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The ghosts marched.
It wasn’t unusual to see ghosts amble around the Ancient Capital. More often than not, Pix had to stop and wait for one of the phantoms to pass by so he could continue his work. Even as a ghost, they barely stopped to acknowledge him. Must be the age, he assumed. They were as old as the capital itself, while Pix had only become a ghost a little while ago. He was still corporeal, most of the time. He still remembered to eat and drink and sleep, most of the time. He still had a job to do, though distractions popped up from time to time.
That night, the ghosts marched.
Thousands filled the empty streets. Usually riddled with zombies or skeletons or spiders or creepers, now a mass of people. An unusual sight to behold.
Pix set his conservation kit aside and watched with cautious curiosity. He’d never seen that many in one place before. He’d never seen them all go in one direction before, all marching to the same inaudible beat, all silently and calmly walking towards the catacombs, where the angel always stood watch.
Did the angel’s sword always shed that soft, celestial glow?
Pix glided down to the main street, mingled with the ghosts. None of them acknowledged him. None of them even felt like an individual, All looked up at the quiet heavenly glow. All marched forward.
Pix followed them. To see what they saw, to understand them. Theories swirled into his mind; perhaps the date of an important celebration roused them from their partial existence and led them to the statue. Perhaps something else compelled them to go forward. Whatever it was, Pix followed and watched.
They did not stop at the gates. They did not stop at the doors. They marched, calmly waited for their turn to enter the narrow hallway that led into the catacombs, as though they could not walk through the walls. Within this eerie silence, Pix moved among them and silently observed, pushing past ghosts who did not mind that someone passed through them. The stream of spirits continued down, down, down, through a hidden doorway Pix had discovered himself only a few months ago.
One person at a time. Pix was next.
Walking single file. The exact same space between a ghost and the one walking behind and in front of them. Through the darkness, without a torch. A light would be an affront to what happened here. The light unsettled the ghosts and Pix did not want to interrupt what was happening here.
Through the darkness, ever down. Ever lower.
Until the cave walls grew darker.
Until the darkened deepslate showed even darker veins in them.
Until even that darkness showed flickering lights in them, electric blue. Brilliant. Hypnotic.
Pix looked, but barely saw. He listened, but barely heard. His pace automatic, his steps in sync with the others. His mind trapped in wonder and . A soft hum in the back of his mind. Regarded as bad the first few seconds, then not. A soft hum that welcomed the sun in these sunless lands, that calmed the minds of the fearful, that drew them ever closer.
Closer and closer, through ancient cobbled streets. Passed ancient homes, where laughter reigned no more.
Down the main street, to the center of the city.
To the monument in the middle.
Up the stairs. As tall as the single-story buildings on the outskirts.
Light. For the first time below, light. The soft glow, similar to the angel’s sword, now candles. Quiet, calm flames line the path forward.
A large frame, a rectangle. Absurdly tall and wide. The flickering lights from the living darkness sparkled in that frame - visible but not illuminating. Even more hypnotic. Impossible to see what lies beyond.
A single-file line of ghosts, marching to the frame.
Lost to the world. Lost in that light.
Almost a vision. Almost a monolith of sandstone. Almost sunlight in a shadeless land.
The ghosts marched. Pix followed suit.
A frown. What could possibly lie beyond?
Not to worry. You needn’t worry.
Right. No need to worry.
The ghost stepped through the light.
Then, nothing.