The Dark Somnium - I've Encountered Terrifying Ancient Beings, These are some of them

Episode Date: June 25, 2025

Here is a collection of stories about otherworldly Beings, ancient gods and Lovecraftian monsters, let me know which one is your favorite Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See https://pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

At this point, there is little that will make any difference. I can protest that I am a victim. I was always a victim, the same as everybody. But I can't ask for your forgiveness. I'm recording this to tell you how it happened. That won't matter either. It's the only thing I can do at this point, so it's what I'm doing. I found the guitar in an old pawn shop in Boston.

The proprietor was a caricature of a pawnbroker, a bent little old man with a hooked nose and wisps of white hair around his ears, his face creased with a permanent frown from too many years of feigning disgust with the stuff people brought in. I didn't bother speaking to him at first, just walked up and down the narrow aisles between the shelves stacked with endless junk. I thought people brought their valuables to pawn, but this guy had somehow acquired piles of rusty old hand woodworking tools, random glassware and salt shakers, chip china, flatware that wasn't silver, I felt curiously drawn to a battered old wardrobe that looked like it had been built

of leftover tongue and groove siding. I almost opened it, but I was sure it could only be filled with mink coats. Judging from the rest of his stuff, probably moth-eaten mink coats. I felt his eyes glued on to me, waiting for me to try to try to be. to lift something. With my mohawk and torn jeans, I often got that look. But given the worthlessness of this crap, it was almost insulting. I said, screw it and headed for the door. Can I help you with something? He said, husky and suspicious. I looked him straight in the eye. I doubt you have a guitar? He almost smiled. The corners of his mouth twitched, but then I think they couldn't remember how smiling worked and gave up on it. I might have

have a guitar, he said. For the right price. This didn't sound promising. He didn't say any more. I wondered if you were expecting me to fork over money, sight unseen. Well, do you or don't you, old man? I do, kid. He said, which I had to respect. After I'd called him old man, it was only fair he called me kid, but I like how he said it. Deliberate. To be clear, he was giving me back what was mine. Look in the wardrobe right behind you. Don't open the case. Just bring it over here to the counter. It was the wardrobe I'd almost opened. I did, now, and found it contained nothing but a dusty, rectangular guitar case. I humored the old man, carried it over to the counter. I put it down so it would open toward him, since he obviously didn't want me to handle it until I'd bought

it. He turned it around, flicked open the clasps, and pulled it open. shrinking down behind the lid. Later, I would note that the maneuver protected him from the side of the guitar. I doubt he really understood what he had, but he was not totally ignorant. At the time, though, I just put it down to showmanship. Inside was the most amazing black guitar I've ever seen. It was so black, it looked like there was no guitar there at all. Just some silver frets and strings stretched across nothing.

The guitar shape ripped into the universe. I reached into the case just to touch it, just to be sure there was a guitar there. The old man closed the case partway, nearly trapping my hands inside. I didn't pull away. No, no, he said, his lips curling back from his teeth. Not here. I can't buy it if I can't try it. Take your hand out of the case.

I did. I wanted the guitar. I had to hear it first, but Frank, Frank. Frankly, if I didn't play it at all, I'd still have bought it. If I could afford it, who was that cool? He shut the case and fastened the latches. Take it into the basement. There's an old amplifier down there.

You can plug it in and play it. But see here, the volume on that amplifier is set on two, right? It says on two. Sure? I said. Whatever? He laid a bony hand on a red fire extinguisher at the end of the counter. See this? You know what this is for? Putting out fires? You'd think so, wouldn't you? But check the pressure gauge.

I looked at the dial on top. It was all the way down on empty. The only thing it's good for is bashing out the brains of people who don't follow the rules. Got it? The volume stays on two. Somehow, I wasn't too frightened at the thought of this old man trying to assault me with a fire extinguisher. except for the thought of trying to convince the police that the punk had acted in self-defense when he broke the little old shopkeeper in two. It didn't matter. I didn't need the guitar to be loud to tell if it could play.

I took the case and went through the little door down the steep steps. It crossed my mind that I was probably doing something stupid, going down into this crazy old man's cellar, looking for, yeah, a cask of a montalado. But frankly, the door was so far. flimsy, I could turn it into kindling if he tried to lock it behind me. All he did was yell down at me about keeping the volume on two. In the basement was a chest freezer, a big converted coal furnace, some broken furniture, and a vintage amplifier. I put the guitar down on the freezer and opened the case again. Down in the basement, it looked even blacker than before,

if that were possible. I touched the guitar, just to assure myself that it was real. My hand stopped, so there was definitely something there, but I couldn't really feel it. It had all the friction of black ice, but no sensation of cold. A sensation of vertigo crept over me as if I were going to fall into the nothingness. Impulsively, I grabbed the strap that at least felt like leather and lifted the guitar so it hung from my shoulder. It had weight like a guitar. The sensation of vertigo left me when I wasn't staring right at it.

I fished a patch cord out of the case, plugged it into the amp, and switched it on. I turned the volume up to two and a half, just to screw with the old man, then touch the strings. Just the tinny sound a guitar makes when the club owner pulls the plug on your show. I only had a moment of disappointment before I remembered that this amplifier probably had vacuum tubes. It would need to warm up before it would play. I waited a minute. The amplifier hummed with potential. Then I struck the open strings, or I meant to.

I hit them one after the other in a slow arpeggio to hear how far out of tune it was. But on the first note, my fingers froze. It was indescribable, a deep, resonant tone that sounded like it came out of the primeval past. A note imagined by alien races that had looked down on earth when all life was just slime on bottom of the sea. It unseated my bowels from the rest of my viscera and set them floating uneasily. I took a deep breath and plucked out the first seven notes of stairway to heaven. It seemed like the right riff to try. The guitar spoke with the voice of God, but not the all-forgiving God of the Gospels, nor even the strict pendantic god of evangelicals. This

This was the Old Testament God, mighty and awful, the god that shook mountains and spoke in thunder and trumpets, the god that smote the Edomites by the thousands. My head swam, I was terrified, and at the same time, I had to have this guitar. I would pay whatever price the old man asked. I snapped off the amplifier and forced myself to walk slowly up the stairs. The door was unlocked. The old man was back where he had been behind his counter, adding rows of figures in a little black book.

I tried to act casual. How much you want for it? It came out as a shaky, tense whisper, so much for acting casual. The old man would have to be deaf to not know I'd pay whatever he asked, but maybe he was deaf. He didn't even look up. I repeated myself louder and less desperate. He glanced up, surprised to see me standing in front of him.

Then, he took an earplug out of one ear. If he hadn't heard me, he knew what I'd said. $2,000. My stomach, already dangerously unmoored, flipped over again. That was four times what I'd told myself was my maximum price when I set out guitar hunting. I drew a deep breath and tried. I can't pay more than... Buh!

He interrupted and thumped a hand-lettered sign on the wall behind him. Do not try to dicker. All prices are firm. On another day, I knew that just because you put something on a sign doesn't make it true, saying he didn't dicker was just the first round of dickering. But I didn't have it in me. I had to have a guitar. I took out my wallet and pulled out my credit card, wondering what hope I would have of paying this off.

Can't you read? He snarled and thumped another hand-lettered sign. All sales are cash only. Can I hold it with the deposit? I asked. How much you got? He asked. $50?

There's a cash machine on the corner. You could take out $250, make it $300. I could. I'd even have enough left to eat until payday. Paying rent would take some imagination, but I could do this. It may take me a little while to work up the rest and come back. Even as I said it, I knew it was hopeless. I'd never have $1,700 in cash, not unless I took a cash advance on the credit card

and paid the 30% interest rate. No. He said, Don't come back. If you walk in my door again, I'll bash your brains out with this fire extinguisher. But $300. He said,

In cash, go get it now, then take your guitar and get the hell out of here. If I see you again, I'll kill you. The man was clearly raving mad, but 300 was a price I could pay. I went out to the cash machine, traded all my money for the guitar, and left before he could make.

good on his threat. It was only then that I realized I'd even given him my bus fare home. I wound up walking two miles through the city. I got home late and tired. Playing the guitar seemed like too momentous a thing to attempt in that state. I put it aside, microwaved a can of mushroom soup and went to bed early, but I didn't sleep well. I dreamt about the guitar. In my dreams, It wasn't just black. There were stars twinkling in the void. When I tried to pick it up, my hands went right through it. I felt like I could reach deep in and scoop out a handful of stars, except I figured they'd

be terribly hot. I thought they'd make tiny little burns in my hand. There was something behind the stars too, something vast and restless, a long, slow rolling in the dark. I didn't want to touch that thing. I didn't want to disturb it. It was asleep, but not deeply. I hardly dared to breathe if I woke it.

I had no idea. Something very bad would happen. I was miserable the next day, and the day after that, so I never took the guitar out again until the night I rehearsed with the band. We called ourselves Cathonic Circus, splitting our meager earnings just three ways. Leslie fronted the vocals and defined our sound with a loud, rumbling bass. She was a scary little thing, a knife of moodyness under a big mop of black hair. She disappeared under layers of black canvas and orange striped tights.

On the drums was Ethan, an underfed stick of a man with big frog eyes. Every once in a while, he put off shaving until he had half an inch of see-through whiskers on his chin. No one could ever call it a beard. Then he gave up and cut it off. I don't know what you'd call our style. Post-punk or got are the most frequent labels we get, but we do occasionally go off into the technically demanding solo, like a progressive band, but we assiduously avoided the grand pseudo-philosophical

lyrics of progressive, and our themes were too dark. One reviewer in a local scene rag described us as playing Dance Macawawks. which I thought was a great description, but it didn't stick. We got the plug pulled on us only once, after a patron complained to the bartender that we were depressing. I come here because I feel bad and want to feel better. These guys make me want to kill myself. I felt a little bad about that. My hope is always that we'll make those guys feel understood, but there is a badge of honor in getting kicked out of a club.

I made a production out of my new guitar, telling Leslie and Ethan that they'd never seen anything like it, and getting them to stand around watching while I opened the case. I watched their faces, opening it just as the show owner had, standing behind the lid as I raised it. Leslie frowned. Ethan's jaw dropped open. What's it made out of? Leslie whispered.

She reached out to touch it, but hesitated. It's like the void, Ethan said. It's like staring into infinity, the black sky between the stars. Does it sound as good as it looks? Leslie asked. I just smiled. I lifted it by the strap and hung it on my shoulder. For some reason, I kept my gaze averted from the guitar, as if I expected to see the thing

from my nightmare still rolling beneath the blackness. I patched it into the amplifier, turned the volume to seven, and struck an E minor chord. It vibrated the windows. It was a full, dark sound. But it wasn't the voice of God. It was just an electric guitar. Disappointed. I tried hitting the strings one at a time as I had in the pawn shop.

Just an electric guitar. Good enough, Ethan said. Damn, that hurts my eyes. It's like it's pulling your eyeballs out of their sockets. Leslie said and turned away. She busied herself setting up her base. Ethan continued to stare. Maybe it was the volume.

Maybe that was why the proprietor had insisted I keep it on volume two. Maybe it only sounded that good when it was quiet. I turned the volume down and plucked the strings again. Still, just a guitar, only quieter. It sounded a lot better in the shop. Sounds great to me. No, it sounded like it came out of the abyss. I still remembered the sound of those few strings I'd touched.

I hadn't imagined it. were burned into my memory. Maybe it was something with the acoustics where you were. I heard this podcast about these guys who were trying to reproduce the acoustics of ancient cathedrals. They turned this ordinary chorus into the voices of angels. It couldn't have been. I was just in this guy's basement with a big old furnace and a freezer and concrete walls.

Could it have been? Could there have been some freak perfection of the dimensions and objects? It didn't seem possible. Could there have been an effects block patched into the amp? Ethan asked. He was still staring at me. He hadn't moved towards his drums. I don't see how.

I said. It was just an old tube amplifier. Oh, that's it. That vintage sound. I've heard Neil Young still uses a tube amplifier because he likes that vintage sound. The thing costs a fortune nowadays because no one makes the tubes anymore. I thought about this. I knew everything Ethan had said.

But I doubted an amplifier could make that much difference. If tubes could make a guitar sound like what I'd heard, no one would have invented solid-state electronics. Hey, Ethan, put your eyes back in their sockets and get on your drums. No matter how beautiful his guitar is, we still got to play music. I don't know, Ethan said. They might book us just so people can look at that guitar. It took him three tries to tear his eyes away and sit down at his drums. The practice didn't go well.

I was distracted by my disappointment, and my bandmates were distracted by my guitar. Twice, Ethan lost the tempo, slowing down while he stared at my belly. Then, in the middle of the third song, Leslie screeched and stopped playing. Sorry. She said, shaking her head. Most of the evening, she had been avoiding looking at me. But then she took a long look at the guitar. Sorry, I don't...

I swear I saw something moving. in your guitar. It was like it was a window into somewhere, and there was something moving. I think it's alive, Ethan said, staring at me. Maybe that's why it's not making the sound you want. Maybe you gotta have the right relationship with it before it'll sing for you. It played for me before, I said. I didn't believe him. Not really. But in Leslie's dark studio, it didn't sound so Crazy. Yeah, but then you weren't trying to show it off. Then all your focus was on the guitar, wanting to hear the guitar.

Tonight, you're wanting to show off the cool guitar you got. Your focus is on you. It doesn't want to put on a show to make you look cool. This is crazy. We can't practice like this. Why don't you like face the wall or something? No offense, but... It's just a guitar.

Yeah, but you don't look at it either. Whatever, let's just play. I said, but I did turn away from them. It didn't do any good. I was too annoyed and disappointed. Leslie was too rattled. Ethan lost the beat twice more, just staring at the crescent of the guitar

he could see past my hip. We gave it up at 10, when we usually jam until the a.m. As we were packing up, Leslie said to me, Why don't you bring your old guitar to the Venus tomorrow? Don't be crazy. You know what I paid for this?

Well, actually, I'd gotten it for a steal, but it was the easy thing to say. A lot easier than that I still hope to make it sing like angels. Just in case. This is going to be a good show. The Venus draws a good crowd. So we have something to fall back on if your baby derails us again. It's just a guitar. I said again.

You shouldn't say that, Ethan said. No wonder it won't sing for you when you talk about it that way. I said it was just a guitar. but I don't think I believed myself. I mustn't have, because on the bus home, I talked to it. I'm sorry if I was trying to show off with you, I said. Tomorrow night, I promise, I won't pay attention to the crowd, I'll just listen to you. I want to hear you sing again, the way you did when I first played you.

The guitar, of course, had nothing to say. Neither did my fellow bus passengers. Late at night, on city buses, nobody talked. talks to the people who talk to inanimate objects. You should have a name, I said, then reconsidered. You probably have a name. I shouldn't make up a name for someone as important as you. If ever you can let me know what your name is, I'll use it.

At that moment, the man next to me put down his newspaper and stood up to get off the bus. Most of the paper was obscured by an ad for great bargains at Walgreens, but I could See just a few words and half of a headline. Has ter. A cold dread crept up my spine. It was coincidence. Coincidence and imagination. I moved the ad circular to expose the full headline.

Cemetery killer suspect has turned himself in. See? It wasn't an answer to my question. What was I imagining that there just so happened to be the exact headline in the newspaper named for Haster to show me his name when I asked, or maybe he had mystically transformed the newspaper. He could just as easily have scratched his name into the seat cushion. That would have been sure than giving me a word and a half to guess at his name. Or maybe he reached across space and time, made the killer turn himself in, made the publisher

composed the headlines so this would happen here, now when I asked. Haster, the king in yellow, the vast tentacle creature who drives men mad just to be looked upon. Or maybe a man dropped his newspaper and my imagination scared me. If Haster is your name, I said softly, give me a sign, make something green land in my lap. I held my breath. I'd been specific about the sign I wanted because I knew how easily occult swindlers could suck people in. I ask for a sign, and something happens. Anything.

A dog barks, a bus goes over a bump. The old man across from me laughs. Something is always sure to happen. The sign. Nothing happened. Nothing landed in my lap, green or otherwise. See? No omnipotent elder being was reaching out of the void to introduce himself to me.

Occam's razor, the simplest explanation. I was scaring myself. I'd arrived at my stop. I stood up to get off. As I stepped on the first stair, the driver called to me. Hey, son. I looked back. Matthew 4, verse 7.

Uh-huh. I said. Matthew 4, verse 7. It will answer your question. What question? I asked. How should I know? Look it up.

Have a good night now. You too. I said and stepped off the bus. If you've lived in by the bus. If you've lived in Boston as long as I have, you probably have had random strangers quote Bible verses at you. You probably never looked them up. I never had before, but I was feeling weird, and it was a weird exchange, and it usually isn't the bus driver who does it. I took out my phone and looked it up. Jesus said unto him, it is written again, Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God.

My gut got that floaty feeling again. I'd asked for a sign, a specific sign. Instead, I got rebuked. This was ridiculous. I strode off for home. The line in the Bible was, do not tempt God. It was about how to treat God. The rule did not transfer to any other supernatural being,

but this righteous denial did not even last the short walk to my apartment. As Antonio said in Shakespeare's merchant of Venice, the devil can cite scripture for his purpose. I locked my door carefully that night. Then I put Haster in the foyer closet as far from my bedroom as I could. Even so, I had weird dreams. I dreamt that my old girlfriend Amelia had been transformed into a guitar. My right hand, plucking the strings, my left on the fretboard, was squeezing her neck. The strings were her carotid arteries, and I pinched them closed against the frets, cutting

off the flow of blood to her brain. When I played a bar chord, she could not breathe at all. After a few F-sharp power chords, the sound from the guitar grew weak and fluttery. After a few more, it stopped making any sound at all. I kept playing her dead body. I woke near 11 a.m., groggy and annoyed. In the light of day, it all looked stupid. My guitar was possessed by the spirit of an ancient evil force, not just any ancient evil force,

a fictional entity made up by H.B. Lovecraft to spook Victorian gentlemen, while implicitly reassuring them that they were the guardians of civilization against the unknown terrors of the past. What was Lovecraft but an attempt to modernize medieval fears of witches and the devil? Instead, you had cultists and cosmic entities, so much more scientific entities, so much more scientific. so much more scientific. I'd had bad dreams. Of course I'd had bad dreams. They weren't caused by the malign influence of the entity in my guitar. They were caused by my imagining an entity in my guitar. My night tears banished by the cold light of reason. I turned my powerful intellect to the question of how to recapture the sound I had first heard. There were two possible explanations suggested to me, that it was the acoustics of the basement, or that it was the amplification.

