The Recording

He stood in the dark, ominous cave, blind. He had run out of torches a while ago, but he placed them so far apart from each other that he couldn't find his way back. He cursed himself at his stupidity. If he ever made it out of there, he promised, he would always take another batch of torches with him.

He took a few steps forward, but as soon as he did he was knocked back. A wall blocked his way. As he contemplated which way to go next, he felt something trickle as it made its way down his face. He felt the spot where it originated, and held his fingers up to his eyes to inspect them. It was, in fact, his own blood. His nose had smashed against the rock, and now it was gushing red.

He cursed again. He dropped down to his bottom, yelping as he hit some lose rocks, and weighed his options.

He could try to find his way back, which he'd been trying to do the past hour. He craned his neck around, squinting, trying to find anything that resembled light: nothing. He really wished he brought more torches. He swung his head back around and put it on his knee, his chin chafing across the seams of his pants.

Maybe he could just find a lava pit and read his map off the light it gave off. Same problem, he thought, as the first one: There was no light to guide him, and he still couldn't find his way across the cave. He was as blind as a bat, they'd say.

He chuckled at the old saying, and wiped his nose with the back of his arm. The blood grew slick as it accumulated, and he could feel it dripping down onto his pants: he'd probably have to wash it off if he got out. If he got out.

Something up there must hate him, he thought, glancing up towards the imaginary sky.

His hand brushed against the wooden handle on his iron pickaxe, which laid on it side a few feet from him. He blinked once, then again. He felt stupid, doubly so: One for forgetting to bring extra torches, and once more for not realizing the answer was right in front of him all along.

He would get out of the cave the same way he got in: Digging.

Pushing up off the ground with his pick, he got up to his feet. He extended an arm forward, the movement rustling his clothes, and felt the wall he ran into earlier. It was still there, with all its cracks and crevices. It was a little slick, too, but he didn't know if it was from blood, or from water. He swung his pickaxe into position behind him. He placed both of his hands on the wooden handle, preparing to swing with all of his might.

And he coughed. He doubled over, coughing, and he moved a hand to squeeze his nose: he must've swallowed some blood on accident. That, or this thick, rotten smell that now permeated the air was so bad that his body rejected it. The smell was familiar, a smell that reminded him of the undead. He wasn't sure why he didn't notice it in the first place. He coughed again.

Unable to take the smell, he moved a few steps toward where there seemed to be less of it. He exhaled, and with that breath, the smell seemed to go away. He fanned the air around his nose and prepared to strike the wall.

Fate intervened once again, however, and his map fell out of his back pocket. He sighed, as he was interrupted yet again. He bent down to pick it up, using his free hand to grasp the parchment. The map was now unfolded, much to his disdain: he would have to fold it back up now, and that wasted time. He freed up his hand by leaning his pickaxe against his leg. Grumbling all the way, he reached across the other side of the paper and grasped the opposite corner and started to pull it together. That's when he heard it.

A click.

He was confused. It wasn't from the paper, he could be sure of that. Where was it coming from?

Another click.

His heart beat faster. Something was in there with him. He knew there was. He needed to get out. He dropped the map and swung his pickaxe towards the wall, breaking it into pieces. He swung his pick faster than he had ever before. In his head, he only thought about getting out. Piece by piece, the earth in front of him became steps. He sprinted up each and every one, swinging his pickaxe to make more. Eventually, stone became dirt. And to him, dirt meant out. He was almost out, he thought.

He dug.

He kept digging.

Dirt and soil, for those seconds, were all that he knew. He stabbed his shovel back into the dirt again.

He broke into the air. The fresh air surrounded him, bathing him in a cool wind. The sweat and tears on him dried in an instant. He was never so happy to see the land, the trees, or the moon; which gleamed against the night sky, outshining all the stars behind it. His face broke into a smile as he dropped his pickaxe. It landed with a dull thud.

Despite this, he was still afraid. Afraid of what was behind him, chasing him up the stairs he had made. He turned around to see what was after him. He knew something was after him, he couldn't have been chased by nothing. Or was he?

He was still in the middle of this thought when the last thing he saw were huge, white fangs that sprung out from the tunnel he had just made.

_______________________________________

"Did you get all that?" A stranger, clad in black, asked. They walked up the steps so conveniently made by their last target.

"Yeah," replied another, wearing a strange hat. They stopped at the seemingly fresh corpse awaiting them at the exit. Blood was splattered everywhere on the grass, and what was left of the victim's shredded shirt was no longer blue.

"Have to admit, I was a little impressed. He actually made it out this time," the former said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "At least, further than the others." His high collar hid a small smile.

"I'll agree with you on that one."

The stranger felt a feeling of satisfaction as he inspected the body. As he watched, he saw his chest rise a little, maybe a desparate attempt by the body to stay alive, the man thought. He smiled again.

He was about to have more fun.

Whistling a loud, high-pitched squeal, he called over his "beast". The bloodied wolf came into view, its red eyes gleaming in the night. The stranger pointed at the body and clicked his tongue. The wolf complied, and tore what was left of the man's head clean off. Blood splattered everywhere, including the man's pants. The wolf shook his head around, spraying more blood, and tossed it near a tree. It landed among a pile of leaves.

"A true pitch," The man said with an exaggerated smile. The wolf then proceeded to sit by its amused handler.

"How many is this?" The other stranger asked, pulling out a large, old-fashioned disk. They both stared down at the headless corpse.

"Eleven. Don't worry, there'll be more. There's always more." At this, the man with the disk wrote on it in big, sloppy handwriting: the number, 11.

"Who said I was worrying?" The man tossed the disk behind him, leaving it to be found by whoever stumbled across the body. It landed right beside the head. Looking back towards it, with the head's cold, dead eyes staring back, they both chuckle and start walking to a place they could both hide. Because they left the disk there for a reason.

Because whoever would find it would be their next victim.

(Author's Note: Honestly, this is just a test. Only I'll know the results.