1051: Story 1051: The Forgotten Militia 1051: Story 1051: The Forgotten Militia They march still, beneath the black loam of Noosehill Valley.
Once soldiers—now shadows of loyalty long since severed—The Forgotten Militia answer only to the last order ever spoken by their warlock commander:
“Never rest.
Never rot.
Serve beyond death.”
They were summoned in 1812 to fight a war that was never recorded in history books, one waged not against countries, but against entities.
The enemy was time, death, and the writhing gods beneath the soil.
When the war ended, no treaty was signed.
No peace declared.
Just a burial.
A mass grave.
A silencing spell.
A curse never broken.
In the present day, the scavenger duo of Jenna and Boone stumbled upon the entrance during a thunderstorm—an ancient mausoleum of red stone hidden beneath wild briars, its door sealed with hex-etched chains.
Boone, greedy and reckless, pried the chains off with bolt cutters.
The mausoleum hissed.
The door creaked open, revealing rows of suits—military uniforms fused to bones, holding muskets etched with runes and bayonets made of silver and bone.
“Looks like some kind of underground militia museum,” Boone joked.
Then one of the helmets turned toward him.
Jenna screamed as the figure rose—dust billowing, eyes like lit matchheads.
Behind him, more began to stir.
Drums sounded—ghostly, distant, relentless.
The militia emerged into the storm: twenty undead soldiers, uniforms threadbare but rigid with spiritual discipline.
Lightning flickered as they reformed ranks.
One raised a rusted saber and barked a command in a language not spoken by any living tongue.
They marched.
Every step thudded like a heartbeat of the dead earth.
Their mission was unclear—only that something ancient had signaled them.
A reactivation.
A stirring in the deep layers of reality.
The Echoes of the Eldritch had reached them.
They passed through the town, unseen at first, leaving trails of black ash and whispers.
Streetlights shattered as they passed.
Clocks stopped ticking.
Dogs howled, then bowed their heads and went silent.
By the time Boone was found—his mouth sewn shut, body stuffed with moths—Jenna had already vanished.
Her last message, left in carved letters across her trailer wall, read:
“They are looking for their war.”
At Noosehill’s edge, a fog rolled in, thick as wool.
From it, more began to emerge—other forgotten regiments, lost battalions, ghost-brigades.
The Militia had become a beacon, drawing undead armies from realms beyond the veil.
One by one, they raised their hands in salute.
Something massive stirred in the clouds above—a silhouette in the lightning.
Their commander was returning.
And this time, the war would not be hidden.