Neither sounded likely, but I knew which one I wanted to be true. If the sound had been a quirk of the acoustics of the basement, I'd never recapture it. Not unless I persuaded the pawnbroker to let me give concerts in his basement, but if it was the amplifier, I could, in theory, get the right amplifier. I looked up what it would cost to get an old tube amplifier and was surprised to see that they weren't insanely expensive. Not that I had another $500 in my bank account, but I could get it, if I knew for sure that it would give me that sound.

I spent the day calling every guitarist I could think of who might have a tube amplifier and be willing to let me try it. By three o'clock, I ran out of ideas, except for the obvious one. Go back to the pawn shop. That, of course, came with an obvious problem, his threat to kill me. But I doubted that was serious. That man had insisted he would not negotiate the price of the guitar, then dropped it from 2000 to 300 in a heartbeat.

His threat to kill me was probably a negotiating tactic as well. He hoped I would come in afraid. I'd walk in the door with a fistful of cash leading the way. Suddenly, I saw it all. He hadn't dropped the price of the guitar. When I came back and asked for the amplifier, the price would be 1700. He'd threatened to kill me, so I wouldn't come back until I had that 1700. in cash in my hand.

Which was I to do? Drop a load of money and hope that it would be the right thing, or raise three times as much, but no. At seven, I sent a text to Ethan, reminding him of our show that night. He hadn't forgotten a show in a long time, but the couple times he had were bad scenes. In those days, we played short sets in small pubs, where the owners were used to the occasional no-show and disappointing performance. This venue was a big venue, and the owner had a reputation for vindictiveness.

He owned clubs in several cities and had lots of friends, or more likely, had a lot of dirt to blackmail other club owners. Bands who screwed him got screwed. I had heard of one band who produced documentation that three out of the four of them had tested positive for COVID. The manager had told them the only doctor's notes Mr. Hawkins will accept is one signed by a coroner. As the hour of the show drew closer, my sunny courage began to wane. I didn't really notice at first. I threw both guitars into Leslie's truck, but I told myself it was because

she'd asked me to, because it would promote band comedy and all that. But still I thought of my new guitar as Haster. Still, I made sure it was firmly propped against the side of the truck, so it would feel properly cared for and respected. We swung by Ethan's to find he wasn't home. No lights, no sound, no sign. You did remind him of the show tonight, didn't you? Of course. I checked my phone. No reply.

I called him. Oh, I can't find it. Leave me a message. Hey, asshole, we've got a show tonight at the Venus. Where the hell are you? I hung up. Leslie's eyes, barely visible through all her hair, were big and afraid. What do we do?

Go on as a two-piece? She shook her head. Unless we brought her. The house down, Hawkins would call it breach of contract. Then we got to get a sub. Who do we know who could sit in? With no notice? That's crazy.

If we're going to find a sub, we need to start calling five hours ago. Maybe he'll call back. My phone rang. Oh, thank God. But it wasn't Ethan. It was an unknown number. I was desperate enough to answer it anyway. The voice on the other end said,

Yes? I answered. My guts started to unmoor themselves again. I knew this was bad. This is Stephen Brooks. I'm a nurse at McLean Hospital. I'm calling on behalf of Ethan. He isn't well and won't be able to make the show tonight.

What? I said, although I'd heard him perfectly well. McLean Hospital, first in psychiatry since 1818. Ethan is being treated here. His condition is stable, but he insisted it was urgent that you get this message. What's wrong? with him? I'm afraid that I can't give any more information about his condition, but he will be very

reassured to know that you got his message. Yeah. I said. Then, finally finding some compassion in my soul, I added, tell him it's fine, we'll get a sub. It'll be okay. I hung up. What is it?

Leslie asked, reading my face. He's cracked up. He's in the mental hospital. Leslie's eyes darted back and forth, as if she were reading some of the most. emergency manual in her head. Okay. She pulled out her keys. You drive. I'm going to call every drummer I can think of until someone says they can come.

If I have to, I'll promise him half our fee. I drove the van, and Leslie called. The first person apologized, said it was impossible. Then she got voicemail. The third laughed at her. I could hear him over the car noise. The fourth sounded afraid at the prospect of going on stage to play songs he'd never heard before. Leslie tried reassuring him.

He didn't have to be great, just hold the beat and jam. Then she tried bribing him with money. He didn't bite. After that, she just sat in the van and stared at her phone. Try someone else. I can't think of anyone else. What about that guy who plays with Doom Cell? They're on tour in Philadelphia.

Or on Pongo. Pongo, what's his name? That's who I was just talking to. Hold on. call honey. Who's honey? I asked, but she'd been talking to her phone. An old boyfriend.

Leslie blushed. He must have picked up because she suddenly said, Hey, you'll never guess who this is. You guessed. How are you? It's been so long. Yeah, well, I'm kind of in an emergency here. I've got to show at the Venus and two...

Yeah, at the Venus. Thanks. It would be good news if our drummer hadn't finked out on us in two hours. Well, I could go get you. Where are you? Wooster? Sure, I can do that. Wooster, are you crazy? Have your gear by the road.

This is going to be tight. That's insane. It's over an hour each way. We'll never make it. Yeah, I can do it. Leslie said, ignoring me. Yeah, be ready. Be at the side of the road in like 70 minutes, okay?

Are you insane? Do you know what Hawkins will do to us if we're a half an hour late? Yeah, Bear. You're saving my ass. See you soon. She hung up. This won't work. This is how it's going to work. I'm going to drive like hell to Worcester. When our time comes, you go out, say you're the opening act, and you play solo. If I don't get stopped by Massachusetts finest, I'll be there before you're 10 minutes in. With luck, the audience will be so busy staring at your guitar, they won't notice. Without luck, the bouncer will entertain the crowds by beating their shit out of me.

There's got to be someone else. What about... I did come up with two names before she dropped me off, but one she couldn't reach, and the other was playing a show already. When she drove away, her SUV leaned precariously on the first corner. I was there way early, of course. I wound up standing in the alley with our guitars and amplifiers for 15 minutes, hoping the manager would show up before some enterprising gangster.

He did. I set everything up, ran a sound check, got a beer, and waited in the green room while the crowd started to file in. Fifteen minutes before showtime, the manager checked in. Where's the rest of them? They'll be along. I said, trying to be casual. I'm going to open solo. What?

He scowled at me. I booked a band. You got a band. I said. Plus, I'm just an opening act. It'll be like if folks see two bands for the price of one. A 15-minute teaser. That was not the contract.

He said. Not that we had a contract. If one person, one person asks for his coverback during your opening act, I'll have your ass. Deal. By the time I took the stage, my dread of the guitar was creeping back. Ethan was in a mental hospital the day after he couldn't take his eyes off my guitar. Now I was going to go on stage and perform in front of 200 people. If there was anything, was I putting the sanity of 200 people at risk?

I had the other guitar. I didn't have to take Haster on stage, but that thought was no reassurance either. I had no idea how I was going to keep a club full of people entertained for half an hour by myself. Of course, I'd lied to the manager. They'd want to dance, and I had no rhythm section. Even if the manager didn't follow through on his threat, But the last thing we needed was for the crowd to be impatient and pissed off before we started playing. No.

The only reason I dared to try this was because I had Haster to hide behind. I laid my hand on the case. Haster, I said. I need you. We're going to go out in front of a big crowd, and I need you to sing for them. Get us through this. Get us through this, and I'll... What does one offer an enchanted guitar?

I said the first thing that came into my mind. A tube amplifier. I'll get you a vintage tube amplifier, just like the one in the pawn shop. Seriously, I was bargaining with my guitar. I downed my beer, snapped open my case, and took it out. Yes, I avoided looking at it as much as I could. Just as I was leaving the green room, I saw a yellow scarf hanging on the back of the chair. A sheer, mustard yellow scarf left behind by some girl band.

or something. Without even a conscious thought, I swept it up and wrapped it around my head, so only my eyes were showing. I walked out onto the stage, without any idea what I was going to play. I took comfort knowing that whatever happened, it wouldn't be associated with my face. The club was barely half full, but still, that meant 200 eyes drained on me. By special arrangement, opening for a cathonic circus, the king in yellow. There, Haster, all glory was to be yours. Having no idea what else to do, I started playing the opening notes of Stairway to Heaven. A lame choice. Every bar band in the Amateur Cover League played Stairway to Heaven, hoping to cop some of its glory. But it was the official

song you always played to try out a new guitar. It did sound better. There was a difference. I got the feeling that Haster was trying as hard as it could, but it wasn't half the glory of the pawn shop. It needed the tubes, vacuum tubes. Glass globes containing a tiny piece of the void where Haster himself, not the guitar, was imprisoned, restlessly sleeping. It needed to touch the void to give full voice. Whatever, it was enough. The crowd stood, transfixed, unable to take their eyes off of me. I didn't sing. I can sing. I often fill in harmony and counterpoint vocals with Leslie, but I didn't want Haster to have to share the stage. When I thought the instrumental stairway couldn't go on any further, I morphed into the opening

riff of Hart's barracuda and played that for a while. I didn't see any movement in the audience. Even the waitrons who were supposed to be selling drinks and milking the crowd for cash were not winding through them. When I got all I could out of heart, I threw caution to the wind. The king in yellow was not a cover bag. I didn't want to play anything from the catholic set either, so I just started improvising. A surge of power chords spiked with bright overtones. I drove as fast as I could, trying to create a wall of sound with only six strings. Next thing I knew, I was finger-picking a bass line on the two lower strings while simultaneously

leading on four high ones. It was insane. It wasn't me playing. My fingers moved faster than I could track. spinning a web of dark and terrible music. It was Haster playing through me. I lost track of all time. I have no idea how long it was before I spied a chubby man at the foot of the stage waving

for my attention. A small, feminine hand clapped over his eyes. I looked again. I could barely see Leslie standing on tiptoe behind him to peer over his shoulder. The band had come. With some effort, I took control of my hands and ended the song. Back in the green room, I put Haster in his case and unwrapped the scar from my head. Leslie stuck her head in the door.

Is it safe? Yeah, I said, not even thinking what a crazy question that was. She came in, breathless. Fuck! When I told you to open, I didn't think you'd upstage us. I didn't know what I was doing. The doorman didn't even look at me when I told him I was in the band. He just kind of grunted.

Bruin came to a dead stop when he saw you. I had to cover his eyes and guide him down the stage. Where is he? Setting up his drums, of course. Are you ready? I think I'm going to switch to Gus. That was my old guitar. Yes, I named him when I was 16, Gus, the guitar.

That might be best. I don't think I want to share the stage with that thing. It would be like singing a duet with Aretha Franklin or something. A knock sounded on the door. Leslie cracked it open and peaked out. There's a guy here from the meme says he wants to talk to the king in yellow. The manager said. Who?

Yeah, send him in. Leslie gaped at me, then rolled her eyes. In walked a slick guy in designer jeans and professionally styled sideburns. He glanced at me. Are you the king in yellow? Let's say I speak for him. I said, in case Haster was listening. I want to book you for the meme this Saturday.

Saturday? Leslie gaped. Saturdays at the meme were for bands with record contracts, professional musicians on the tier below arena rock. There are three crying girls in the lobby right now while the bouncer calls them a cab. Mr. Slick said. The doorman just walked off the job,

saying he was going to do something with his life while he still had a chance. The bartender can't sell drinks fast enough. You aren't playing anywhere else, between now and then, are you?" No. I said. I know a guy in Columbia.

I'm going to call him and he's going to sign you, but he's going to sign you at the meme. You're going to be discovered at the meme, understand? I need an advance of $1,700. I said. I was as astonished as everyone else at the words coming out of my mouth. The man chuckled uneasily. Don't get cocky. will be happy to throw money at you, but first you've got to do the show. I need an advance of

$1,700 to do the show. My voice said again. Then, since I was talking so cool, I decided to act cool too. I picked up Gus and turned to Leslie. You ready to go on? Wait, the man barked. He took out his cell phone. Yeah, hi, Cindy. This is Mark. Listen, a guy is going to come by the club tomorrow morning and call himself the king in yellow. I want you to give him $1,700 in cash. I'll take care of that when I get there. Hang on. He looked at me.

What time will you be there? One? One in the afternoon. That's right. He hung up the phone and glared at me. All right. You can take your $1,700 and head off from Mexico, if you like. Or you can show up Saturday, play my show, and walk into the life of a rock star.

Your choice. He walked out. leaving me with Leslie staring at me like I had betrayed her. Like all this time I'd been pretending to be a regular person, and now it turned out I was secretly a god. She thought we were friends, but she was only a stepping stool to stardom. What the fuck? She said.

She looked on the verge of tears. Come with me. It doesn't have to be a solo act. I could. I probably need some help out there. She shook her head. I think I'd only hold you back. Come on, if this is going to be the last show for the Cathonic Circus, let's make it a good one.

It wasn't. Our heart wasn't in it. Bruin was able to fit himself in well enough, but it wasn't like having a real drummer. He couldn't add to the songs. Leslie was heartbroken. I was confused. If we'd been any other band, we'd probably have been booed off the stage. But, with Cathonic Circus, well,

Leslie was able to leverage the heartbreak into our songs easily enough, so we held it together. After the first set, I thought about getting out Haster again, but I didn't dare. I didn't think he'd want to share the stage either. The next day, I collected my $1,700 in cash and headed back to the pawn shop, Haster in hand. Just to keep him from asking for even more money, I kept $500 in my wallet and another $500 in my sock. I didn't doubt he would ask for as much as he thought he could get, but I thought 700 in my fist was enough to stave off homicide, and we could bicker about the rest. The pawn shop was gone.

I don't mean it was closed, it was gone. The stone façade still stood. Through the shattered windows I could see charred timbers and a few metal remains. There was a metal ladder bent out of shape by the heat of the fire, balanced on the blackened floor Joyce. Yellow police tape stretched across the windows and warned everyone to stay out. I stopped in at the flower shop next door and asked the lady there. Good riddance, too. He made the whole block creepy. How did it happen? Arson. They think he probably said it himself to collect the insurance money. The police picked him up in Mexico. He won't see a dime. The lady wanted to say more about the

intelligence of someone who tries to pull off an insurance scam while simultaneously skipping the country, but I had to check one thing. The fire burns up. It was possible, unlikely, but possible, that the amp was still there in the basement, unscathed. I parted the police tape and climbed through the window into the burned-out shop. There wasn't much floor left. I kept my feet on the choice and hoped they were sound. The sun was high in the sky, and I could see down into the basement well enough. It was piled with litter of half-burned boards, globes of melted glass, various metal things that had fallen through the floor. Plenty of burning things had landed in the basement. But there was the hulking old furnace. But there was the hulking old furnace.

There was the freezer chest, scorched and pitted, but not warped out of shape. There was a pile of ash and junk that might be covering the amplifier. The stairs to the basement were still in place, but they were so black and alligatored, I worried that they were mostly charcoal. I stepped from joist to joist until I got to the aluminum ladder, slightly twisted, but it seemed sound. I used it between two joists and jammed it against the junk in the floor. It was so bent, and there was no way to brace it at all four corners. I got both feet on the floor and one side of the top braced and called it good enough. I held tight to a joist as long as I could, just in case, but it got me to the bottom intact.

A cloud of ash floated up around me. I floundered across the wreckage, flung aside the frame of a flexible flyer and a broken panel of sheetrock, and there it was, unburnt, undamaged, barely a scorchmark on her. The opening the amp out of the basement was an ordeal. It might have been possible to pass it between the floor joys, but it was so big and heavy, I knew the odds were better, I'd just drop it and shatter the irreplaceable tubes. In the end, I decided to chance the stairs after all. If I fell through and killed myself, it wouldn't matter that I wrecked the amp.

But I got it out. There's nothing left to tell but the concert. The meme was not very crowded that night. The 100 folks, including the guy from Columbia. I walked out on stage, the yellow scarf around my face, and I began to play. I noticed the screaming first. First one, then others. People threw their arms over their faces, covering their ears.

It didn't make any difference. They fled for the exits. So many at once they ran into each other. The first probably made it out, but when they jammed in the doors, others. tried to climb over them, trampling, crushing, tearing. I saw one man try to smash through the wall with his head, either that or he was trying to kill himself. I could no more have stopped playing than grow wings and fly. Somewhere along there, the tentacles began to reach through. I think they first came out of the storm sewers, but in parts of Boston, the storm sewers connect with the

municipal sewage, so soon they burst out of the drains and restrooms. and basements. By the time they were reaching into the concert hall, most of the people were already dead. The remainder were pulled apart and disappeared into an engulfing mass. The bartender had climbed up to the top shelf and started a fire by throwing a bottle of 151 at the hot grill. Then he threw more liquor at the flames until the whole bar was burning. He kept the tentacles away until he had roast himself. Then, all at once, the guitar ceased to exist. Fretts and strings and wires sprang free and clattered about my feet. I had control of my body once again, but I knew what this meant. From every sewer grate and study, the shapeless mass was oozing. The terrible deed was done.

Pastor was in the world. I escaped out the backstage door and ran. I don't need to tell you more. you've heard it from a thousand other voices. The only curious question is why or how I survived. When I was there, at the center of the maelstrom, where it all began, why wasn't I eaten? Why didn't I perish in the fires? Why am I still at least somewhat sane? Was it some reward, some expression of gratitude that I was spared? I doubt it. What use has Haster for gratitude? I think rather the opposite. It was his exquisite torture for me. No matter where I run to, no matter how I hide, I hear the news.

Another city fall into madness and fire, more tentacles reaching out of the sea, nuclear missiles annihilating the survivors, if there are any, but never slowing the inexorable spread of destruction. I hear the news and know it was my hands that made it happen. even if I hadn't been in control of them. I tried to find Leslie. I doubt she made it out of Boston. Hardly anyone did.

But in case she is alive, somewhere, that's not her real name. I don't want anyone killing her for association with me. The only question left is whether Haster will bore of planet Earth before he has exterminated the human race. I think there's a chance of that. To pursue us until the last one is dead would take a real dedication to the cause. I don't think he cares enough about humans to bother. Kids may have fun burning ants with a magnifying glass, but even the meanest kid doesn't dig up

the nest and hunt until he's sure every last ant is dead. No, there are other nests, other worlds to destroy. I hear England is burning. Oceans are no barrier. And he's not bored yet. It was a long time ago that I heard the tale. I was deep in the desert with only myself and a man I had hired as a guide. He found a small oasis at the bottom of a valley and set up camp for the evening.

Later that night, under a moonless sky, we sat around the campfire. My guide was carving something from a piece of wood while I stared out into the desert. Do you know of any good campfire stories? I asked. He looked at me from across the campfire for a moment, with his bright blue eyes, and then gazed into the fire. He nodded. There is one, I know, he said.

