“Am I still your favorite preoccupation?” a babydoll voice echoed through the maze. What had started as a hopeful endeavor turned to horror as slick limestone and crumbled signs left Brady lost in an unnatural fog.

He checked a battered Timex— the sickly aqua glow reminded him of dock lights. The time read 2:36 a.m. He’d been lost for half a day— he scratched at the stubble in his jaw. The coarse hair felt thicker than usual.

His sister, Mel, had warned against joining the Brotherhood at his university. St. Andrew’s was infamous for the alleged labyrinth below the abbey. Brady doubted it before— no longer. His “brothers” told him he had a full 24 hours to pass through the labyrinth— he had asked “or else?” Their silence changed their aged schoolboy forms. They didn’t need to say anything more.

They swept away from the iron gate in the basement of the abbey to let Brady make peace with himself before entering. A brother stood near the door to make sure he did. They left a single red candle. Barely big enough to last through a formal dinner.

The first hour has been quiet safe for the occasional drips of water from the cracked walls. The air held a damp chill his windbreaker couldn’t keep out. It’s settled into his bones quick dash and he fought to keep it from his mind but each hour but it drift a little closer. The whisper of doubt – the locked door of all the nasty things he had ever heard, said, or seen— waited.

The second hour brought a distant rustle. It sounded like an animal nosing through shrubbery— save for all the stone, he could believe it. The noise kept its distance from him as he continued onwards.

The third hour was silent— A muted world that ate even the sound of his footsteps. He dared not use his voice for fear of breaking whatever spell he wandered into.

Noise returns in hour four – and Brady wished it hadn’t.

A light whistled tune bounced along the walls. Brady felt the walls creep in words – but that had to be his imagination. It was just anxiety produced by the Whistler. Inspired by it – he figured.

The fifth hour brought visual presence – tracers of light adorned his path. Snippets of old memories played before his mind like a reel of film. The girl from the orchard within them. A scene he’d lost from his conscious mind – but one his sleeping mind clung to like a sucking babe. Her face sent a wash of a icy fear through his bowels. Forget, forget, forget— forgive, forgive, forgive. He prayed a cyclical tune as he tried to shake the memory like a dog escaping the bath.

The sixth hour – the sixth hour brought a pox of shadows. The world turned to a slit as darkness filled the labyrinth. It ate at the space around the candle – cozying up like a lover during winter.

As hour seven approached— The shadows fell back. Brady would have rejoiced— save for what they revealed. Stone figurines now dotted the halls. He’s cycled through old paths – and thick, cherubic faces stared from moss laden eyes. He resisted touching them as a mix of cloyingly sweet and heady aroma filled the holes. It smelled of burnt sugar and heavy clove poured over rotten fruit. Brady tasted it in his mouth. He gagged on the air – desperate for it to stop.

Only at the turn of the hour did it fade — bringing instead a buried voice. It started from behind him— a sudden whisper in his ear as if hands rested on his shoulders and tip toed feet reached up to let him hear the words

“Why did you leave me?”

It fell silent again—

“You should have called for help.” Small drops of blood pooled before each new step. Brady choked back snotted tears. A wild rhythm found his heart and thundered a Morse code that screamed “Help me!” He started running— the blood splashing onto his pant legs.

“Don’t worry, baby,” the voice dropping octaves with each word. It’s a tone a dark horror. “We can finally be together. Haven’t you kissed me?” The voice pitched up like the squeal of a broken siren.

Brady flew across the slick steps— a shadow appeared at the next corner and he crashed into the wall trying to avoid it. His head crunched against the stones and her voice lowered to a lover’s confession, “you can’t escape the path.”

He awoke in the 9th hour with blood matted hair— he felt nauseous, but staggered to his feet— using the wall for support. He limped onward as the voice came back— asking him question with the flicker of a snake’s tongue. It brushed against his ear with each step.

At the entrance to the labyrinth a twin candle l to his melted, red hope finally died out— leaving a pool of wax to run in the divots carved into the floor— the warm stream filled a crest and pulsed an unnatural crimson before settling.

Brady’s candle extinguished within— a broken scream followed it before the tick of the hour hand brought itself to 3am and silence followed.

The doors above the abbey were locked and old iron chains pulled across the door. The hooded group dispersed into the night like ripples across a pond— moonlight failing to find them before the shadows did.