
*tap… tap.*
His lungs nearly collapsed in relief.
"Inara. Good. Keep tapping. I'm tracking the sound."
Another two taps, faint, but real.
He moved quickly, following the echo, passing rusted pipes wrapped in cloth
with old floral patterns—bride veils twisted into rope.
Taps again.
Closer?
No.
Wrong direction.
The taps bounced, repeating, distorting… like something was replaying her
signal from every wall.
A trap.
His hands trembled.
He clicked the flashlight to full power.
The beam hit something ahead.
A door.
A massive bunker door, circular and sealed with metal clasps. The same design
as the one the photographer forced open outside—but older, heavier.
Words were carved across the surface:
**GROOM'S MARCH — PRIVATE ACCESS ONLY**
**CHOSEN MUST ENTER ALONE**
"Like hell," Irvine muttered.
He stepped toward it—
The soldier-creature appeared again.
This time ten feet away.
Closer.
Still twitching in that broken, puppet-like motion.
Its neck snapped upright with a sickening jolt. Its jaw cracked wider.
Irvine lifted a rock without hesitation and hurled it at the creature.
Direct hit.
The creature didn't flinch.
Instead, its jaw unhinged further—stretching into a grotesque, ear-to-ear
smile that split the skin.
Blood dripped in thin, lazy lines.
Irvine stumbled back.
"That's not possible…"
The creature's chest rattled like broken gears.
Then it raised its arm.
Pointed.
At Irvine.
And in a shattered, waterlogged voice, forced out one word:
"Groom."
The hairs on the back of Irvine's neck rose.
"I'm not—"
His voice cracked. He steadied it.
"I'm not your groom. And she's not your bride."
The creature lurched forward once—
—then froze.
Another sound began to fill the tunnel.
A rhythmic, pounding echo.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Slow.
Measured.
Ceremonial.
Irvine staggered back, pulse crashing.
No…
No, no, not here…
Not underground.
Not the Groom.
The creature dropped instantly to its knees, spine bending like wet clay,
as if kneeling to a king.
Irvine pressed himself against the wall, heart punching his ribs. His breath
came too fast.
The footsteps grew louder.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Then—
a whisper seeped through the cracks of the tunnel. Smooth. Old. Rotting.
"Bride… waits…"
Irvine swallowed hard.
His flashlight flickered violently.
Thud.
His vision trembled.
Thud.
The bunker door behind him creaked.
Thud.
Then a faint, broken sob echoed through the walkie.
Inara.
"Irvine… He's… here…"
His knees nearly buckled.
"Inara, listen to me," he said, voice raw. "If he touches you—your soul…
your mind—he won't just take you. He will rewrite you."
Static sizzled.
Then a whisper—hers, but choked with terror.
"I… I feel him… looking at me… like he already knows my heartbeat…"
Irvine slammed his fist into the wall.
"Don't let him. Do you hear me? Don't let him into your mind."
Silence.
Then tiny, shaky taps.
Tap.
Tap.
He exhaled, shaking.
The footsteps grew louder.
Then—
The walkie hissed.
A deep voice layered over hers.
"Groom…"
Irvine froze.
"…run."
He looked down at his feet.
A new carving was forming on the dirt floor at his boots—letters being
scratched by invisible claws, fast and violent.
**MIDNIGHT NEARS.
RUN, GROOM.**
The soldier-creatures rose behind him like marionettes.
Irvine ran.
Harder than he ever had.
Not away from something—
—but toward her.