It is a very old story, and not one that many people know. Well, let's hear it then, I said. Preferably before the campfire goes out, he smiled at me and began to tell his tale. Millennia ago, there stood in the desert the great and ancient city of Zatan Nataz, the oasis city, home to tens of thousands. It was beautiful in the sunlight, with its polished sandstone buildings shining brilliantly. Its streets were full of life in color, with merchants shouting at the pedestrians, the children running through the courtyards and the priests and scribes going about their business.

The buildings everywhere were adorned with garishly colored tapestries and murals, most including the golden fronde, the symbol of the Oasis City. Brightly painted statues stood guard at all gates and on the corners of the temples. Each of the city's quarters held a massive fountain, spraying water high into the air. At the center of all of the roads was the tower of the moon, rising into the sky above the city. At its base stood the great crypt, the sanctuary of the priesthood and the heart of Zatan Nitas. A high and impenetrable wall surrounded it all in a near perfect circle, but things were far from perfect in that ancient city.

Just before sunrise on the night of every new moon, a young hunter named Asser climbed onto his roof to view the monthly spectacle. As the first light of dawn came over the horizon, all activity in the night of the night of the When the city ceased, the streets were empty, the people in their homes stayed silent, and then came the sound of slaying from the Great Cript. It was a faint sound, but unmistakable. Every citizen of Zatan Nataz claimed that they could hear it when it happened. And then the locked doors of the Great Crip opened, and four high priests carried out a large

stone sarcophagus emblazoned with the golden frond and the black sun. The sign of the goddess. While all others hid in their homes for the duration of the ceremony, peaking out of their windows if they were brave, Aser crouched on his rooftop and watched them as they went from the center of the city to the southern gate. For five years the ceremony had been carried out. An old, old legend had stated that the city was under the protection of a goddess. One day, it said a demon would come to destroy the city.

On that day, the goddess would come, banish the demon, and usher in a golden age for Zatan Nataz. But the demon had come, and the goddess had not. The high priest slew the demon using ancient and forbidden magic, but its heart refused to die. They ripped the organ from its body, but a new body began to slowly grow around the heart. They could not destroy it, nor could they dispose of it. So they placed it in the deepest shone.

shrine of the great crypt and sealed the doors. Then they returned every month when the demon was nearly regenerated and cut out its heart once again. Then they placed the husk in a sarcophagus and carried it to the pit of Zacchus, which was said to be the entrance to the underworld and threw the lifeless body into it, coffin and all. And thus the high priest claimed they protected the city until the goddess came to destroy the demon once and for all. The people of Zatanataz claimed that it was their golden age. They claimed that the demon was defeated. Aser called that heresy.

To all that would listen, he made his case. Aser was a man of faith that believed the prophecy must be followed precisely. Until the goddess destroyed the demon, he said, the golden age would not truly come. And for the goddess to appear, the demon must be let loose upon. the world. His friends laughed at first. They tried to persuade him otherwise.

Failing at that, they turned their backs on him at last. Astor called them blind. He said that their golden age was a farce. He had watched the city for many years, and he had seen the rot beginning to set in over it. It began with the high priests. Beneath the banner of the Black Sun, they claimed that they were above all others in the Oasis City. They began to amass wealth, servants, and power beyond compare. He had heard rumors of them stealing from the city vaults and claiming it for the temple.

He had seen them take young women from their families to fulfill their own desires, and he had seen any who stood against them disappear as if they never existed. The city had fallen into ruin with its funds depleted. Violence, crime, and corruption had taken hold. But the people claimed that the Golden Age, An age was upon them because they did not want to believe what was directly in front of them. At noon, on the days of slaying, the doors of the great crypt stood open, and the priests flaunted their power, for on display on the great altar for one hour was the heart that

they had ripped out of the demon's chest. It beat slowly as the bravest citizens viewed it. And at the end of the hour, the veins and arteries began to sprout once again, and the people of the city were banished from the crypt until the next day of slaying. Asser viewed it every time. He was drawn to it. At times he thought he could almost hear a voice in the air, pleading with him to free it from its torment. And one day, as the voice was clear than it had ever been, Aser finally decided to take action. He would unleash the demon. For one month he planned how he would do it. He cannot merely stop the slaying.

The doors of the great crypt had powerful seals upon them, and even if he could gain entry, how long would it be before the demon awoke? No, his course of action had to be more precise. He must rejoin the body and heart. He knew the course of the priest transporting the husk to the pit of Zacchus. Along the way there was a large boulder that had been there since before the first stone of Zatan Nataz was laid. It was there that he must wait.

He readied his bow, which he had practiced with since he was a small child. His aim was near perfect. He let out his arrows and performed certain rituals and blessings over them, saying that what blood they spilled would be for the greater good. And so the next day of slaying came. Aser had hidden behind the Great Boulder a day before and camped there. He had no fear of being discovered, for none but the holy men with their load travelled to toward the pit of Zacchus.

Dawn came, and the city went silent, and despite being half a mile from the city gates, Asser heard the sound of slaying. Over the years he had come to know the exact timing and pace of the high priest traveling with the great stone sarcophagus, so he waited, knowing exactly when they would cross in front of the boulder, and exactly when he expected he heard footfalls on the other side of his refuge. He circled the stone quietly so that he came around the road behind them. As he moved on to the road, he saw them walking slowly ahead of him, with their backs turned. He drew his bow and aimed for the priest to the front and right, the farthest away from him.

His years of training had served him well, for the arrow found its target in the back of the priest's head. The other three staggered, as one edge of the sarcophagus was no longer held aloft. Aser drew his neck shot and fired at the priest on the back right. The arrow struck him in the back and he fell. With that, the sarcophagus tumbled to the right, its side slamming into the dirt path, its heavy stone lid loosened and fell to the ground. Its contents struck the side with a dull fud. By now, the remaining priest had turned and seen him.

They drew their ceremonial blades and charged. Before the nearest could reach him, Aser had buried an arrow in his throat. The last man ran at him, Aser drew and fired his fourth arrow, and then something happened that did not happen often. He missed. With the priest almost upon him, Aser panicked and quickly drew another arrow. He rushed the shot and fired wildly, missing the priest again. With that, the man was upon him, swinging the razor-sharp blade towards his head.

Aser raised his bow to block the strike. The blade cut effortlessly through the thick wood, but missed its mark and buried its himself in Aser's shoulder. He screamed in pain and watched as his blood began to soak the sand beneath him. For a moment he waited, expecting the strike that would cut his throat, but it did not come. He raised his head and saw that the priest was exhausted. It had been years since he had had to act so swiftly. Aser took his chance and knocked the sword from the man's grasp, acting on instinct. He pulled the man to the ground and leapt on top of him, His hands going to his throat.

For what seemed like in eternity, he choked him, until the man finally stopped moving. Aser rose to his feet, panicked, and grasping for breath. His killing of the others was sanctified by the blessed arrows. This was cold-blooded murder. His soul was now forfeit. After a minute of panic, he calmed himself by remembering his goal. Surely if he heralded in the true golden age, he would be redeemed.

He approached the fallen sarcophagus, its lid lying silently on the ground beside it. He prepared himself to gaze upon an abomination and looked inside of the stone coffin. What was inside was not what he expected. What was inside terrified him more than anything else on earth ever could. After many minutes of staring, he carefully gathered up the contents in a large burlap sack, painfully hefted them over his good shoulder, and ran back. towards the Tanitaz. For hours he hid in a darkened alley with his prize. It seemed like in eternity. Finally, he saw the sun rise directly above him, and he knew it was time.

The priests would not be suspicious at first, for Aser was already present at the displaying of the heart. His plan to retrieve the heart had been subtle and complex, but for all those hours of waiting, rage had festered inside his heart. He would not draw it to out one second more than was necessary. It was then that he heard a loud crack and knew that the doors of the great crypt had been unsealed. He threw his burden over his right shoulder once more and marched toward the crypt. As he reached the doors, he saw that a priest was pulling each of the doors open. One of them smiled as they saw Aser, for they had seen him every new moon for years. His smile faded as he saw the bag draped over his shoulder.

As Aser reached the doors, he shoved the left door as hard as he could. The door struck the priest, and he fell onto his back, clutching his face. When the priest on the right protested, Aser swung around, one end of the heavy sack on his shoulder striking the man in the face and sending him to the ground as well. The ceiling of the crypt towered high above him, the sunlight filtering in through a hundred small windows. He strode through the towering statues surrounding him toward the great altar. in the center of the room. Two priests were present, one on each side of the altar. Upon hearing the noise at the

entrance they had drawn their blades, Aser let the bag he carried fall to the floor with a sickening noise of dead flesh. The priest charged at him, but Aser was ready this time. He knew their aim would be poor, and that they had no strength to their blows. He grabbed the wrist of the first to reach him and wrenched it until the blade dropped to his grasp. He placed a hand on the hand on the arm. He placed a hand on the the man's chest and shoved him into the second priest. They fell to the floor screaming. Aser saw red and knew that the second man's blade must have cut one or both of them. He didn't care. Aser stepped around the two men on the floor and made his way to the great altar in the center of the room. The light from the windows above made the golden altar shine brilliantly,

but what Aser wanted was the lump of dull flesh sitting on top of it. A shudder ran through him as he picked the heart up off the altar. The beating was slow and faint, but there nonetheless. Asser closed his eyes and began to silently mouth the prayer. Before he could finish it, a hand roughly grabbed his wounded shoulder from behind. His arm exploded in pain as he was spun around. Opening his eyes, he saw a large man clad in leather armor towering above him. The dull leather was emblazoned with the symbol of the black sun. Asa had little time to react as a heavy fist struck him in the face and everything faded to black. Aser awoke in a room the likes of which he had never seen before.

He had been seated in a heavy wooden chair. He did not seem to be bound in any way. In front of him stood a tall central stand containing a dimly burning torch. The light cut through the darkness around him, casting him. strange shadows on the walls. This was unsettling, as Asser could see nothing between the torch and the walls that could be casting the shadows. The walls were covered in paintings that may have looked normal in the light, but underneath the dim light and shadows, there was not one of them that did not look demonic. Graceful figures became twisted and scarred. Beneath him on the floor

was a carpet made from the hides of animals he did not recognize. Several states were the seconds after he awoke, he heard a door opened behind him. Soft footsteps approached his back, and he heard a low voice. I presumed that my personal study might give us a bit more privacy than the cells in the dungeon, the voice said. A tall man clad in the same branded armor walked in front of him. He turned and stood directly between Aser and the torch. His figure silhouetted against the dim light at his back. Asser could make out nothing about his face except for a pair of flashing blue eyes that stared back at him.

Allow me to introduce myself, said the strange man. I am Sukhas, head of the guardians of the priesthood. You won't have heard of us, of course. We take care to make sure of that. We find it makes our job easier. As Aser's head fully cleared, the rage returned, stronger than before. What have you done? Asser said in a low growl,

I have done nothing, said Sukhas. You, on the other hand, have committed several acts of murder, put the people of the city into a panic and almost ruined many years of hard work. You know what I mean? Said Asser. What was that? The rage was evident in his voice. He saw a flash of white as Sukaz grinned at him.

Ah, you mean what was in the sarcophagus, but you don't need me to tell you that. that, you knew the moment you saw it, whether you want to believe it or not. Aser thought back to the hours before, when he gazed into the great stone coffin. There was a corpse inside, but it was no demon. It was the body of a woman. She was tall, beautiful, and regal. He had seen the skin of the body shine faintly, bathing the inside of the sarcophagus with light. Aser said his next word slowly and deliberately, rage permeating every syllable. You slotted to God. Yes, repeatedly, said Sukhas. Aser leapt from the chair he was seated in,

his hands going for Sukhas's throat. As soon as he had risen, the man's fist crashed directly into his jaw. He fell back onto the chair painfully, tasting blood and feeling that two teeth were missing from the right side of his jaw. Do not think you can kill me as easily as a a few pampered high priests. Luck has been on your side this far. It will not be again. Aser drew himself back up in the chair, but remained seated. He glared back at the man in front of him, tears beginning to well up in his eyes.

How in the name of all that is holy can you do such a thing? Asked Aser, his voice nearly breaking. To be fair, said Sukhas, with a maddening tone of superiority. I have never killed her myself. You can credit your illustrious priesthood with that. As for why, they do it because of the one thing that drives all men. And that is? Fear, said Sukhas.

Five years ago, the high priest began to descend into a state of arrogance and decadence. They began to amass power, created the guardians, and robbed the city blind. And then she appeared. The very goddess these priests claimed to work on behalf of. And on that day, those men that once thought themselves righteous feared judgment more than any. Sukars laughed softly. I'm not sure who struck the blow, but before she could say one word to them, a priest drew his blade and impaled her through the heart.

Then they saw the blood withdraw and the wound begin to heal. They had been afraid of judgment for their pride. Now they were petrified of judgment for the murder of a deity. And so, the cycle began. Five years? Said Asser. Five years? How many times has it been?

How many corpses have been thrown into the pit? Why do they let this continue? He was sure that someone outside would hear his screams, but Sukhas just stood there and let him continue. When he finally stopped, a man left. Your people are cowards, said Sukhas. They cannot face what they see in front of them. Their city could be burning around them and they would not notice. The city is burning!

Screamed Sukhas. And you know it! How do you let this happen day in and day out? Because the world may be better off with it gone. The oasis city is dead and rotting. It must be cut off like a gangrenous limb. The man's tone changed as he said those words. His voice echoed from the walls around them.

Aser's rage began to dim, fear. began to replace it. Who are you? Asser asked. His voice lowered to a whisper. Succas crossed his arms and looked up toward the ceiling, as if trying to find the correct words to say. After a few seconds, he circled the torch in the center of the room, until he came to a stop

on the side opposite Aser. Turning towards Aser, he could see Succaus's face at last. It seemed completely normal, with short dark hair and a thin, pointed beard. Then Aser saw the shadow being cast behind him. Though Sukhas was only slightly taller than Aser, the shadow loomed high above them both. The shadow's head appeared to have several horns jutting off of it at odd angles. Massive wings stretched to its sides, covering the entire wall with darkness. Sukhaz saw Aser's eyes go wide. He grinned and circled back around to the front of the torch.

I am someone who is very much above the people of this city. You're the demon, the demon of legend. Sukhas chuckled, the sound ringing off the walls. Demon, no, said Sukhas, shaking his head. I prefer to see myself as more of an angel, one with a very specific purpose. Destruction? said Aser. Change, said Sukhaz. Nothing lasts forever in this world.

To try to do so was folly. He moved closer to Aser, who cowered in his seat. All men die. All cities fall to ruin, and all empires crumble. It is the natural order of things. Your city, your goddess, and your people try to work against nature itself. It wasn't all the priests, was it? Ask Aser, finding some small semblance of courage.

That depends, said Sukhaw. said Sukhas, the tone of superiority coming back into his voice. I may have started their decline into corruption. I may have caused them to doubt their beliefs, and I may have implanted their fear of their goddess, but I did not draw that blade, and I have not touched her. You won't get away with this, said Asser, his voice finally confident once again. I won't let you do this.

The goddess will live again. Succaus tilted his head to one side and looked silently, Acer, a questioning look in his eyes. Very well. You are free to go. Asser's jaw dropped, and a dumbfounded look came onto his face. Really? You're not going to imprison me?

Kill me? Would you like me to? Asked Sukhas. Aser stared back silently. No, my friend. It is not my place to kill you. My purpose is to bring ruin. Perhaps yours is to bring ruin.

into me. Who am I to interfere with the machinations of fate? Go. Still staring at the man in front of him, Aser slowly got up from the chair. With a great deal of fear, he turned his back on the man and started toward the door behind him. However, you may not want to go through with this. Aser stopped in his tracks, two steps from the door. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He did not want to listen to what the demon had to say, but, something made him turn around. What do you mean by that? Asked Aser.

Sukhas had moved back around to the other side of the torch in the center of the room. The massive shadow was invisible once again on the far wall. Stealing himself, Aser walked to the torch, glaring at Sukaz from directly across. I just mean that should you follow this course of action, the results may be much worse than you anticipate. What might seem like the right thing to do may be anything but. To not try to fool me, said Asser. You cannot see the future? Perhaps not.

But I have watched this world for far longer than you can imagine, and I have become quite adept at guessing the outcome of things. Would you like to see what the future has in store? For the first time since he began his quest, doubt began to slip into Aser's mind. He tried to remind himself that was exactly what the demon was trying to do, but that slight twinge of doubt began to grow. Aser found himself unable to resist. All right, demon, said Aser.

What can you tell me of my quest? Sukhas grinned more broadly than ever as the words left Aser's lips. I prefer to show you. The man waved a hand over the torch in the center of the room, and it was extinguished. Fear gripped Aser as the darkness enveloped him. From above him, a light appeared. He looked up and saw that it was the moon high overhead. Looking back to the floor, he saw a forest laid out before him.

He heard Sukhas clearing his throat behind him and spun around. Aser found himself on the top of a high ridge, looking down on Zatanitas from miles away. Zuccas stood on the very precipice. What will happen when the goddess lives again? Asked Sukhas. Is it not possible? that her wrath will be great. With that, a brilliant light appeared in the sky above the city. A massive glowing orb hung ominously over Zatan Nitas. Is it not possible that the city will pay the price?

The orb descended in a split second, striking the center of the city. A flash of light struck Aster's eyes, and he had to cover them. Moments later, he felt a shockwave wash over him. Uncovering his eyes, he saw that a dozen more of the orbs had appeared above the city and were beginning to descend. Forcing himself to look into the light, he saw blast after blast tear the city apart. Houses were thrown high into the air. The great statues were blown to dust. He saw the tower of the moon shatter and fall. But why stop there?

Will her wrath not be great enough to punish the world of men as a whole? The entire sky was suddenly alight with the massive orbs. They began to move outward, traveling toward the far eastern cities and the coastal cities of the north. Would you watch the world burn just for your hope? The great orb nearest to them in the sky began to descend directly towards Aser. In seconds, the light had engulfed him and he could see nothing. Aser staled himself, closing his eyes and tried to ignore the vision before him. That will not happen, said Aser.

Our goddess is merciful and just. She would never punish those who have not wronged her. voice was confident, but in his mind the seed of doubt began to grow larger. After a moment, Sukhas spoke again through the light. Perhaps, he said, so let us assume you are right and that your goddess is not the wrathful sort. Let us assume that your beloved golden age does indeed come after my demise. The light around Asher dimmed and began to flicker. He slowly opened his eyes and looked around him. He was in the battered husk of a city. Tall wooden houses burned around him.

