Chaos Descends. Shane Hegarty

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      The hotel room was quiet and still, untouched for years by anything but the light that sliced through the torn curtain. Its sheets bleached of colour, a bed stood in the corner. It had not been slept in for a very long time. Over the sink, a thin green line of slime hung from the tap. A chair sat at an awkward angle by the wall; a snuffling silverfish carved a track across its layer of dust.

      A thump rattled the room, shook the dust, sent the silverfish scurrying for safety.

      There was another louder thud, from the other side of the closed door. With one final crunch, and an accompanying grunt, the door swung inwards, crashing against the corner of a small writing table. In the darkness stood the silhouette of a very large man, his green eyes lit by the strip of daylight, a kilt settling about his knees.

      Once he had assessed the room for a few seconds, the man bent and entered. Beneath a cracked brown leather jacket, the hem of his kilt danced about hairy legs and his metal sporran clanked under the weight of the seven knives slotted along the top of it. He drew a whistling breath through his whiskers, ran his finger along the writing table’s dust.

      A tiny spider pushed through the grime on his fingertip and leaped towards the carpet.

      “This room is perfect,” said the man.

      He was Douglas, from the Scottish Isle of Teeth. He came from an ancient family of Legend Hunters, whose deeds still echoed through the annals. But Douglas’s deeds did not echo. He was unlucky enough to have been born into an age when Legends bothered only one town and one Legend Hunter family. It meant that he was a Half-Hunter, with the blood of a Legend Hunter, but no Legends to fight.

      Instead, Douglas was a pastry chef. This way, he at least got to use knives at work.

      Every day, Douglas longed to spill the blood of the Infested Side’s Legends, to prove himself in battle and earn his place in a line of great warriors. But right now, in this room, he had only one very important question.

      “What time is breakfast served?”

      A stooped woman shuffled in from the dimly lit hallway, carrying an extremely fluffy yellow towel and some shampoo in tiny plastic bottles. She pushed past Douglas and placed them roughly on the bed. This was Mrs Cross, the hotel’s owner, and her name was an appropriate one.

      “We haven’t had guests in this place for thirty years,” she complained, “and as soon as I open again you lot demand a slap-up feed served to you as soon as you wake. Isn’t it enough that I brought shower caps?”

      She dropped a crumpled plastic hairnet onto the towel.

      The Half-Hunter glared at her, decades of pent-up frustration simmering behind his eyes.

      “Breakfast is from seven until eight thirty every morning,” Mrs Cross sighed. She shuffled back out of the room, grumbling as she went. “If you’re even a minute late, you can suck on the towel for all I care.”

      She pulled the creaking door behind her, until it stopped ajar on the rucked carpet.

      Alone in the room, Douglas stood at the bed and, one by one, pulled the knives from his sporran. A short blade. A fat one. Bone-handled. Wooden-handled. Serrated. Smooth. A delicate one that was very useful for cutting apple pies.

      He lined them up in a neat row next to the towel, then rummaged further in his sporran and placed a toothbrush alongside the knives.

      Behind him, he heard the creak of a floorboard.

      “Ah, porter,” Douglas said, not looking around, but fishing in his sporran for something else. “You must ha’ brought m’bag. You can put it in the corner there.”

      Douglas pulled a comb from his sporran and added it to the bed’s line-up. Behind him, the unseen porter didn’t move.

      “I said to put it over in the corner. Oh, you’ll be wanting a tip, I suppose?” Douglas turned while searching for change. “I coulda just carried the bag up m’self—”

      In the shadows of the room, a figure was taking shape, pouring from a floating mouth as if formed by a scream. It filled out between feet and head. What might once have been hair was now a writhing mass of oozing tar. What might once have been a face was now a shifting landscape of scars in which sat eyes fiery with blood. What might once have been human was something even more horrible.

      “Is that you?” asked Douglas, pushing up his leather sleeves in anticipation of trouble.

      In the shadows, the figure remained. Silent. Watchful. Eyes ablaze.

      “They said you were dead,” said Douglas, the edge of his mouth curling in anticipation of a fight. “But ne’er mind, because it’s gonna be a pleasure to send you back to whatever hell you’ve come from.”

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