The cult

The air in Black Hollow is deceptively sweet, smelling of blooming jasmine and expensive perfume, a scent that masks the faint, underlying rot of the ancient ruins that surround the city. Maya, a sharp witted investigative journalist who moved here to uncover the truth behind the "disappearing" population, feels the weight of the city's gaze. Everywhere she goes, she sees them: the "MILFs," the beautiful, mature women of the city, all possessing a strange, vacant glow in their eyes and a certain... heaviness in their hips.

The night of the **** is silent. Maya is walking back to her rented cottage near the edge of the forest when the shadows begin to move. It isn't a person following her; it is the architecture itself. The very walls of the narrow alleyway seem to pulse.

A pale, skinless hand, long and spindly like a bleached root, reaches out from a crack in a brick wall. Before she can scream, a dozen more hands emerge from the crevices of the cobblestones. They are cold, wet, and smell of old bone. They drag her not into the woods, but into the structure of the city itself.

When Maya wakes, she is not in a dungeon, but a temple of bone and plaster. The walls are covered in the "graffiti" of the city's true history two dimensional, lewd murals of women frozen in eternal, mindless ecstasy. The air is thick with a heavy, musk scented fog that makes her head swim.

She is stripped, her clothes replaced by sheer, gossamer silks that offer no protection. She is held aloft by several cultists women she recognizes from the city, beautiful, mature women who move with a stiff, doll like grace. Their eyes are wide, shimmering pink voids, their minds clearly long since melted into blissful servitude. They chant in a low, rhythmic drone, a sound that vibrates in Maya's very marrow.

"The Great Architect approaches," one of the cultists whispers, her voice a vapid, melodic squeak. "The Bone Man comes to claim his tribute. To hollow us out... to fill the void..."

Then, the wall behind the altar begins to ripple.

A hairline fracture appears in the solid stone, and from it, a nightmare of geometry flows. The Boneman. He is a towering, skeletal horror, a collection of jagged, skinless bones held together by a translucent, glistening film. He is paper thin, yet his presence is overwhelming, a crushing weight of ancient, predatory lust.

He slides through the wall like spilled milk, his movements a frantic, clicking dance of limbs. He ignores the cultists, his hollow, glowing gaze locking onto Maya. He senses the fire in her the fierce, independent spirit of a woman who loves women, a woman who thinks for herself. To him, she is the ultimate prize. To him, she is the perfect canvas for his desecration.

He lunges. A spindly, bone white limb wraps around Maya's waist, pulling her flush against his cold, wet, skeletal body. And then, from the center of his terrifying mass, the appendage erupts. A massive, pulsing, bone white cock, thick as a man's thigh and veined with dark, throbbing heat, thrusts toward her.

The cultists begin to scream in a synchronized, high pitched chorus of worship. "Fill her! Empty her! Make her beautiful! Make her straight!"