The air was heavy with smoke. Ash lined the street. Sukhas still stood in front of him on the broken street. Where are we now? Asked Basser. Sukhaz shrugged. One of the eastern cities, he said. Stead or Lissaria or Holm or one of the others I cannot remember.

Succaus bent down and grabbed a handful of ash. As he spoke, he let it sift through his finger. and let it drift away in the searing wind. Your golden age comes, but your city's pride does not disappear. It only grows. Succas turned and began to walk up the road, stepping over burning debris. Aser hurried after him, he felt his feet sink into the hot ash. He could not help but wonder where all the people were.

Perhaps the vision was not complete. They begin to see themselves as superior to those around them, said Succas. They are ruled over by a living deity, and they feel that they have the divine right to rule over these other pathetic cities. The armies of Satan Natas march on them all and burn them to the ground. The two of them finally came to a great courtyard. Asr moved ahead of Sukhas and saw that the paved area had been ripped apart, and that great pits had been dug into the earth.

Moving towards one, he saw that it was not a pit, but a mass grave. A hundred charred skeletons filled the pit to its very brim. He saw movement at the center of the courtyard, and his attention was torn away from the bodies. The smoke cleared, and he could see a banner flying proudly. It was bloodied and torn, but the symbol of the black sun could still be seen emblazoned on it. What once inspired faith will now only instill fear, said Sukhaz. Aser felt rage began to boil up inside him.

but he could not tell what it was directed at. Was it at the men of this future? Sukhaz, himself? No! screamed Asser. The people of Zatandataz would never do this. I have lived there my entire life and have never once doubted that they were good people. You still believe that after knowing what has transpired there for five years?

Asked Suqaz. Your naivety is amusing, if nothing else, I must say. And if our leaders have fallen to corruption, the people will not?" Said Asser, Sukhaz smirked and shook his head. So, once again, let us presume you are right. Your precious people are faultless, and they spend their golden age doing wholesome, peaceful things. Aser struggled to keep a calm facade in response to Sukhah's mocking tone.

Do you trust the people of the surrounding cities just as much? As he spoke the words, the city around them blurred and changed. The sound of flames died down and was replaced with another sound. Metal, striking metal. The men of the surrounding cities see your great wealth and power. And as always happens, they are filled with envy and fear. They will try to crush you. As the scene around him finally stopped shifting.

Aser found him in Sukkaz standing in the market quarter of Zatan Nataz, beneath one of the great fountains. The water ran red. Among them, soldiers fought madly. The guards of Satan Nataz were outnumbered and outmatched, but they struggled on, more falling each second. The soldiers attacking them had many different sigils on their armor. They will succeed, said Sukhas.

He motioned for Aser to look behind him. Aser did so and saw the body of the goddess once again. Her heart was removed and the body had been decapitated. Aser fell to his knees seeing the streets of the. Oasis City full of death. He closed his eyes and lowered his face into his hands. The noise around him fell silent. He looked up and found himself in Suqaz's study once again, the torch shining dimly from its stand. Aser felt his head spinning. Suqas stood over him, arms crossed, awaiting a response. Aser met his gaze, glaring back into the bright blue eyes. He rose to

his feet and took a deep breath. So, said Succas, what is your course of action now? It was almost a minute before Asa replied, I believe in the goddess, I believe in the city of Zatan Nataz, and I believe in all people. I will see your downfall demon, no matter the cost. There was no trace of uncertainty in his voice. There was not even any rage. There was only a conviction that brought a look of shock to Succause's

face. Aser shoved Sukhaz away from him and went for the door. Stop! said Sukhaz. Aser sighed and waited, keeping his back to him. Going to kill me now? He asked. He heard Suqaz's footsteps approach his back. No, said Sukaz.

I'm not going to be that kind. Then what do you want? Asked Aser, he felt Suqaz's breath on the back of his neck. You have seen what could happen. whispered Sukhas, but now you must know what will happen. Aser remained silent. I gave you a chance, a chance to stop your fools crusade and live out your days in peace. The same way I gave your priests a chance to save themselves and repent, but they failed to take it. And now so have you. I will not listen to more of your lies, demon, then listen to the truth,

said Sukhaz, his voice raising, you will go and tell the people of me and your high priest. And do you know what they will do? They will call you mad and heretic, and they will take you and lock you away in the tower of the moon in a tiny cell with one tiny window. And every new moon he will look out that window and wonder if it is finally the day that the high priest break the cycle and release your precious goddess. And that day will never come. Aser closed his eyes and focused his thoughts inward, ignoring Sukhas, whose voice,

whose voice rose with every word. You will watch your city travel the road to destruction. You will live out your life in that cell waiting for the day to come. And on your deathbed, you will finally know that that day will never come. Sukhas grabbed Aser by the shoulder and spun him around, screaming directly into his face. Where will your faith be then? Sukhazh finally fell silent. Aser reached up and removed his hand from his shoulder.

He looked back into the demon's eyes and smiled. Same place it has always been, said Aser. Sukhas glared back and returned the smile. You think you will be rewarded in death as a martyr, said Sukhas. But you do not know the truth. She is not a goddess. She is Satanitas, the very soul of the Oasis City. With every day of slaying, the city decays brick by brick.

And when enough bodies have been cast into the pit, your precious city will collapse under the weight of its own pride, you'll have no deity to put faith in." Asa remained silent for a moment. When he spoke again, Sukhas heard something change. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there. I have learned something here today, Sukhas, said Aser. I thank you. I really do, because if Zatannitas is only a city, then there is only one thing left to place

my faith in. I believe in the people. And if this city does fall one day, the people will survive it, and you will know that you have failed. Where will your pride be then?" Succas said nothing, as Aser turned and left the room at last. Suqaz thought quietly for a moment, and then smirked. Good luck, man of faith, he said. You will need it. The torch went out, and the room descended. back into darkness. My guide stopped talking and began carving once again.

I waited a minute for him to resume before speaking. Well? I asked. What happened then? He looked up at me and smiled. There are no records that still remain from that ancient city. He said. I sighed and got up from the campfire.

I grabbed a torch and stuck it into the fire. After lighting it, I walked toward the spring a short walk away from our camp. I kept talking as I walked away. So, do you think the place even existed? I asked. There are certain relics that have been found that supposedly come from the Oasis City. I reached the spring, planted the torch into the earth beside me, and drank a handful of water. And there are some that say that deep, deep in the desert on cold and moonless nights, a strange man appears. I was about to turn back to the camp. campfire when I saw something out of place beneath the water. A strange man with flashing blue eyes.

I pulled the torch out of the earth and raised it higher, and they say that if you ask politely, he will tell you a tale. A large slab of stone lay at the bottom of the spring. The tale of the last man of faith in the great, ancient and forgotten city of Zatan Tatas. On that stone slab beneath the clear waters, I could make out two symbols, a shining golden fron and a large black sun. I turned back towards the campfire to call my guide over to sea, but when I looked back, I found that I was alone beneath the moonless night sky. Discoveries of the ancient world possess such mystery and intrigue that they can make the

most unsophisticated person look upon them in such a certain. wonder and admiration. In some rare cases, they can possess such knowledge of human existence that dread is carried with it for eternity. The mysteries of humankind and human nature are what made me want to study such history. Yet I knew that some mysteries are best left undiscovered, for in them lies truth, and truth is such a bitter dark. A colleague of mine, Dr. Henry Tremont, went on an excavation in the snow-swept deeps

of Siberia. There, he heard great rumors of a mammoth graveyard. I never cared much for the bones of long dead animals, but I find admiration in Henry's love for such beasts. He hired a grand crew of workers and diggers. They would hack away at the base of a withered glacier, trying to find more bones and more evidence of extinct wildlife. I followed Henry's excavation closely.

It isn't that I cared for what he found. It was more joyful for me to read every letter he sent me and feel that he'd be able to read the love the man possessed for his work. I'd been a professor for many years, one of history and humanities. Time and lacklester students ate away at my soul, and I often wondered what I was doing with my life. Henry sent a letter almost every day from Siberia. In them, he detailed the great bones of ancient beasts he uncovered.

He sent a few photos as well, mostly of him, standing among piles and piles of enormous cycloptic skulls with large ivory tusks. I envied him, not in a negative way. I envied the joy he found. That said, his letters grew more and more interesting and more appealing to me the more he wrote. Often he'd discussed unknown bones of creatures that he'd never heard of. He collected them, of course, and over the span of months he had an entire collection of such strange wonders.

They were not a complete skeleton, though. Henry admitted to me that he did not think they belonged to the beasts like a mammoth. was unsure where they came from, but he was certain that he was on the verge of a great discovery. One letter in particular sparked my interest. It was one of the last few he'd sent me, one of the last few that I could read and understand. He described that the mammoth graveyard was something more, something larger than what he had initially thought. He described that the further they dug into the side of the glacier and around its surfaces,

the more strange bones they discovered. The mammoths were all dried up, but new creatures marked. One's he couldn't even imagine, and a human skull being discovered around something that he deemed the monolith. Attached to this letter, he placed a photograph. It was the last he sent. In it, Henry stood near a large block of stone in some type of cave. It stood roughly eight feet tall and about five feet wide.

Its surface was smooth, and its color was a glossy black. Its eye sockets still visible from around the edges, appeared to be sealed with bone, as if the The marrow grew to cover the eye. At his feet, I noticed many human femurs and other bones that I'd seen during my own excavation of long dead cities. The letter ended with him asking for my opinion on the matter, and to write back as soon as I could. I tried to write, Henry.

I believed my letters reached him, but something changed within the man that once he responded. I could not make out what his letters were trying to convey. They were a mess of scribbles and drawings. Notes in such an awful handwriting I believed them to be in dead light. I felt a sense of trouble brewing. I didn't know why, but I just had a hunch that Henry discovered something he shouldn't have. It was then that I took my leave from the university for two months, begging my regents to let me finish

the excavation that Henry started. Once I provided them with the photos and excerpts from his letters, they let me go to his aid. And to try. I hopped on the first plane to the foreign empire to try to save the mystery of the monolith. It took me a few days to arrive at Henry's campsite. I took trains, rode horses, joined a caravan of traitors when the opportunity presented itself. When I arrived at the excavation, Henry was noor to be found.

I stayed bundled beneath my many coats and hoods, trying to stay warm. A young man in his early 30s who spoke fairly good English approached me. His face was covered in dirt and sweat. He looked tired, withered, and frail. He shook my hand as I approached. I am the foreman here. Dimitri. Who are you?

I am a colleague of Dr. Han. Dr. Henry Tremont," I explained. He wrote me about the monolith. As soon as the words left my mouth, Dmitri's eyes grew wide. His dark pupils fluctuated with nerves, and I could see his heart beating in the arteries of his neck. He shook his head. You come to see the doctor?

I nodded. This way. Dmitri took me to the largest tent within the campsite. He threw back the flap as a massive roar of wind came pealing through the grounds. Snow and ice peppered my face, forcing me to bury my nose into the camp-sides. my jacket, Dmitri stepped into the tent, and I did not follow, for in a moment of hesitation, I looked into the dark navy skies overhead, the low-hanging clouds peeled away for a moment, revealing the mass of glacier before us. It stood tall as a mountain, great and powerful,

stone and ice covered every side of the massive structure. It loomed over us, an ancient structure of nature, so powerful that even the sight alone almost stopped my heart. It wouldn't be until I heard the form and snap his fingers at me, did I break my gaze and step into the large tent. Inside, it wasn't much warmer. A fire did sit within a small makeshift furnace in the center of the room. It was the only light source after Dmitri closed the flap behind me. Shadows engulfed the tent with only the hellish glow of the small iron furnace to keep

them at bay. A horrendous odor that smelt as if it were death itself. I gagged upon unraveling my face, and it was then that I saw him, my friend. Henry sat at a small portable wooden desk. He rode away with a long quill on his letterhead. What he wrote, I could only guess the mad ramblings. He was sweating from every pore in his body. He sat naked, too.

McGlow of the furnace light danced across his glistening back as he muttered strange phrases to himself. I took a step further in shock and horror, not recognizing my unkempt friend. His face became matted with a squirrely gray beard in his eyes. Stranges as it sounds were not his. I knew the man for years, but those eyes, they did not belong to him. He turned as I stepped forward, as I said to him, Henry, are you all right?

It calls, and I see, my friend exclaimed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent quickly. He then turned his head back to his riding and continued to scribble and draw. As I began to take another step, I felt a cold, gloved hand of the foreman rest on my shoulder, halting me in place. I turned to face the Russian, and he shook his head at me. It is all he says. That's it? The foreman nodded.

When did this happen? He's the only one who survived. That is when it happened, the foreman explained. I became confused, shaking my head slightly as my eyes glanced to the dancing shadows of the tent. Survive. What did he survive? The touch of his shape. He demanded fifteen workers help them move with a black slab.

They all perish. He survived to its touch. The foreman said. Shifting his gaze from me towards the naked doctor at his desk, he continued. They screamed wildly for a few moments before falling into the snow. Dead. All of them dead but the doctor. He survived and only says that it called to him.

I became even more confused. The monolith was nothing but a structure made of black stone. It had to be created by man, ancient man. And such powers were something that I never heard of other than stories from ancient desert treasures. I fiddled my fingers as I thought, and trying to piece together some sort of rational explanation. It was then that I looked to the foreman and asked, May I see it? He shook his head.

I don't like to go there. Why? It is such a discovery. The foreman looked at me, removing a hand-rolled cigarette from his jacket. He held it to the flames of the furnace before placing it in his mouth and taking a deep puff. Smoke flowed from his mouth as the glowing cherry drew my eyes. He said softly, I think it caused to me too. Please, I said, taking the cigarette out of his hand and taking a deep inhale of smoke,

I handed it back to him and explained. I need to see it. He took the cigarette back. I could sense the nerves in his eyes as he looked around the room. He gave an oppressive nod. I felt a sense of shame. I cannot explain it. For I came to visit my friend, but upon the very sight of his unkempt state, I could not bear to witness him.

For pity filled my heart. My friend, one of the most brilliant men of all. all became nothing but a rambling mess. I thought of some of his great work, thinking fondly of his wisdom and knowledge. All the while, Henry continued to mutter in the corner. It calls to me. It calls to me, and I see. It calls to me, and I see.

It calls to me, and I see. The foreman and I walked through the piles of bones and skulls of long-dead animals. The enormous skulls of mammoths all faced inward on a path towards the excavation side. Not a worker did their job. They all lingered about the camp. A few men sat atop the skulls, muttering to themselves and singing old folk songs, wondering how the hell they would get out of such a dreadful place. The glacier loomed before us and at the end of the long, snowy path.

I could see a small tunnel carved into the side. The surface before it sank in for months of digging. We walked along the scaffolds and other makeshift walkways just to get to the tunnel's entryway. Looking down into the dig site, I could see hundreds of bones, most ranimal. I knew that much. Others belonged to human, but I felt that some fossils belonged to the unknown. I told myself I was biased because I was going off Henry's crazy words. Yet, the twisted and arled bones did not fit any description of anatomy for any living creature that I knew of.

As the two of us stood in front of the tunnel, Dmitri returned to me and said, Remember, Professor, do not tell you. I nodded, staring into the dark tunnel before us. Henry had his workers carve out a nice pathway, for the tunnel stood roughly eight feet high and about six feet wide. I could only imagine the months and manpower to dig such a thing. Dmitri led the way into the swirling darkness of the tunnel. He held a lantern ahead of him, but it did no good.

The darkness swallowed him and I, as we began our trek to the mysterious structure. The tunnel did not extend deeply into the glacier. In fact, it felt like we only walked about fifty feet or less, though as I turned my back towards the entrance of the tunnel, I could not see the dark gray light of the early evening. Only black greeted me from where I stood. Dimitri drew my attention, saying, Here! His lantern illuminated the end of the tunnel.

Henry's workers had extended the area at the end, making a large circular shaped room that was big enough to walk around. In the center of it stood the mighty monolith that I had heard so much about. It was taller than I had expected. I could not see at the top of it, for it extended into the rocky surface of the glacier. Its sides were perfectly cut through, smooth to perfection as well. The material that made up the black slab appeared to be a Psyllion, a glossy volcanic stone that glimmered under Dimitri's lantern.

I stepped away upon seeing it. My heart could not bear such haunting beauty. The foreman turned his back as his eyes met the structure. He set his lantern on the ground and moved towards the way we came, keeping his back turned, As the light of the lantern hit the floor, I could see the skulls and bones of ancient humans. They were bald into fetal-like positions all around the monolith. I was unsure, but it appeared as if they were buried right atop the others as if it were some sacred structure.

All their eye sockets were sealed shut with an unnatural bone growth. I stared into the black obsidian. I watched as the light of the lantern danced across the immaculate smooth surface. I approached slowly in awe of such wonder. I moved around its side, inspecting the back end. It was the same as the front, yet in the unlit shadows, the back end sat flat in color, not glistening under any amount of light. It appeared to be an empty void.

I stared. Lost in a trance upon seeing it. And in the distance, I could hear the faint sound of beating hearts and dancing tongues. Such a wonder, I could feel it too exactly as Henry said. It called to me. Don't, Professor! I heard the foreman's voice echo through the tunnel. I turned to see him.

He kept his back turned, but it was as if he could sense what I was about to do. Unbeknownst to me, I had extended my hand out. As if to touch the black void of the structure, I moved back into the light. Did Dr. Tramont give any theories as to what it is? Demetri didn't answer my question. He knelt down and grabbed his lantern. He held it high above his head. said, lighting as much of the small rocky room as he could.

He kept his eyes turned away from the structure, not wanting to take a chance. He said to me quickly. You've seen it, Professor. Let us go. Do you have any theories? I asked, stepping away from the monolith. Evil, Dimitri said. You heard it's called.

I nodded. Evil. He said, turning his back to me. He began to walk down the tunnel, the way we entered. I stood next to the obsidian stone for him. a moment, not wanting to peel myself away. It was as the light of the lantern vacated the room that I heard the call again. The dancing tongues and beating hearts grew louder with each step Dmitri and his light took.

