The Tar Choke

The ceiling was weeping. *Tick... Tick...* A bead of green sludge, heavy as molten lead, splashed against Alban’s brow. His eyes snapped open. The darkness of the cellar wasn't a mere absence of light; it was a physical weight, a clammy presence crawling over his skin like a multi-legged insect. He tried to draw breath. *Hack... Wheeze...* A jagged spike drove into the center of his chest, as if a rusted nail had been hammered home. The memory of clean air felt like a fever dream. Now, every inhalation dragged invisible razor blades across the lining of his throat. "It’s starting... damn it, not tonight." He looked at his palms in the pale gray light bleeding through the wall’s cracks. A black fluid, thick and shimmering like raw tar, began to seep from beneath his fingernails. The oil surged, flooding the creases of his knuckles and filling the delicate maps of his palms. *Thud!* The rotted wooden door bucked in its frame. Dust rained from the ceiling joists. "Alban! Open up! They’re at the mouth of the alley! I heard the clank of their plate!" It was Mara’s voice. Sharp as shattered glass. Desperate as a drowning woman. Alban rose, his body unnaturally heavy, as if hi…