The Lych Walker

Dawn broke cold over Thornhaven. Daven Ashwood stood at the edge of the village, hands red from the ritual washing.

The corpse lay shrouded on the stones. Old Harran, the miller. Three days dead.

Daven hoisted the body onto his shoulders. The weight settled familiar across his back. Six years of walking the dead had taught him the exact balance.

He turned toward The Corpse Road. Mist swallowed the path ahead.

His boots crunched frost-rimed stones. Each step measured, deliberate. His father's voice echoed in memory: *The lych walker serves with silence. With duty. Without question.*

Ancient pines pressed close on either side. Their branches dripped condensation. Somewhere above, ravens called.

The first coffin stone emerged from mist. Moss grew thick in the carved crosses. Daven lowered the body, letting his shoulders rest.

That was when he heard it.

A whisper. Faint as wind through branches. "The well..."

Daven jerked upright. His eyes scanned the empty path. Nothing moved in the gray light.

"The well is poisoned."

His hand flew to his left shoulder. The place where his father's hand had rested in blessing. He found only empty cloth.

Another voice joined the first. Then another. A chorus building from silence.

"Poisoned."

"The church's well."

"Death in the water."

Daven's breath came faster. He recognized the voices. Old Margit. Young Tomlin. The shepherd whose name he had never learned. All of them dead. All of them carried by his own hands down this path.

"The departed do not speak." His voice came out formal, measured. "I am tired. That is all."

But the voices continued. They layered over each other. A dozen whispers. Two dozen.

"Save the village."

"The church hides death."

"The crypt leaks poison."

Daven lifted Harran's body again. His arms trembled. Not from weight.

He walked faster. The whispers followed.

At the second coffin stone, iron bells chimed. They hung from branches on frayed rope. Previous walkers had tied them there. Warnings for travelers. Markers for the lost.

The air was perfectly still. Not even a breeze.

Yet the bells rang. Clear and bright. Impossible.

Daven's jaw tightened. He quickened his pace. His boot caught a root. He stumbled. Caught himself.

The whispers grew urgent.

"Listen."

"Please listen."

"Your village will die."

His chest constricted. Cold sweat beaded his forehead despite the mountain chill. This was wrong. All of it wrong.

But his father's training ran deeper than fear. *Tradition is sacred. The church is sacred. Doubt is sin.*

"I serve the church," Daven said aloud. Formal words. Ritual words. "I carry the departed to hallowed ground. This is my duty."

The whispers fell silent.

Daven walked on through the mist. The bells chimed behind him. Once. Twice. Three times.

His left hand drifted to his shoulder again. Found nothing. He let it fall.

Ahead, the path descended. The church waited somewhere beyond the fog. The sealed well. The crypt.

The truth.

Daven pushed the thought away. Walked faster. His breath misted white in the cold air.

But doubt had taken root. And it grew with every step toward The Mother Church.