I felt a heat radiate from the stone monolith, and it was then that a panic began to set in me, for I felt the temptation yet again. If Dmitri did not call after me, I don't think I could have resisted. That night, Dmitri offered for me to stay in his tent. It was the second largest in the campgrounds, I obliged, mostly because I could not bear the sight of Henry. I did try to speak to him once more, but he shunned me, the man. My once beloved colleague and friend was nothing more than a lost soul in a sea of snow

and dread. The only friend I possessed from then on was Dmitri the foreman. The two of us sat up past twilight, eating watery soup and stale bread, talking to one another about the monolith. We had a fire going and many candles lit. We both feared the darkness. With enough pressing, Dimitri recounted the story of how the workers died. He was not there, he expressed, but he did hear the screaming and crying of his workers who tried to help Henry remove the structure from the tunnel. He said that himself and the others who were working in the graveyard quickly rushed inside to see the workers screaming in agony on the floor before

perishing. He said that the doctor knelt before the monolith. His hand, and he said that the doctor knelt before the The band extended out, touching it. It took seven men to peel him away, and once they did, he never left his tent other than to drop his letters in the box of the weekly courier. Dmitri expressed that he believed the doctor to be writing more people than myself, and feared that more would venture to see the obsidian wonder. Though you still hear its call, he asked. I shook my head.

I don't hear it. You feel it, he said. He nodded, lighting up a cigarette and offering it to me. I felt it too, and with each visit it grows stronger. He smirked. Some stay for pay. Some stay because they cannot peel themselves away. A few men left last week with a few of the big skulls and large tusks.

They came back with everything they took, and they just wanted to look upon the window once more. I would not let them. But you? I asked. Why haven't you left? You know better than to stay. I tried. It's not hard enough, I said.

He smirked, taking a puff of a cigarette. You will find it difficult after seeing it. The call extends across the land. It brought me back, as it will you. I'm sorry about it. Sorry? I warned you not to see it. You are cursed like the rest of us.

I didn't touch it, I informed him. It wants you to. It is a hard fight, but as long as you're here, make sure that we do not get lowered into this black maw. I plan to leave as soon as it's sunrise, I explained. I have an eerie feeling about all of this. Why is that you go? Dmitri informed me. It knows, though.

The black structure knows. We went to sleep not long after that. I felt exhausted after such a long travel, and to realize that I would soon be back on the road made it even more tiresome. I didn't want to stay. I came for Henry, but left for myself. There was no studying to be done. The monolith was evil, as Dmitri put it.

We went to sleep not long after that. I felt exhausted after such a long travel, and then to realize that I would have to be done. soon be back on the road and made it more tiresome. I did not want to stay. I came for Henry, but left for myself. There was no studying to be done. That monolith was evil, as Dimitri put it. I did not care to stick around, for I feared the worst would come of it. I thought of Henry. Such a brilliant man being reduced to madness made my heart sink, for I feared the outcome myself. I didn't plan on saying goodbye, and that broke my heart. Though I felt that the true Henry He vacated the moment he touched the black stone.

I drifted off into sleep after many hours lying awake. I began to have a strange nightmare. It crept into the foreman's tent on the back of the shadows of the night, seeping into my mind like a virus set to destroy me. I imagined myself waking up and hearing the call of the great monolith. I exited the tent without my jacket or scarf. I stood in the roaring winds being pelted by snow and ice that came down from the glacier. I could not feel them for a fire burned within me.

Sweat flowed from my body, dampening my clothes. I marched past the mass of craniums of the ancient beasts. I dared not look at them, for the call of the monolith exited from the dead gaping jaws. Their tusks warped and twisted under the winds as if they were bent by nature itself. I slowly made my way back to the tunnel. Fearful, yet desiring, what sat at the back of it. The call grew louder and vibrant off the stone walls of the tunnel. I moved inside, finding shelter from the extreme cold of the outside, though I could not feel

it. I marched through the swirling darkness. Moving closer to the end of the tunnel, McCall swirled around me with the shadows of the tunnel, as if it took physical form. When I arrived at the monolith, I stood in its presence, basking in the unimaginable heat that radiated from it. I held my hand out, wanting to touch it, needing to touch it. I could not see it at first, though.

For the darkness of the tunnel hit it from my vision. Yet, as my hand grew closer, I could see a cold violet glow sweep from its sides. The aura felt almost blinding to me, yet I needed to see what sat on the other end. My bare hands grew closer. The heat seared the flesh off the tips of my fingers. I flattened my hands, spreading the heat across my palms, and I felt the ancient wisdom of its creator begin to flow through my body. I cannot lie. It felt of ecstasy.

It was then, when only a centimeter away from embracing the stone of my chestace, touch that I heard someone call from me. Professor! I turned my head, seeing Dmitri standing in the tunnel. He held a lantern out ahead of him, and only as the light of the small lantern hit my eyes did I realize that I was not dreaming. I stood in the tunnel, absorbing the heat and listening to the call of the ancient wonder. My reality slowly came into view and I lowered my hand, realizing the mistake I foolishly made.

It was then that Dmitri reached out, trying to grab a hold of me, as if they were living, He crept from the shadows and somehow tripped to the oncoming Russian. He fell forward towards me and I tried to catch him. His lantern hurled my direction and shattered against the obsidian structure. Flame and oil covered it instantly, causing me to flinch and move out of the way. Dmitri extended a hand as if asking me to catch him. But it was not me who responded. Before the foreman realized what was happening, his hand rested against the stone structure.

He should have fallen forward onto his face, but it was as if the structure wanted him to be safe and held him in place for a moment. Floating above the skeletons of the floor. Slowly, Dmitri's legs lowered, kneeling before the monolith as his hands stayed connected. The flames roared wildly around the structure, forcing me to move away and fall into my back. I shielded my eyes for a moment, but the swirling darkness suffocated the flames quickly and the purple glow that seeped from the structure's sides grew brighter, more vibrant. The calling stop.

went silent. Then, a strange sound echoed from the monolith. It sounded as if a sword were being sheathed in a metal hilt. Everything fell quiet. Dimitri looked back at me and said, I cannot remove my hand. Suddenly, as if a hurricane roared inside the tunnel, a cacophony of noises swallowed the two of us. It was deafening in the call of the monolith dance somewhere behind it. The black stone glowed with a vibrant white light.

It became translucent as if the monolith was no longer a physical structure, but rather a specter before the foreman. Dmitri screamed wildly, and the same radiant violet glow seeped from his eyes as he stared into the white abyss. I too could not look away, for images flashed within the structure. I could see fields of black sand and decaying flowers. I could see tall stone structures. I could see towers of ivory and obsidian.

I could see a red sun glowing on an empty horizon, with black stars twinkling. I could see my own life laid out like pieces on a chessboard. I could see a looming figure across the black ocean. I could see a tall, a Pissidian pyramid, and above it. I could see a wild mass of chaos and dread. I could not look away. I tried. I felt the pull for me to touch the structure.

I wanted to see more. I had to see more. I reached my hand out again, but a scream from the form and caused me to retreat. His mouth sat agape and life vacant from his face with each passing second. His screams at first sounded like human, but grew into a deep, monstrous bellow that echoed from the tunnel and rolled across the glacier. His voice hollowed and deepened, no longer belonging to him. His eyes radiated that hellish violet as he continually screamed.

It calls and I've seen. It calls and I've seen. It calls and I've seen. Large black strands of the shadows swarmed around the foreman. They wrapped his body as if he were prey to the monolith's will. He could not stop screaming. I turned my back and ran from the tunnel. The glow of the white ore did not light the path for me.

I stumbled in the darkness, trying to escape. I feared it too late for the foreman. I feared it too late for my own self. But I had to try. I stopped for a moment, feeling the guilt of abandoning the man. I wanted to save him. I had to try and save him. It was then that I looked back and saw the white translucent structure before.

and the other side, a great, strange shape that belonged to the darkness itself, for it was the darkness, and the strands that extended from the structure were part of it. Dmitri continuously screamed. I wept, backing away to escape. I shouted repeatedly as I ran, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. As I exited the tunnel, the entirety of the camp sat awake. They all exited their tents and I could see them looking up. towards the glacier in amazement. Some cheered while others bowed to the will of the monolith.

I fell to my knees, fearful of what was happening. It was then that I looked up and could see the glowing white of the monolith, piercing through the glacier and extending into the blackness of the night. What low gray clouds sat overhead began to swirl and radiate with the same hellish violet scene in the foreman's eyes. I scrambled back to my feet and ran. I gathered my things from the foreman's tent and took one of the few horses that remained at the camp. I ran away. On my ride, I saw Henry exiting his tent. He smirked at me as I ran, and I could see the pale phosphorous white of the monolith glowing behind his eyes. He screamed in a haunting roar as I exited the camp as fast as the horse would let me. It did not sound human. It did not sound enlightened.

The scream rolled over the empty force of Siberia and followed me until I could no longer see the beam of light from the glacier. I never returned to the camp. I returned home and spoke not of what I saw or heard. I dared not pique the interest of those seeking a lost discovery. I kept to myself, and if anyone asked, I stated that I never found Dr. Henry Tremont or his excavation. I lie to keep them safe, yet I still feel its call. I still dream of it.

I wake up in the twilight to haunting screams of Henry and Dimitri. I envision myself in the dream-scape steeps of Siberia again, walking the cold, skull-lined path towards the glacier. The workers are all there. Their eyes glowing with the violent ather of the structure, the white aura calls from the black void of the tunnel. I can feel its call. Those deep drums and dancing tongues, upon entering the tunnel, I see Henry knelt before

the monolith. Dimitri and an assortment of workers are with him. The band of them are nude and worshipping the ancient structure. Their eyes are burnt away from their skulls, and only a glowing violet sits within their hollowed sockets. The call flows from their mouths. I can hear what they say. It calls on the sea.

It calls when you see. I approach, holding my hand out to the monolith. The glowing violet awe of the white light from the shimmering stone showers my cold body, setting my innards ablaze. The same images flash before me, and just as I think that I see what truly lurks on the other side, I awake in a cold sweat. I screamed some night, fearful of what I witnessed. Just before I fall back asleep, I can hear the call again.

My heart stops. For some mysteries are better left, undiscovered. When I approached the easternmost mouth to Chambricks, I found Reed already kneeling by it. She'd found a few things scattered here, discarded food wrappers, a battery, and an open water bottle that she turned upside down and emptied into the dirt. Still some inside. She said. They were here, Shaw.

This is the place. This entrance to the caverns of Chambricks, interestingly, was small enough that only one of us at a time could fit through the gap. But, after a bit of wrestling past the root and stone, the canal yielded and opened up into a proper cave chamber. I entered it first and looked around. The dimensions of the place were impossible to calculate. My flashlight failed to find any edge or even the ceiling of it, but it seemed like the whole

mountain had been hollowed out to accommodate the vastness of these halls. Reed joined me only moments later, and she stood up to her feet as she looked around herself. Hard to believe a place like this went unnoticed for so long. She said after a time. How big do you think it is? People have been reporting updrafts for miles around here, so big. Really damn big. I thought it was confined to the mountain.

We thought it was. Then someone found an entrance to it out near Gardersdale two or three weeks back. Shit, Gardersdale? That's like 30 miles away. I know. And it could be even bigger than that. We began searching the mouth of the place for more clues as we spoke. You know the old Davis caverns?

One's out by Lakewood? We used to go there on field trips. Me too, but some people are saying those are actually connected to Chambrick somehow. Probably via some passage nobody's even found yet. I looked in vain under a hooked formation of stone for anything of interest. And those are like, what, 70 miles away? Damn. There was silence for a bit as we began our walk, but after a time, she said.

So what do you think happened to these guys? Creepy uncle just drags his niece in here. For what? I don't know. I helped her through a tight passage as we exited the opening chamber and followed her through. Apparently they go on little adventures like this all the time together, but they're usually little afternoon outings, you know? I'm back by nine type of things. And how long have they been in here?

26 hours. We walked for some time after that, and the deeper into the cavern we roamed, the more magnificent. it became. Soon, the endless scape of rock and stone had glowing plant life added to its number. There were mushrooms and small shrubs of varieties I'd never before seen catalogued, and so bright was the collective bioluminescence that, in the passages that contained them, Reed and I shut off our flashlights. She snapped photographs of the things as we passed them by. But the curious This floor was far from the only thing to be found in chamber,s that stole our breath. About two hours into our search, we found a new chamber of utterly unspeakable size.

It stretched far off into the darkness at its northern side, and at its base, it featured a small patch of woods upon a hill, kept alive both by a sunbeam that filtered in through a hole in the top of the ceiling, and by a river that split the floor down the middle. That was itself fed by a waterfall pouring in from the westernmost wall of the place. We spent as much time there as the assignment could afford before moving on. Shaw, take a look at this. I left my unfruitful corner of the chamber I'd been searching and ran to her side. What is it?

Look. She handed me a notebook page covered in dirt on which words had been scribbled. I took the thing and she provided the flashlight. And together, we've read it in silence. Today, after months of scouting out these halls, I am at last confident enough to bring along with me my niece, Meredith. She is none the wiser about the nature of this expedition, and neither are her parents. So trusting of me they have become, but it is no matter.

Soon all of them will know why it is necessary. There was a pause before Reed looked up and said, Wait, did this Graham guy just abduct the girl? I thought they had a good relationship. I did too. You think she's in danger? We wouldn't be here if she wasn't, and before Reed could respond, I knelt down and picked up a small piece of paper that had been discarded on the floor.

Then I looked up and forward and saw another such piece, and another and another, leading to the end of this chamber and beyond, past where the thing. thick darkness consumed everything a short ways off. It's a trail. Come on. The paper trails took us deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper still into the depths of Chambricks. In some of the chambers through which Reed and I passed, there again were those glowing

plants. And we walked with ease. But in most of the tunnels it was suffocatingly dark. Even with our flashlights, we tripped and stumbled and felt around the walls with our free hand. The rocks here were sharp, tall, and wide. Some hung low. Others jutted out to the cavern floor. Others forced us to shimmy in between them, and still others seemed to leap up at us out of the darkness itself. We moved slowly, and we moved deliberately, but always there was more paper to follow. After another hour of such frustrated movement, Reed stopped and knelt and picked up another

full page. Look here. Another one. And we read it in the same fashion as before. Meredith has grown restless and inquisitive. I love the girl. I love her dearly, in fact, and wish I could answer her questions about our destination and purpose for coming here with honesty, but I cannot bring myself to do that.

All I have to comfort me in this place is the knowledge that her pain, when it begins, will run its course swiftly. Mine will linger, but that is the price I must pay. This is not at all what they made it sound like when we took this job. I know. There was a heavy pause before she said. He's going to hurt her, isn't he? Yes. From that point forward, both the nature of our job and the nature of the cave itself took on a macabre quality. No longer was this place the destination of a me. near ill-fated spalunking trip.

It was the place, I felt, where horrible things had either happened or were about to happen. And still, despite this new urgency to rescue the girl, we could only move at the pace allowed by the cavern itself. That same slow, torturous, plodding rate of speed tripped up by all manner of rock and stone and low-hanging things. In long periods of such advancement were broken up only by the finding of paper crumbs, but it was another hour before we found the next full page in the floor of the first wide-open chamber we'd seen in some time.

This time it was Reed, who held and illuminated the note, while together we read its contents. Meredith's resistance to my instruction has now exceeded mere words. She has now actively tried to escape. I caught her with ease, of course, and her pounding fists upon my back as I hauled her deeper into chamber chamber, are of little concern. But still it breaks my heart. Her faith in me, her dear uncle, has been destroyed. Over and over I tell her, although without much success in calming her, worry not, little

one, worry not. The god of the deep will see you soon, and he will. Gal is mortis septa, earth soothet, Gal is mortis Wolfenggong. Wolfenggrong? The god of the deep? But I didn't respond to that. Already I'd moved on to something far more otherworldly and every bit as unnerving as the contents of that page. Read, I said after a time, look at this.

And when she joined me, I shine my flashlight across a great stone formation that marked the far end of that chamber. There stood tall and fast, a massive wall of stone that was far too smooth to have been a naturally occurring formation, except in regards to the ancient carvings that graced its upper and lowermost edges, and the pillars spaced at flawless intervals, and the threshold of a great door at its center. Looks like we're not the first to find this place after all. We observed the wall for a time more before I added.

I mean, how far down are we? A mile? Two? At least. Shaw, something like this must have been built when this place was closer up to the surface. That means thousands and thousands and thousands of years ago, likely before the mountain formed, maybe before recorded civilization itself. I said nothing to that.

There were no words to be said at such a thought. We only inspected the wall some more and snapped photographs. of it, and then in through the great door we went. I have arrived, read the next page we found on the floor of the mighty hall of whatever place we had entered. At last I have found the lost halls of Sul Galif, a temple of the slumbering dread. I bring sacrifice to this place in the name of Sufet. Awake from your slumber and walk again upon the earth.

There's that word again. Wolf and Grom. Graham seems to think there's some sort of God that lives in this place. And look here. She held up the note to me, and by the light of my flashlight, I read the indicated passage with sacrifice. Shaw, I think he brought Meredith here to kill her. I know, and I think she's the one who's been ripping his notebook apart and leaving a

trail so someone would find her. Then I looked up and around the place in which we stood and said, the temple of Sul Galif. Is that where we are now? I don't know. Together we shown our flashlights around the place and saw more walls stretching up past where the light beams could reach. In the center of the ceiling was a curious and monstrous contraption, and on the walls there were great carvings that told a tale.

We looked at each other, then stepped forward to get a better look. The first image etched into the stone nearest the door seemed to be of a clawed hand. descending from a storm cloud, and releasing upon the earth six terrible and monstrous creatures. Around where the beasts fell were men in cloaks and masks who appeared to be worshipping the great hand. Reed and I paused on this image for a time before she said, Looks like some kind of ancient, evil god sending his demons to earth.

Maybe that's the hand of this Sufith thing Graham's got going on. I don't know. possibly. And maybe Graham fancies himself as one of these guys here, I said, and I pointed to the picture of the cult with their upstretched arms. Reed concurred. After another moment of inspection, we moved to the second picture, a short ways to the right of the first.

This one depicted what appeared to be the same beast bringing great cities to ruin and slaying with ease the armies that were dispatched to destroy them, urging them forward from the rear was the same cult from the first carving, and they in turn seemed to be commanded by another mask figure who stood on a hill and who was himself being puppeted by the hand. Looks like some kind of great war. More like a massacre. And we moved forward. But the third image, now on the next wall to the right of that with the door, depicted

the rising up of a new force of men. They were depicted as heroes. That much was apparent from the style of the carving. and they warred with the cults of the great hand. In the fourth image they appeared to defeat the cult, and in the fifth, on the wall opposite from the one through which we'd entered, was depicted the building of the great facilities used to house the six beasts. Shaw?

