MeatCanyon

He gestured to the handle and hinges, weak points, and assisted Rafe with the long, tedious task of ripping down a door.

Every strike, every crack of the wood, every morsel of progress made jolted the crowd like they were starved dogs taunted by fresh meat.

The door eventually surrendered, ripped from its frame by three men, and was hurled down the cliffs to meet splintering demise.

Rafe, sweating, spun around to find me amidst the dying flowers, his eyes manic beneath the wet mess of his fringe, and offered me a hand.

Justice for your sister, girl.

I didn't believe I had a choice.

I slowly took his offer, and we became the first to enter.

We stepped into a spacious, circular chamber of slick, moistened walls and peeling green paint.

Spiral staircase, iron treads crested with rust, wooden handrails worn smooth, staked upwards along the wall, and down, vanishing into a murky gloom.

As a handful of us filtered in, we warily inspected the central living space.

It was sparse.

A small cot with a threadbare blanket set beneath a porthole window, a small cot with a threadbare blanket set beneath a porthole window streaked with barnacles.

An iron stove, cold and black, stood in a corner, flanked by a chipped kettle, a battered, cluttered workbench set on another side, overflowing with sea charts and waterlogged tomes.

Shelves held strange objects, wooden carvings, a jar of cloudy water, and faded parchments of strange symbols.

One stood out.

a carving larger than the others.

Maybe a foot high, stained a dark, greenish black, was a hunched figure of thrashing tentacles, encroaching wings, and clawed feet half buried in chiseled ripples.

Its bulbous head was crowned with curling, segmented palpy.

Its eyes were deep-set, hollow shadows, rough gouges resembling scales were precisely marked along its torso and limbs.

Several villagers drew back, almost by instinct, while others clustered closer, pulled by a curious lure.