Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The rain never stopped in Gallowmere Quarter. It fell in endless sheets, a cold, whispering deluge that made the cobbled streets glisten like black glass. The gaslights flickered amber behind their soot-stained globes, casting halos that quivered in the downpour like dying memories.

Clara Veil pulled her tattered coat tighter and stepped from the alley into the mist-drenched road. The hem of her dress dragged through puddles slick with oil and something darker. Above her, iron balconies creaked under the weight of creeping ivy and watchful gargoyles.

She had followed the melody here—a child's lullaby, hummed in reverse, echoing through storm drains and chimneys. It wasn't the first time she'd heard it.

But tonight, it was closer.

As she walked, the fog thickened until buildings dissolved into silhouettes. She passed a lamplighter frozen mid-stride, flame held inches from the lamp—his eyes wide, unblinking, his breath a faint vapor in the air. Clara moved past him without a word.

These streets remembered.

They remembered the crimes washed into the gutters, the names scratched off gravestones, the truths buried beneath brick and time. And sometimes, they whispered those memories to those who dared to listen.

Clara did.

Her footsteps led her to Widow's Bridge, a wrought-iron structure arcing over a canal that ran black and still. No reflection stirred in its waters—only shapes beneath, swimming just out of focus.

A figure stood at the center of the bridge. A girl in a soaked nightgown, her feet bare, her hair matted to her face.

"Do you hear them too?" the girl asked.

Clara nodded. "Every night."

"They come from below," said the child, pointing toward the gutter at the edge of the bridge. "They live in the rain."

Clara knelt beside the grating and pressed her ear to the wet metal. The lullaby returned, louder now—melancholy, warped by echo and distance. And beneath it: whispers, like children telling secrets in a crypt.

The girl tugged Clara's sleeve. "If you follow the song, you'll never come back."

"I don't plan to."

She descended beneath the city—down iron ladders into the aqueducts where old streets slept. Here, forgotten things walked. The gaslight above grew distant, then vanished entirely.

And there it was: the source.

A man with no face, only a porcelain mask weeping black tears. He sat beneath a dripping archway, conducting the lullaby with fingers made of rusted wires. Around him, dolls dangled from pipes, twitching like they breathed.

"Clara Veil," he said without speaking. "You've come to remember."

She stepped forward, unafraid.

"I never forgot."

He offered her a key—a tiny, old-fashioned thing wrought of bone and brass.

"To the room where the rain began."

Clara took it.

Behind her, the song reached its climax. The gaslights flickered aboveground.

And the rain… paused.

Just for a moment.