Reed said after a time. Shaw, I don't think this place is a temple at all. I think it's a prison. For what? Maybe for that Vuth and Grong thing. I think it's one of the monsters on that wall." The paper trail continued, through that chamber and out the wall on the opposite end and out into the labyrinthine series of Titanic halls and connecting rooms that constituted what

I assumed to be the bulk of whatever facility this was. Many of the rooms and hallway walls bore carvings, although none quite so grand as to what we'd seen in the grand first room. men and battles against the cults of the great hand. Some of them, though, depicted one of those monsters, a writhing arachnid of what appeared to be simply enormous size. Further carvings we passed by as we walked along the trail showed the same beast battling the heroes shown in the first room, and who likely built this place from what Reed and I

could understand. And the final such mural we saw depicted the vanquishing of this beast, likely. the very same Walthingrong mentioned in Graham's diary of sorts and its subsequent imprisonment in a great dungeon. Reed and I said nothing but exchanged glances at each development in turn. But before much longer we stopped. Up ahead we heard the shriek of a young girl, and then a man's voice, and we saw what appeared to be flickering of firelight on the walls.

The voice cried. I seek audience with you. carefully, and deliberately, Reed and I inched our way forward, communicating not even in whispers, but in sweeps of hand and facial cues and other such subtle signals. Hear me, Sufet! Said the voice again. Your servant brings you tribute! When we reached the wall separating us from the next chamber over, we planted our backs

against it and prepared to enter with maximum surprise. But just before we did, a new voice came, and again we stopped. said, Why hast thou not come alone? And so deep and so thick and so filled with malice was that voice that my heart ceased to beat for a moment. From the looks of it, Reed felt similarly. I have brought you tribute, great one, came the man's voice in turn. She is...

But before he finished that sentence there was coughing and hacking and choking. I peeked around the corner and Reed looked too. The room there consisted of not more than a mighty pit, but that pit was of utterly incomprehensible size and presumable depth, and so too were the dimensions of the chamber that housed it. How an ancient, prehistoric race of men had built something with such an architectural integrity and such precision simply astounded me. But there, in the middle of the floor before the pit was a man, David Graham, I assumed him to be. He was indeed choking and coughing and crawling about on the ground with the use of

the arm that wasn't clawing at his throat. Beside him on the stone floor was a bloodied knife, and the girl, too, who clutched her lacerated hand with the good one and scrambled away from her uncle as he writhed. The other voice spoke then, but to my disgust and shock, it did so through him. It said, as it spoke, Graham's jaw did not move at all, but in Instead, hung open by the jaw, as Sufet's words slithered through. There are others in this. And then he was released from that grip, and Graham fell to the floor and gasped for air and drank it in in gulps. Suthet!

He weezed at last. Forgive me, great one, I seek only to release your thirdborn, Walthengrong, from this prison. I don't know. The voice of the hand filled him yet again and said, behind line back. And Graham whirled around and saw in the threshold of the door, Reed and myself. He then opened his jaw to a hideously unnatural degree, said the voice. With no further use for stealth, the two of us stepped from the shadows and forward, displaying by our open palms that we came unarmed.

I then said, with a tremble, I failed to hide. We're here for the girl. Okay? Give her to us and we'll leave. We don't want any trouble. Meredith still looked too horrified to do much more than stare. But Reed stepped then in her direction and smiled at her as if to say, It's okay. You're safe. But that was far from a foregone conclusion. Graham then spoke in his own voice to us. Who are you? How did you find me here? You did all the work scouting this place out, and your niece here was smart enough to leave a trail for us."

I held up one of the pages from his notebook, and when he saw the thing, he scrambled for the pad in his own pocket. He then pulled it up and counted the missing pages and the torn ones. He then turned to his niece. Bitch! He screamed, and then he lunged for her, but both Reed and I flew in between them as Meredith screamed again and cried. in front of her and closest to the charging Graham.

Before he could stop, I threw my fist into his face, and he fell unceremoniously to the floor. And then the voice again wreathed itself in Graham. It said. A servant is unworthy. And again the voice released him. Graham now spoke on his own and cried out to the ceiling. No, no, Suthet, please, don't forsake me in this place.

Your thirdborn sleeps in this temple, does he not? The others of your order seek the awakening of the other dreads as we speak. From what I hear, your second-born Vythring has already been awoken in the sea. The moonlit dawn is upon us. Let me play my part. Allow me to redeem my foolishness in service of you, great one, and awaken Wolfengran in this temple. As we watched, the voice again consumed the essence of David Graham and said through him, I require a proper blood sacrifice.

fetch for me this, and I shall grant thine request. Graham stood up again, and, after spending a moment to ruminate on those instructions, grabbed the knife up from the floor, and slowly advanced in the direction of Reed and Meredith and myself. Graham, I said. Listen, I don't know what that thing was, but you don't have to do this. Just put the knife down and we can all walk out of here together, okay? No one has to get hurt here. You heard the great one.

He demands a proper sacrifice. This isn't a temple, Graham. Didn't you see the carvings? It's a prison for whatever lies in that- Shut up! Just shut up! I've come too far to just... But I lunged at him first and tackled him and grabbed the wrist of the hand that held

the knife. Meredith screamed, Reed screamed, Graham shouted, and I gripped my teeth as the pair of us rolled around the floor near the edge of the pit. With one hand still holding down his armed hand, I planted my knee in his chest below the throat and threw my fist into his face once, twice, three times. He spat blood but showed no signs of submission. Instead he shrieked. Suhethet!

Help me! But Sufet never came. It was just me and him, rolling and wrestling near the edge of the mighty hole in the stone. Eventually I wrenched the knife free and tossed the thing into the pit. But when I sacrificed my focus to do that, Graham socked me in the jaw with his free hand, and backwards I reeled. Then it was him on me, and he wrapped his hands around my throat and screamed and throttled. I felt my vision blur and darken as I struggled.

In the background, as I faded, I heard three things. One was Meredith screaming and crying with her back planted against the far wall. The second was Graham himself, saying, Here, Suthet, see my service, accept this sacrifice and release your thirdborn." But the third wasn't Suthat's response. It was pounding footsteps, and then Graham looked in their direction. He had not even a second to process the sight of Reed charging at him before he received a knee to the nose.

The impact sent him tumbling off me and over to the edge. He flailed and he gasped and he reached for a grip, but he found none. And over the edge of the pit he went as he screamed. I gasped for breath as Reed and I crawled to the edge. We saw him falling, falling, falling some more before we heard a bizarre squish, and then a brief silence. And then from the bottom of the pit we heard in Sufet's voice now. Well done.

I find this tribute worthy. And he laughed at a deep guttural bellow into which the already dead ram threw his back. And then there was a deep-set rumbling in the depths of the earth that grew only louder and louder and more powerful as it went. Before long the whole place shook and heaved and tossed itself back and forth and back again, and bits of rock fell from the ceiling and showers, and neither Reed nor Meredith nor myself could find it in ourselves to stand upright and stay upright for the duration of the earthquake. But over the din of it, I heard Reed say,

This whole fucking... And she grabbed me and pulled me to my feet. And she ran then to Meredith and did the same to her, and out the door the three of us went. I stole a look behind me as we fled, and saw a hair-covered leg the size of a small building reach up out of the pit and plant itself with breathtaking force on the surface where we'd been not a minute earlier. Then came another leg, and another, and another. As we ran, and as I watched it, we passed under the great hall.

hallway arch, depicting the imprisoning of exactly such a creature, a mammoth arachnid of truly incomprehensible vastness that had slept in that pit for uncountable millennia. Come on! Reed said, as the three of us thundered down the hall, but behind us, Wothenggong had already emerged in its entirety from the depths of its prison and given chase. It was a hideous, treacherous looking thing, it had bulging nearly human skin and a sex of night-black eyes and coarse hair as sharp and formidable as spears. Its footfalls shook the whole of the earth, and although the walls were large enough to accommodate

its size, many doorways that separated those halls were not. Yet even so, it smashed through them with ease, so powerful was its momentum and sent the stones hurling. On several such occasions we had to dodge pillars of stone as they fell nearly on top of our heads. But then, we passed under the arch, depicting the vanquishing of exactly this creature. I remembered much of it from our first pass-through, and what details I missed then I gained now. That fight had occurred, I realized, in the main hall in which we'd entered. Read!

I said as we ran, and in between shallow breaths, but she only said back, Come on! And continued her run with Meredith's hands in hers. Read! And then she did turn, evidently stunned that I'd chosen this time among all others to converse with her, but I ignored her irritation. We'll never outrun that thing, I said. Well, what the fuck do you suggest?

The main room, the contraption, remember? We don't have time for them. Reed, listen to me. Do you remember the contraption in the main room, or don't you? She thought for a moment as we passed under a new arch and down a flight of stairs. Behind us, Wolfenggung smashed through a series of walls. After dodging more debris, she responded. Yeah, I think so.

I think that's how we kill this thing. What the hell do you mean, kill it? Look at the size of that thing! I turned around, and as if on cue, the great spider destroyed yet another wall and reared up as if to pounce. Its underside was even more mangled and hideous than the rest of it. It was filled with riving sacks and pulsing growths of undeterminable purpose that stunk of all rot and disease, and the scars of a thousand battles and more.

At its back was a stinger that dripped black with vexed. I know. I said as we swept through an alcove and tore towards the very room in which the contraption was set. But I'll say it again. That's why we can't outrun it. But one of those arches showed that contraption being used to stop this thing. Just then we broke into the open of that room with the great carvings.

Ahead of us was the door and escape, perhaps, and not more than a thousand feet behind us thundered Wolfengrong. And to our right now was a great staircase that led up to a plastic. platform on which that strange contraption sat, I looked up at the thing, a great bow or a ballista from the looks of it, with a loaded bolt the size of a building, and then back down at Reed and Meredith. Get her out of here, okay? Reed turned without stopping her flight and called out.

What? Get her out of here. I said again. What the fuck are you doing? Killing a dread. This place wasn't just meant to trap it. And I ran for the steps and launched myself up them. Two at a time.

But she never finished that sentence. Just then, Bothingrong tore through the last of the walls separating us from itself. I shouted once again to read. Go, god damn it! Move! And finally she did. She grabbed a howling Meredith, and together they fled through the great door through which we'd entered.

Just as I reached the top of the platform, I ran my hands over the mighty weapon and found its grip and its trigger. Already the shot was loaded. All right. Now what? And just then I found the wheel on the side of the thing, used to turn and aim it, and gripped it by the handle, and began to spin it counterclockwise. Slowly the thing turned and dipped.

Volfenggrong, for its part, had noticed me, and fortunately given up its chase of the two girls. Instead, it reared up on its monstrous hind legs and bellowed so loud my eardrums nearly shattered. But by the time it had begun to charge, it was too late. The great arrow was already aimed at its midsection. Come on, you son of a bitch! And I pulled the string, I assumed to be the trigger, and with a deafening thump the arrow was shot. It took only a moment to find its target, and when it did, it impacted the beast with such

a stunning force that it lost all its footing, and the whole of its mass was thrown backwards into what was left of the wall it destroyed to get here. It howled again, a breathtaking audible force that again nearly dead. Effinged me, and then writhed, and did its unworthy best to dig out the bolt from its heart. Meanwhile, I wasted no time at all. I flew down the steps even faster than I descended them, three or four at a time, often leaping and not stepping. And when I reached the ground, and just as the beast was throwing itself against the pillars,

holding up the ceiling, I took off across the stone floor and threw myself out the door of the place. Behind me, as I landed on the floor of Chambricks, I heard more. more thunderous crashes, and then the wall splintered and chipped and crumbled and fell with all its architectural majesty. But it was no matter. This place had served its purpose. I closed my eyes and began to breathe. Behind me I heard two pairs of footsteps running away. It took us another four hours to exit the cave. Fortunately, we'd left the paper trail behind for exactly that purpose, and when it ended, we were close enough to the mouth of the caves to find our way out.

We exited the place just before dawn and began our walk back to the truck, parked another quarter mile away. Thanks. What's that? Just wanted to say thank you, Meredith said. For getting me out of there. Hey, yeah, of course. That's why we went in there.

I know. Still, though. Thank you. And before we could respond, she went digging in her side pocket. After a moment she took out another page from the notebook. I kept this one. Thought it was interesting. But maybe you guys can use it.

She then handed us the thing and we unfolded it. The slumbering dread, a song of the Order of Sufet. In waves and rocks and stone they lie deep beneath the ground. Men will search but in vain die, before dreads will be found. Far away from men they fled, when ancient they became, but soon will rise the slumbering dread To set the world aflame. Woe to those who heed these not, names of those who sleep. Uthrin dread of the mountain-tops, Wilthring, ocean-deep, Fothenggrang within the cave,

Rothcruh, hid by frost, Grythin'roll dread neath the wave, and belfring, forests lost. But one there is no such home who lives among the dead, whose realm is graves and catacombs. Hail sooth it, eldest dread. I know you're going to hear this, but I can tell you when it started. I was out for a walk alone in the woods when the entity came for me. It was beyond a blur. It was, for lack of a better term, absence of meaning. Where it hid, there were no trees.

Where it crept closer, there was no grass. Through the ark it leapt at me. There was no breeze of motion. There was no air at all. As it struck, I felt the distinct sensation of claws puncturing me somewhere unseen, somewhere I'd never felt before. My hands and arms and legs and torso seemed fine, and I wasn't bleeding, but I knew I'd been injured somehow. As I fearfully ran back home, I could tell that I was less.

I was vaguely tired, and it was hard to focus at times. The solution at that early stage was easy. A big cup of coffee helped me feel normal again. For a while, that subtle drain on my spirit became love. lost in the ebb and flow of caffeine in my system. You could say my life began that week, actually, because that was when I met Ma. She and I got along great, though, to be honest, I'm pretty sure I fell in love with her over the phone before we even met.

It was almost as if the strong emotions of that first week made the entity fight back. It was still with me, latched on to some invisible part of my being. The first few incidents were minor, and I hardly worried about them. The color of a neighbor's car changed from dark blue to black one morning, and I stared at it before shaking my head and shrugging off the difference. Two days later, at work, a co-worker's name changed from Fred to Dan. I carefully asked around, but everyone said his name had always been Dan. I figured I'd just been mistaken.

And as ridiculous as it sounds, I was peeing in my bathroom at home when I suddenly found myself on a random street. I was still in my pajamas, pants down and urinating, but now, in full view of a dozen people at a bus stop. Horrified, I pulled up my clothes and ran before someone called the cops. I did manage to get home, but the experience forced me to admit that I was still in danger. The entity was doing something to me. And I didn't understand how to fight back.

Mar showed up that evening, but she had her own key. Hey. I asked her with confusion. How'd you get a key? She just laughed. You're cute. Are you sure you're okay with this? She opened a door and entered a room full of boxes.

I know living together is a big step, especially when we've only been dating three months. Living together, I'd literally just met her the week before. is, my mother had always called me a smart cookie for a reason. I knew when to shut my yap. Instead of causing a scene, I told her everything was fine, and then I went straight to my room and began investigating. My things were just as I had left them, with no sign of a three-month gap in habitation, but I did find something out of the ordinary. The date. I shivered angrily as I processed the truth. The entity had eaten three months. of my life. What the hell was I facing? What kind of creature could consume pieces of one's soul like

that? I'd missed the most exciting part of a new relationship, and I would never understand any shared stories or in-jokes from that period. Something absurdly precious had been taken from me, and I was furious. That fury helped suppress the entity. I never imbibed alcohol. I drank coffee religiously. I checked the date every time I woke up. For three years, I managed to live each day while observing nothing more than minor alterations. A social fact here and there. Someone's job, how many kids they had, that sort of thing. The layout of nearby streets, the time my favorite television show aired, that kind of thing. Always, those changes reminded me the creature still had its claws sunk into my spirit.

Not once in three years did I ever let myself zone out. One day, I grew careless. I let myself get really into a season finale of my favorite show. It was gripping. A fantastic story. Right at the height of the action, a young boy came up to my lounger and shook my arm. Surprised, I asked, Who are you?

How did you get in here? He laughed and smiled brightly. Silly, Daddy! My heart sank in my chest. I knew immediately what had happened. After a few masked questions, I discovered that he was two years old, and that he was my son. The agony and heartache filling my chest was nearly unbearable. Not only had I missed the birth of my son, I would never see or know the first years of his life.

Mar and I had obviously gotten married and started a family in the time I'd lost. and I had no idea what joys or pains those years contained. It was snowing outside. Holding my sudden sun in my lap, I sat and watched the flakes fall outside. What kind of life was this going to be if slips in concentration could cost me years? I had to get help. The church had no idea what to do.

The priest didn't believe me and told me I had a mental health issue rather than some sort of possession. The doctors didn't have any clue. Nothing showed up on all their scans and tests, but they happily took my money and returned for nothing. By the time I ran out of options, I decided to tell Mar. There was no way to know what this all looked like from her side. What was I like when I wasn't there? Did I still take our son to school? Did I still do my job?

Clearly I did, because she seemed to be none the wiser. But I still had a horrible. feeling that something must have been missing from her life while I wasn't actually home inside my own head. The night I set up a nice dinner in preparation, she arrived not by unlocking the front door, but by knocking on it. I answered and found that she was in a nice dress. She was happily surprised by the settings on the table. Fancy dinner for our second date. I knew you were sweet on me. Thank the Lord I knew when to keep my mouth shut. If I had gone on about being married and having a son, she might have run for the hills.

Instead, I took her coat and sat down for our second date. Through carefully crafted questions, I managed to deduce the truth. This really was our second date. She saw relief and happiness in me, but interpreted that as dating jitters. I was just excited to realize that the entity wasn't necessarily eating whole portions of my life. The symptoms, as I was beginning to understand them, were more like the consequences of a shattered soul. The creature had wounded me, broken me into pieces.

Perhaps I was to live my life out of order, but at least I would actually get to live it. And so it went for a few years, from my perspective. While minor changes in politics or geography would happen daily, major shifts in my mental location only happened every couple of months. When I found myself in a new place and time in my life, I just shut up and listened, making sure to get the lay of the land before doing anything to avoid making mistakes. On the farthest flung leap yet, I met my six-year-old grandson, and I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said, A writer. I told him that was a fine idea. Then, I was back in month two of my relationship with Mar, and I had the best night with her

on the riverfront. And when I say the best, I mean the best. Knowing how special she would become to me, I asked her to move in. I got to live through what I'd missed the first go-around, and I came to understand that I was never mentally absent. I would always be there, eventually. When we were moving her boxes in, she stopped for a moment. and said she marveled at my great love, as if I'd known her for a lifetime, and never once

doubted that she was the one. That was the first time I'd truly laughed freely and wholeheartedly since the entity had wounded me. She was right about my love for her, but for exactly the reason she'd considered a silly romantic analogy. I had known her from my whole life, and I'd come to terms with my situation and found peace with it. It wasn't so bad to have to sneak peaks at all the best parts ahead.

