Notes from the Underworld

What was once cute becomes a ritual of decay. She is no longer eating — she is consuming a broken reality, where hunger, body, and nightmare collapse into one disturbing act.

Beneath a single, weary bulb, the nurse reads the body like scripture, cradling jars where hearts forget time and eyes remember nothing. Steel glints, syringes whisper, and care lies scattered like prayers that learned too late how to wound. Here healing is no longer mercy but archiving: not saving what lives, only preserving what refuses to be forgotten.

From the ruin of the altar, the Darkness answers. What emerges is not a god, but a living absence—an intelligence of void and stars that drinks meaning itself. The priest recoils, the nun exults, and the children stand transfixed as the underworld finally reveals the thing it has been waiting to become.

From the ruin of the altar, the Darkness answers. What emerges is not a god, but a living absence—an intelligence of void and stars that drinks meaning itself. The priest recoils, the nun exults, and the children stand transfixed as the underworld finally reveals the thing it has been waiting to become.

The ritual is completed upon the blood-darkened altar, the priest’s hand sealing a bargain no faith should name. Around them, the children of the underworld gather in silent witness, and in the depths behind the stone a vast presence begins to cohere—an answer to the offering, hollow, patient, and awake.

In the choking darkness of the underworld, a broken priest and a fanatic nun advance through the catacombs, their torch cutting a wound of fire through rot and skulls. In her arms, the child becomes both offering and omen, while behind them the shadows of the damned stretch toward something that has begun to wake.