Chronicles - Malifaux

As they helped him to the door, he glowered at the stillwaitedfaces of the queue; they beamed at him with the airof people whose wait had been worth the while after all.All the way home in the cab, Follop wheezed. His breathinghad become labored shortly after retching up the duckplug and had not eased with his pulse. Slightly anxious,he twisted and fidgeted in his seat, pulling constantly athis neckerchief until he wrenched it off in annoyance andthrew it on the cab floor.He carelessly thrust a handful of scrip into the cabbie’shand and hurried into his building. Cool water – that’swhat he needed. His already abused throat must havebecome inflamed from the wine and what it needednow was something cold and soothing. He cursed thatmeddling boy back through ten generations as he bargedpast the elevator operator, slammed his front door andgulped water straight from the jug, spilling it down hisalready half-ruined evening suit.Rasping, he took the jug through to his study and sat heavily,pulling off his starched collar and opening the top buttonof his shirt. His throat felt incredibly raw both inside andout. More swallows of water eased the discomfort to someextent, but within seconds the burning returned and withit an uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He could hearhis own breath whistling, which was a distressing sound.That damnable boy. Curse him to the lowest depths ofHell – he’d done something to Follop’s throat; woundedhim in some way. He made a mental note to visit theGuild physician first thing in the morning. Exhausted andin pain, Follop shirked off his evening suit, crawled into anightshirt and then into bed, holding the clay jug to hischest like a wizened child and his bedtime toy.Sleep - that was what he needed. Sleep to unwind from thestress of this miserable day. Tomorrow would be better.He felt certain of it.Follop’s night was filled with terrors.He jerked awake innumerable times (the first timesloshing the remnants of the cold water over himself andthe bedclothes), thrashing at his attacker and trying to prythat white hand from his throat. He could feel the fingersaround his neck, squeezing remorselessly.Each time he returned to sleep, the boy’s face came athim out of the dark and those steel fingers closed on himagain, squeezing the breath out of him, crushing the lifeout of him.‘Lupita is mine,’ he hissed, his teeth red as blood and hiseyes empty holes. Sometimes the hand was green andpuffed with decomposition, other times it was just bones,but each time it would grip him like before and throttlehim until his eyes bulged and his tongue squeezed outfrom between his lips like a fat red slug.‘Please,’ he tried to plead, ‘please, no! Forgive me!’ buthe could never speak in his dreams. The phantom of thewhite fist would not allow it.By the first gray threads of dawn, Follop had crawled outof bed and lay on the floor, wrapped in sheets and tooafraid to venture sleep again. Instead he watched the slowblossoming of the new day while his chest worked forair and the phantom fingers around his throat graduallyand inexorably tightened their grip. Every few seconds hewould raise a hand to swat at the hand, only to find hisfingers passing through thin air and his neck unmolested.Yet he could feel it.The concierge’s cheerful grin faltered when Follop emergedfrom the elevator that morning. Unshaven and gray-facedwith his suit collar splayed wide, the Guild officer walkedwith the slow infirmity of the aged, using a hand to steadyhimself as he took the steps down to the street one at atime. He couldn’t manage more than a dozen paces beforerunning out of breath, and stood making a high keeningsound while he dragged in one lungful after another.Unable to face the suffocating crowds of CurmudgeonSquare, he whispered for the cabbie to take him aroundto one of the underground entrances to the Guild officesand there he waited until a guard appeared that he couldrequisition to help him into the building.The Guild physician frowned as he worked towardsa diagnosis, peering critically into Follop’s throat andfeeling around his jawline (which made the little manwince and shy away repeatedly). He took the Guildofficer’s temperature and listened to his pulse and to hisheart before frowning more deeply.15 © Copyright Wyrd Miniatures, LLC