But, of course, I wouldn't be recording this if things hadn't gotten worse. The entity was still with me. It had not wounded me and departed like I'd wanted to believe. The closest I can describe my growing understanding was that the creature was burrowing deeper into my psyche, fracturing it into smaller pieces. Instead of months between major shifts, I began having only weeks. Once I noticed that trend, I feared my ultimate fate would be to jump between times in my life,

heartbeat by heartbeat, forever confused, forever lost. Only an instant in each time meant I would never be able to speak with anyone else, never be able to hold a conversation, never express or receive love. As the true depth of that fear came upon me, I sat in an older version of me and watched the snow falling outside. That was the one constant in my life. The weather didn't care who I was or what pains I had to face. Nature was always there.

The falling snow was always like a little hook that kept me in place. The pure emotional piece it brought was like a panacea on my mental wounds. And I'd never yet shifted while watching the pattern of falling white and thinking of the The times I'd gone sledding or built a snow fort as a child, a teenager touched my arm. Grandpa? He'd startled me out of my thoughts, so I was less careful than usual. Who are you? He half grinned, as if not sure whether I was joking.

Handing me a stack of papers, he said. It's my first attempt at a novel. Would you read it and tell me what you think? Ah, of course. Pursuing that dream of being a writer, I see. He burned bright red. Trying to, anyway. All right, run off.

I'll read this right now. The words were blurry and annoyed. I looked for glasses I probably had for reading. Being old was terrible. And I wanted to leap back into a younger year, but not before I read his book. I found my glasses in a sweater pocket and began leafing through. Marr puttered in and out of the living room, still beautiful. But I had to focus.

I didn't know how much time I would have there. It seemed that we had relatives over. Was it Christmas? A pair of adults and a couple kids I didn't recognize trumped through the hallway, and I saw my son, now adult, walked by with his wife on the way out the door. As a group, the extended family began sledding outside. Finally, I finished reading the story and called out for my grandson. son. He rushed down the stairs and into the living room.

How was it? Well, it's terrible. I told him truthfully. But it's terrible for all the right reasons. You're still a young man, so your characters behave like young people. But the structure of the story itself is very solid. I paused. I didn't expect it to turn out to be a horror story. He nodded. It's a reflection of the times. expectations for the future are dismal, not hopeful like they used to be. You're far too young to be aware like that. I told him. An idea occurred to me.

If you're into horror, do you know anything about strange creatures? Sure, I read everything I can. I love it. Wharily, I scanned the entrances to the living room. Everyone was busy outside. For the first time, I opened up to someone in my life. about what I was experiencing. In hushed tones, I told him about my fragmented consciousness. For a teenager, he took it well.

You're serious? Yes. He dawned the determined look of a grown man accepting a quest. I'll look into it, see what I can find out. You should start writing down everything you experience, build some data, maybe we can map out your psychic wound. Wow. Sounds like a plan. I was surprised. That made sense, and I hadn't expected him to have a serious response. But how will I get all the notes in one place?

Hmm. Let's come up with somewhere for you to leave them, he said, frowning with thought. Then I'll get them and we can trace the path you're taking through your own life, see if there's a pattern. For the first time since the situation had gotten worse, I felt hope again. How about under the stairs? Nobody ever goes under there. Sure.

He turned and left the living room. I peered after him, heard him banging around near the stairs. Finally, he returned with a box, laid it on the carpet, and opened it to reveal a bursting stack of papers. Holy crap! He exclaimed. Taken aback, I blinked rapidly, forgiving his cussing because of the shock. Did I write those?

He looked up at me in wonder. Yeah. Or... You will. You still have to write them and put them under the stairs after this. He gazed back down at the papers and covered the box. So you probably shouldn't see what they say. That could get weird. That much I understood. Right, right. He gulped.

There are like 50 boxes under there, all filled up like this. Deciphering these will take a very long time. His tone dropped to deadly seriousness. But I will save you, Grant. Tampa, because I don't think anyone else can. Tears flowed down my cheeks then, and I couldn't help but sob once or twice. I hadn't realized how lonely I'd become in my shifting prison of awareness until I finally had someone who understood.

Thank you. Thank you so much. And then I was young again and at work on a random Tuesday. the sadness and relief faded. Anger and determination replaced it. After I finished my work, I grabbed some paper and began writing. While those weeks became days and then hours, I wrote every single spare moment about when and where I thought I was. I put them under the stairs out of order. My first box was actually the 13th, and my last box was the first. Once I had I had over fifty boxes written from my perspective, and once my shifting became a matter

of minutes, I knew it was up to my grandson to take it from there. I put my head down and stopped looking. I couldn't stand the river of changing awareness any longer. Names and places and dates and jobs and colors and people were all wrong and different. I'd never been older. I sat watching the snowfall, a man of at least thirty that I vaguely recognized entered the room. Come on, I think I finally figured it out. I was so frail that moving was painful.

Are you him? Are you my grandson? Yes. He took me to a room filled with strange equipment and sat me in a rubber chair, facing a large mirror twice the height of a man. The pattern finally revealed itself. How long have you worked on this? I asked him, aghast.

Tell me you didn't miss your life like I'm missing. mine. His expression was both stone cold and furiously resolute. It'll be worth it. He brought two thin metal rods close to my arm and then nodded at the mirror. Look, this shock is carefully calibrated. The electric zap from this device was startling, but not painful. In the mirror, I saw a rapid, arcing, light silhouette appear above my head and shoulder. The electricity moved through the creature like a wave, briefly revealing the terrible nature of what was happening to me. A bulging move each-like mouth was wrapped around the back of my head, coming down to my eyebrows and touching each ear, and its slug-like body ran over my shoulder and into my very soul.

It was a parasite, and it was feeding on my mind. My now-adult grandson held my hand as I took in the whore. After a moment, he asked. Removing it is going to hurt very badly. Are you up for this? Fearful, I asked. Is Mar here? His face softened.

No, not for a few years now. I could tell from his reaction what had happened. But I didn't want it to be true. How? We have this conversation a lot. Are you sure you want to know? It never makes you feel better. Tears brimmed in my eyes.

Then I don't. I don't care if it hurts, or if I die. I don't want to stay in a time where she's not alive." He made a sympathetic noise of understanding and then returned to his machines to hook several wires, diodes, and other bits of technology to my limbs and forehead. While he did so, he talked. I've worked for two decades to figure this out, and I've had a ton of help from other researchers of the occult. This parasite doesn't technically exist in our plane. It's one of the lesser spawns of...

And it feeds on the plexus of mind, soul, and quantum consciousness reality. When details like names and colors of objects change, you weren't going crazy. The web of your existence was merely losing strands as the creature ate its way through you. I didn't fully understand. I looked up in confusion as he placed a circlet of electronics like a crown on my head in an exact line. where the parasite's mouth had ringed me. What? He paused his work and grew pale.

I forgot that you wouldn't know. You're lucky, believe me. After a deep breath, he began moving again and placed his fingers near a few switches. Ready? This is carefully tuned to make your nervous system extremely unappetizing to the parasite, but it's basically electroshock therapy. I could still see Mars smile. Even though she was dead, I'd just been with her moments ago.

Do it. The click of a switch echoed in my ears, and I almost laughed at how mild the electricity was. It didn't feel like anything, at least at first. Then I saw the mirror shaking and my body within that image convulsing. Oh, no, it did hurt. Nothing had ever been more painful. It was just so excruciating. that my mind hadn't been able to immediately process it.

As my vision shook and fire burned in every nerve in my body, I could see the reflected, trembling, light silhouette of the parasite on my head as it writhed an agony equal to mine. It had claws, six clawed lizard-like limbs under its leech-like body, and it cut into me in an attempt to stay latched on. The electricity made my memories flare. Our smile was foremost, lit brightly in front of a warm fire as the snow fell past the window behind her. The edges of that memory began lighting up, and I realized that my life was one continuous stretch

of experience. It was only the awareness of it that had been fragmented by the feasting evil on my back. I'd never managed to be there for the birth of my son. I jumped around it a dozen times, but never actually lived it. For the first time, I got to hold it. Mawr's hand and be there for her. No, no. That moment had shifted seamlessly into holding her hand as she lay in a hospital bed for a very

different reason. Not this. God, why? It was so merciless to make me remember this. I broke down in tears as nurses rushed into the room. I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to experience it. I'd seen all the good parts, but I hadn't wanted the worst part.

inevitable end that all would one day face. It wasn't worth it. It was tainted. All that joy was given back ten thousandfold as pain. The fire in my mind and my brain surged to sheer white torture, and I screamed. My scream faded into a surprised shout as the machines and electricity and chair faded away. Snow was no longer falling around my life. I was in the woods on a bright summer day. Oh, God, I turned to see the creature approaching me. It was the same absence of meaning, the same blank on reality. It crept forward just like before, but this time it hissed and turned away. I stood, astounded at being young again and freed from the parasite. My grandson had actually done it. He'd made me an unappetizing meal, so the predator of mind and slothed.

soul had moved on in search of a different snack. I returned home in a daze, and while I was sitting there, processing all that had happened, the phone rang. I looked at it in awe and sadness. I knew who it was. It was Marjorie, calling for the first time for some trivial reason she'd admit 30 years later was made up just to talk to me. But all I could see was her lying in that hospital bed dying.

It was going to end in unspeakable pain and loneliness. I would become an old man, left to sit by myself in an empty house, his soulmate gone long before him. At the end of it all, the only thing I would have left, sitting and watching the falling snow. But now, thanks to my grandson, I would also have my memories. It would be a wild ride, no matter how it ended. On a sudden impulse, I picked up the phone with a smile and asked, Hey, who's this?

Even though I already knew. Author's note. Together, my grandfather and I did set out to write the tale of his life. Unfortunately, his Alzheimer's disease progressed rapidly, and we were never able to finish. He's still alive, but I imagine that mentally, he's in a much better place than the nursing home. I like to think he's back in his younger days, living life and being happy, because the reality is much colder. It's snowing today.

He loves the snow. When I visited him, he didn't recognize me, but he did smile as he sat, looking out the window. I've always held a fascination with the sea, the vast blue oceans that account for two-thirds of the earth's surface. I grew up on the west coast of Ireland, enjoying pristine and almost abandoned beaches, facing out onto the cold and wild waters of the North Atlantic. My father served in the Merchant Navy for many years, and he taught me how to sail. It was from him that I learned about navigation, tides, and currents.

Dad had many tales of adventure on the high seas, exotic locations, beautiful scenery, and wildlife, life, but also of danger and tragedy. He always warned me that the sea is treacherous, and it can drive you insane if you let it. I wasn't put off, however, and spent much of my childhood dreaming of escape and adventure. I often wished I'd been born in an earlier time, when so much of the world was still a mystery, a blank space on the map, if you will. Having grown up in the latter half of the 20th century, I assumed that everything on the planet had already been discovered.

As it turned out, I was wrong. I'm now a fully grown man in his early forties. My naive, youthful exuberance has faded over the years. Nevertheless, I've never settled down, instead moving from place to place, continent to continent, whenever the opportunity arose. My life has been shaped by wanderlust and a yearning for adventure, but there has been one thing I've inexplicably not been able to escape, no matter how far I travel. Somehow, they always manage to find me, no matter how far I go.

I often think back to that fateful day 30 years ago, when the 11-year-old me made a decision based on naivety and a youthful sense of wonder. To be fair to my younger self, there's no way I could have predicted the long-term implications of my decision. If only I had known what I was getting myself into, but there's no way to turn back the clock. And now, as I face the end and feel nothing but fear and regret, I choose to share my story in the hope that it will prevent others from making the same mistakes. The tale begins on a hot summer's day back in 1991.

I was taking our family dog Skipper on his morning walk. was a black Labrador, very loyal, and with bags of energy. Obviously, he's no longer around, but I still have great memories growing up with him. We walked along a lonely stretch of beach close to my home. As I previously said, I grew up on the west coast of Ireland, a beautiful part of the world and an amazing place to be a child, but not so great when you come of age and start looking for work. Our local beach was out of the way and rarely visited. This This was before the tourist trade took off, and hidden gems like our little beach were still protected from mobs of visitors.

That morning I was enjoying the sunny weather and clear skies, a rare enough thing anywhere in Ireland, and Skipper was having the time of his life. I let him off the lead to run the sands while I looked out to sea, daydreaming of adventure and escape. I was brought back to reality by the sound of Skipper's loud barking. I saw him at the water's edge, the tide washing over his paws as he struggled to dig something out of the sand. I suspected it was nothing more than a piece of driftwood, but curiosity got the better of me as

I jogged across the sands. "'Be here, boy?' I called, prompting Skip to back off and end his barking frenzy, although he continued to keep a close eye on the object. Bending over, I saw a green glass bottle washed up and half buried in the sand. The top of said bottle was sealed with a cork, making it watertight, and inside appeared to be a rolled up parchment of yellow paper. I felt a surge of excitement in that moment, realizing that I had stumbled across a genuine

message in a bottle. Now, messages in bottles aren't exactly a common thing these days due to the onset of instant global communication, but they have a long and romantic history dating back centuries. probably be familiar with the hit song by Sting and several movies on the theme, but the original concept dates back at least as far as the ancient Greeks. The basic idea is that you place a written note or communication in a sealed bottle, throw it out to sea, and eventually the bottled message will be carried by the ocean's current and wash up on shore, possibly in an entirely different continent.

For obvious reasons, this isn't the most reliable or quickest form of communication, but But there is an incredible lore built around bottled messages. In my young mind, I associated such messages with shipwrecks, hidden treasures, castaways, and long-distance romances. Therefore, I was almost shaking with anticipation as I lifted the bottle and forced open the cork to reach the note inside. I held images of an SOS message from the ship that sank decades ago, or from someone who was stranded on a desert island somewhere.

Perhaps I could play a role in solving an ancient mystery or rescuing a castaway who'd been given up for dead. I would be a latter-day hero. Looking back now, it all seems rather ridiculous, but I was an 11-year-old boy yearning for adventure. At the very least, I thought I might establish a pen pal-type relationship with someone living overseas, which would be exciting enough. But in return, I had no inkling of what horrors I would unleash by unsealing that bottle.

The bottle itself was unremarkable, made of thick, green-tinged but transparent glass. It looked old, but there was no indication of how old. Dry sand poured from its neck after I opened it, and I slid my index finger inside to fish out the note. The dog-eared parchment was delicate, so much so that I feared it would fall apart in my hands. Therefore, I was very careful. When I unrolled the paper, I discovered an undated, letter written neatly in what appeared to be red ink. The ink was smudged in several places, making me think it had been written using an old-fashioned

fountain pen, or perhaps even a quill. The content itself was more or less in modern English, and both the style and vocabulary made it seem like it was written by an educated person. Although after reading the letter, I guessed the author was little more than a child. Dear sir, I hope this letter finds you in good health. and spirits. I'm writing in the hope of establishing a correspondence and perhaps forming a bond that stretches across oceans. My name is Emily, and I live on the small island of Satyanooga with my mother and father. Our home is beautiful, but isolated and sometimes dangerous. Winters are long

and cold, and we are pledged by wild beasts, ferocious bears as big as cows and white like a swan, and a beast as large as an ox which lives in the sea, with two teeth in its mouth, like those of an elephant. During the daylight hours, our island is covered with snow-white nesting birds, while a feathered umbrella of thousands more fly and screech above our heads. Nights are a time for caution, as demons stalk the land, hunting for victims. But we are too smart for them, as we always keep our hearth burning and our guns loaded, keeping the demons at bay.

We come from Hardy Stock, you see. My ancestors were marooned here many years ago, punished for their love, and left to die in this unforgiving land. But they survived against all odds, starting a family and making this island their home. And here we have remained, cut off from the world, but free.

For mortal men still fear to tread on this island, and ships avoid our treacherous shoreline. You may wonder why I am right, this account, good sir. I'll confess that I am sending this message without my parents' knowledge or consent. Please do not judge me too harshly for my small act of rebellion. As much as I love my parents, I do get very lonely, and I yearn for a connection with the outside world. I should warn you. Establishing a correspondence with me is not without risks. There are nefarious powers that wish to prevent such things. Nevertheless, I ask that you take the risk, good sir.

Please, tell me about your life, your family and home, your hopes and dreams. I wish to know everything. I cannot tell you the location of my island, and it doesn't appear on any man-made maps. What I can tell you is that any letter sealed in this bottle and set adrift on the sea will reach me, and I will write back. I sincerely look forward to hearing from you, good sir, yours faithfully, and I reread the note several times over, my hands still shaking as the seawater washed over my ankles, and Skipper waited patiently by my side.

Now, looking back with the benefit of hindsight, the bizarre letter contained a number of red flags, particularly the references to demons and a mythical land. The most obvious explanation was that the note was an elaborate hoax, but I was a naive 11-year-old boy with a fertile imagination and lust for adventure. And so all this talk about mystery islands and lost legends got me excited. I wanted to connect with this world and be a part of this fantasy. I didn't tell any of my family members or friends about my discovery, not even my mom and dad. I don't know why exactly.

I guess I thought they wouldn't believe me, or perhaps I just wanted to keep it as my little secret. In any event, the next day I wrote 11th, letter, sealed it in a bottle, and tossed it over the cliff's edge, watching as it was carried out to sea until the green glass disappeared under the waves. I didn't keep a copy of the letter, and I can't remember exactly what I wrote all those years ago. Needless to say, it was the type of nonsense that an 11-year-old boy would ask, telling Emily about myself and where I lived, while asking her questions about her life on the island,

which sounded much more interesting than mine. The fact that I threw the bottle into the ocean, expecting it to reach Emily, was obviously ridiculous. If you want to establish a correspondence with someone using a message in a bottle, you provide your address and contact details on the letter, allowing the finder to respond by conventional methods. The odds of a bottled message being released at random and somehow making its way across thousands of miles of ocean back to its original sender are virtually nil.

Nevertheless, that's what I did. And I waited in vain to receive Emily's reply as weeks, months, and eventually years passed by with no response. I was bitterly disappointed at the time. Nevertheless, I did do some research on the contents of Emily's original note as I tried to find some evidence to verify her story. This wasn't the easiest thing to do in the days before Google and Wikipedia, but I pieced together the tale from various books and historical records I tracked down over the years.

The name Sataniaga comes from the Portuguese for devil, and is the name of a phantom island that appeared on maps of the North Atlantic during the 16th century. Also known as the Isle of Demons, this mysterious and intriguing isle was allegedly populated by a curious mixture of wild animals, mythological creatures, and evil spirits or demons, all of whom found common cause in tormenting civilized men. The location of the island differed depending upon the map, but it was widely believed to be somewhere off the coast of Newfoundland. There are many tales from the Isle of Demons, but the most famous is that of Marguerite

de la Rouge, a French noblewoman who traveled on an expedition led by her uncle during the 1540s, with the aim of establishing a colony in the new world. During the journey, Marguerite entered into a passionate love affair with one of the young officers on board. Her uncle discovered the illicit romance and punished his niece and her lover by putting them ashore on the dreaded isle of demons, where they were forced to fight for survival against the savage beasts and evil spirits. The ultimate fate of Marguerite and her officer lover is unclear, with some accounts saying they were eventually rescued by a passing fishing boat, while others claim their spirits remain trapped on the island to this very day.

Elements of Emily's letter matched up with the story. Other references were more difficult to explain, but I assumed what she described as wild beasts were in actual fact polar bears, walruses, and the colonies of Gannetbirds, all being native to that region. But her talk of demons stalking the land at night were bizarre and unnerving. I spent many sleepless nights worrying about such things during my early teenage years, but But when I got older, I wrote it all off as a hoax and moved on with my life, doing the things adolescent boys do and planning for my future.

I didn't hang around once I finished school, instead moving to Edinburgh to attend university, where I lived life to the fullest while somehow attending enough lectures to obtain my degree. I wasn't ready to settle down into a nine-to-five job straight after university, so I did what many Irish students do, taking a gap here and travelling to a little. live and work in Australia. I loved it out there, making new friends and entering into a string of short-lived but exciting relationships. I was definitely enjoying my hedonistic party animal lifestyle and thought little of the odd experience I'd had during my childhood. But then, something happened which defied all logical explanation. I was living in Sydney at the time.

It was early on a Sunday morning and I'd been partying all night. I walked home along the beach, beach just as the sun was rising, nursing one hell of a hangover as I staggered across the sands. My plan was to go back to my place and get a couple hours asleep, but fate intervened. I stopped dead in my tracks when I saw it, literally rubbing my eyes in disbelief. There it was, half buried in the sand right by the water's edge. The green bottle washed up to the shore. I experienced a cold chill as I looked upon it and as memories. from my childhood came flooding back.

From a distance, the bottle looked identical to the one I'd found on the beach in Ireland ten years before, but it must be a coincidence, I told myself. I was thousands of miles away from my home on the coastline of an entirely different ocean. There was just no way it was possible. I reassured myself as I looked up and down the beach before I cautiously made my way along the sands, reaching out to grab the bottle with a shaking hand. On closer inspection, I was astonished to find the bottle was totally identical to the one I discovered ten years before, even down to the corks sealing it tight.

And right enough, when I glanced through the transparent green glass, I saw a dog-eared, yellowed note rolled up inside. I felt a mixture of intense emotions in that moment, but most of all a dreadful sense of foreboding. I became paranoid, having the distant feeling that I was being watched. But when I scanned the beach again, I saw I was on my own. Part of me wanted to throw the bottle back out to sea and never think about it again, but I found I couldn't do so.

I don't know why, but I had an uncontrollable urge to open the bottle and read the note contained inside. I knew I might not like what I read, but nevertheless I had to know the truth. I carefully removed the delicate parchment from the bottle, unrolling it to reveal the same handwriting I'd read ten years before. However, the tone of the letter was noticeably darker. Dear Sir, thank you for replying to my letter. You cannot know how much it means to me.

I very much enjoyed reading about your home and family. Ireland sounds like a wonderful place, and I would love to visit someday. Alas, I no longer think this will be possible. For you see, my family's situation has deteriorated since I last wrote. My mother and father have become ill. I don't know whether their illness is of the mortal world, or if they've been cursed by supernatural entities. In any event, they're often weak and thus unable to maintain our defenses during the long, dark nights. Therefore, it has been my task alone to keep the fire burning and the monsters at bay.

The mortal beasts are vulnerable to spear and bullet, but not the demons. The night is their time. I see their shadows circling our cabin during the midnight hour, searching for weakness, always looking for a way in. And I hear their unholy roars through the storm, the hellish din shaking me to my very core. The demons allow me no respite. Their attacks are constant. I cannot remember the last time I slept.

I am terrified and exhausted, but I must continue to fight for my parents and my family's legacy. when I feel my courage falter. I think of my ancestor, Marguerite. And she gives me strength. God does not dwell in this place. And so I must survive on my own wits. I'm sorry to be a bearer of such grim news, good sir. I do hope you will write back.

Your last letter bolstered my spirits whenever I received it. And the thought of continuing our correspondence gives me hope for the future. I wish you all the best fortune and look forward to hearing from you. Yours faithfully and forever. Emily. I stood there in a state of shock for what seemed like in eternity, reading the note over and over again, as I tried in vain to make some sense of it all.

There just wasn't any logical explanation I could fathom. Had someone been stalking me for the last ten years, waiting for their chance to drop the bottle in my path? But how? And why? Why would someone follow me to the other side of the world to play such an elaborate trick? It made no sense.

But the only other alternative was that the note was genuine, and Emily was real. I left the beach when morning surfers began to arrive. I still felt extremely uneasy, but I'd recovered from my initial shock and devised a plan. I had a friend living in Sydney who was studying for his master's in archaeology at the University of New South Wales. He had access to lab equipment, and after some bribery, I persuaded him to keep him to carry out carbon dating on the letter. I didn't tell him the full story, simply claiming I'd found the letter inside the cover of an old book and was curious about its origins. It took a couple of

days for the results to come through, a tense wait, during which I could think of a little else. I literally snatched the envelope out of his hands when he came to me. The results were unbelievable. The age of the parchment was impossible to determine with 100% accuracy, but it was at least a century old and perhaps dated back hundreds of years. What's more, the ink used to write the letter wasn't actually ink, but dried blood. My heart froze when I read the report, as it seemed to confirm my worst fears. My friend made no comment on the letter's content. I got the distant feeling he wanted to hand over the results and wash his hands of the

whole affair. I didn't blame him, but unfortunately I didn't have the option of walking away from this. I couldn't stop thinking about Emily's letter and her chilling words. Who was she? And where was she? How could it be possible for a letter written centuries ago to be addressed to me? I had never believed in the supernatural, but what other explanation could there be? I spent many sleepless nights thinking about Emily and her horrific situation.

The thought of this young woman alone, her parents sick, as she fought to protect her home against demons. What kind of hell was she living in? What had this poor girl done to deserve such a terrible fate? I thought long and hard about my response, going through several drafts before finally sealing the note and tossing the bottle out to sea. I really did want to help Emily, and felt certain there must be some way I could save her. I guess you could call it a white knight fantasy, but I was coming from a genuine place. I didn't receive a response by the time I left Australia, but I had a feeling.

Emily's reply would find me eventually. I lived through the rest of my twenties before I heard from her again. I won't claim that I spent a decade pining after Emily and dwelling upon the contents of her letter. I lived my life, traveling, working various jobs, making, and losing friends, and entering into several love affairs, none of which lasted very long. I never did settle down, instead moving from place to place. I had some good times for sure, but the darkness.

stayed with me. I never did forget about Emily and the Isle of Demons, about that poor girl fighting to save her family. I thought about her more and more the closer I came to the anniversary, and I knew where I needed to be during the summer of 2011, Newfoundland. I spent weeks out there on the North Atlantic coastline, chartering fishing boats at great expense to visit and search the isolated and often uninhabited small islands north of Newfoundland. including all of those rumored to be the true location of the legendary Isle of Demons. I found nothing. I don't know what I expected.

Deep down, I knew I would never find Emily, not in this world at least. On my last day on the island, I decided to walk the beach close to my hotel. I was only mildly surprised when I saw it. The green bottle washed ashore, with the inevitable note carefully rolled up inside. I knew the routine by now. that this made things any easier. My heart was beating fast in my chest, and my hand shook as I reached out to recover the message. The first thing I noticed was how Emily's writing had deteriorated from her last letter. For a woman who wrote her correspondence in blood,

her penmanship had always been exemplary, but this time around it was little more than a scribble and barely legible. Clearly she'd written this note in a hurry or a state of distress. Probably both. This didn't bode well. I had a genuine sense of dread as I read her words. Good sir, I can't think you enough for your kind letter. You seem like a good man, and I have no doubt you would come to my aid if you could. I can feel your presence. You were so close, yet might as well be on the far side of the moon. I never regarded myself as a shrinking violet or a damsel in distress needing rescued. Far from it. Ever since I was young, I have fought hard to survive and I will continue to fight until my last breath. But I fear my time is

almost at an end. My beloved parents have passed away. I can't remember when they died exactly. Time has a way of playing tricks in this god-forsaken place. I know my father passed first, my mother soon after. I buried them both in the cold, hard ground. It was all I could do. I'm all on my I'm so very tired. There was a storm last night, the worst one yet. The hailstones lashed down on the rocks from dust to dawn. And the winds were so heavy I feared our little cabin would be blown to kingdom come. They came shortly after midnight.

Their hellish cry so loud they drowned out every other sound. I struggled so hard to keep the hearth alight and the barricades up. But in the end my strength faltered. He broke through. I don't believe I have the words to describe the evil I encountered in that moment. A minion? Most definitely. A demon?

Very possibly. But the creature did not appear in the form I would have imagined. It took the shape of a man, dressed in dark robes, a hood covering his head. He stood in my open doorway, the wind and rain beating down heavily behind him. But there wasn't a drop on him. I should have defended myself. Normally I wouldn't have hesitated, but in that moment I was frozen in fear. I watched on in terror as he slowly reached up with his bony right hand, removing his hood to reveal the horrors which lay beneath.

I expected to see a face. But instead, there was nothing but darkness. A black, empty void that shook me to my very core. I felt like my immortal soul would get sucked into that damn void. And there was nothing I could do to save myself. I was entirely at this monster's mercy. But, just as I prepared for the end, he spoke to me. I don't know how, as he had no mouth, but yet he did.

His voice was so deep and raspy and bore no resemblance of that of a mortal man. He just spoke two words, saying, Not to-night. And in the blink of an eye, he was gone, disappearing into thin air, leaving the old. open doorway and the storm behind him. I was spared last night, but I strongly suspect the demon will not allow me to live for much longer. My time is coming, and I must make my peace. I do appreciate your kindness and compassion, good sir. Your letters have brought me some joy in these dark times, and I do hope you will write me one last time before I meet my end. Take care, good sir. Yours faithfully

and forever. Emily. There were tears in my eyes when I read her words. I couldn't bear it. To know Emily was going through hell and there was nothing I could do to help her. My 30s weren't a good time for me. I never did get back on even footing and my life slowly fell apart. I couldn't commit to a job or relationship and instead drifted, cutting myself off from family and friends and turning to alcohol and drugs to dull my pain.

I guess depression was something I'd always had to deal with. but Emily's letter, the last one in particular, cast a dark shadow over me. One, I was never able to escape. My depression grew worse the closer I got to my 41st birthday. It had been thirty years since I'd received my first letter from Emily, and her replies had always found me every ten years, no matter where I was. I could have gone anywhere in the world to mark this grim milestone, but I chose to come home, back to the same beach where it all began.

The old place has changed a lot over the last three decades. My mom and dad both passed away years ago, and my old family home has been sold on, meaning I've had to stay in a rented cottage. This part of the coastline has become something of a tourist trap in the recent years, and the beach I used to walk is now packed with summer holidaymakers. The truth is, I don't have much of a connection to the west coast of Ireland these days. but I still hold on to a few happy memories. I walked the beach early this morning, avoiding the crowds and keeping my eyes on the shoreline.

I wasn't at all surprised when I saw it, the ominous green bottle sticking up from the sand. Taking a deep breath, I strode forward, my back creaking as I reached down to grab the glass bottle. I dreaded the prospect of reading the note. Emily had revealed true horrors to me ten years ago, and I doubted her situation had improved. in the time since, yet I had to read her letter. I'd spent the last ten years waiting for this. I felt faint as I unrolled the yellow parchment and read what turned out to be my destiny. And in the end, Emily's final letter was a short one.

I'm so sorry, good sir. You're a good man, and you don't deserve this. They made me do this. You see, I wish my strength had helped, but I've reached my limit. They know about you now, and they're coming. for you. Watch for the storm on the horizon. That's when you'll know they're close. I wish I could do more to repay your kindness, good sir. But in the end, our demons will always win. Godspeed, good sir. I pray that you find the peace which has eluded me. Yours faithfully and forever, Emily.

So that is that. I'm no longer a bystander observing events from afar. The horror are coming to me. I don't blame Emily, not at all. In some ways, I think I was always destined to suffer this terrible fate. I can see the storm now coming in from the ocean and heading straight for me. It's the worst I've ever witnessed. A sky filled with ominous black clouds, terrifying thunder and flashes of lightning and winds of hurricane force. And above the almighty din I can hear them. I can hear their hellish roars and their cruel, inhuman laughter. The demons. They're coming for me. I could try running, but deep down I know there's no escape. I wonder now how different my life would have been if I hadn't found

that bottle all those years ago. Maybe I would have been spared, or perhaps not. I wish I could give you some answers, but this is all I've got. My time is nearly up. I can hear the windows rattling under the sheer force of the winds. I can see. their dark shapes emerging from the clouds to echo Emily's words. I just hope I can find peace. My father was a broken man. Nothing more than an empty shell of his former self. After serving one too many tours in a war, no one ever understood why we fought. It didn't help that my mother, who already checked out mentally, fell pregnant with an unwanted child. Rather than reveling in the joy of creating life, my father dug himself deeper into the bitter,

whole of hatred he had spent so many years digging. Not only had I unwillingly intruded his existence, but I was born with a pretty obvious birth defect. My face never fully developed in the womb, presumably due to the drugs my mother consumed to cope with the stress of abuse. Whatever the case, it left me with only one functioning eye and a half-paralyzed face. He used to tell me that the day I was born was the worst day of his life, that I was I was nothing more than a burden, an accident not meant for this world. Needless to say, I hated myself. I felt ugly and my father did everything in his power to make sure I understood just how much

of a freak I was. He never put a hand on me, nor my mother. I'll give him that, I suppose. But abuse comes in many forms. And despite not having the guts to kill me himself, I knew he wanted nothing more for me to just disappear. And even as a young child, I wished I had never been brought into this world. That would all change the night I met my very own angel.

On one particularly long night, I was kept awake by another shouting match between my drunken father and my drugged-out mother. We'd fallen into extraordinary debt with both my dysfunctional parents, unable to hold down a job. I lied, hidden beneath my blanket, clutching my one and only friend. My stuffed animal, a swan that had suffered one too many tears, broken and ugly just like myself, but that's just what made me love it so deeply. Something shifted in the corner of my room, changing my entire atmosphere, air turning heavy and the sounds of the heated argument were suddenly drowned out to muffled cries in the distance.

I peaked out from under my cover, thinking that my father had come up to shout at me, but the legs that greeted me did not belong to anyone, or anything. that I'd ever seen before. They were beaten and cracked, dark liquid seeping from the tears in them. As I moved my eyes up to see the rest of its naked body, it became apparent that this creature was severely wounded, charred skin covering the entirety of its being. It appeared to be a man, at least shaped like one, ten feet tall with dark wings extending from its back, half stripped of their feathers alongside the flesh, leaving nothing but exposed

bone and tendons. If monsters could ever be described by their appearance, this thing would perfectly fit. I should have screamed, run for the door, jumped out of the window, anything to escape that horrid sight, but something about the broken creature calmed my young self, soothed the fear that built up in my body. Who are you? I asked, my voice sounding tinier than it ever had. The creature looked at me in confusion.

You do not fear me, he asked. No, why? Are you bad? No, but my form typically evokes a sense of fear in your kind. Is it because you're ugly, like me? For a moment, he just looked at me, inspecting my mouth-formed eye and paralyzed face. Then he laughed. You may look different than your other fellow humans, but your heart is as pure as the day you were.

I can see the good in you." The creature spoke in words my young self couldn't fully comprehend, but from the little knowledge I had, I could understand what he was. I never really knew my grandparents, in fact, my grandpa was the only one still alive by the time I came into this world, and I only met him one time. Sick and riddled with tumors, he told me a story about the purest creatures in existence, the ones that would look after lost souls such as himself, during the world. their final moments in life.

And for a reason I cannot fathom. I connected his comforting words with the thing that was standing before me in my room. Are you an angel? I asked. He thought for a moment before responding. I am a type of angel. Then what's your name? My name.

Our kind has no use for names. Everyone has a name, but if you don't, I'll choose one for you. you. I thought long and hard before finally setting on the most suitable name I could come up for the angel. I'll call you Gary. I said excitedly. And that will be my earthly name. I glanced over his broken body once more, wondering if he had been born damaged like myself, or if someone had hurt him. How come you look like that? Putting myself in a physical form comes at a cost, and it takes a toll of my existence. You see, I was not granted permission to come here.

By then, my parents had stopped arguing. I must have been louder than I thought, because shortly after, I heard someone pacing through the hallway towards my room. Being loud after bedtime was a strict no-no, a rule that only applied to myself. My father slammed the door open and barged into my room, holding onto the neck of a half-empty bottle,

slurring his words, I've had it with this shit. He stopped dead in his tracks, gasping briefly before suddenly choking. Something invisible stopped him from moving an inch, and I saw the angel staring intently at my father with a gleaming smile across his face. What the fuck are you? My father managed to push out between gasps of air. I am here to protect this child.

You have inflicted enough damage, and now you will receive my judgment. My father started twitching, jolts bending in unnatural direction. Cracking beneath the unseen force. He gargled and coughed up blood as his body contorted into an undefinable mess of flesh and viscera. Before I could even process what was happening, he expanded, boils and blisters appearing on his skin just moments before he exploded, covering the wall behind with whatever remained of his existence. I let out a quiet yelp. It was as much as my terrified little body would allow. I'm sorry you had to witness this.

Have there been another way, he meant you harm, and with time he would have caused your death. Not today, nor tomorrow, but I had to stop him before he caused irreparable damage. With a wave of his hand, the remains of my father turned to dust and disappeared, leaving no trace that a murder had just happened. I have to go. I will return when the time is right, but I'm afraid they are still. This is just the beginning of things to come. I am so sorry.

I don't remember much else from that night. Apart from my mother, hysterically screaming as she realized her husband was gone, the police asking questions as he was reported missing. Of course, they never found him. And with the assumptions that he had simply taken off, the investigation quickly turned cold. It was a bittersweet turn to a better life. rapidly improved in the couple of years following my father's death. My mother did her best to get clean from drugs, even got a job, and for the first time

in my life, I felt somewhat loved. The trauma I had experienced did not linger over us. It was as if something was protecting my memory, preventing me from reliving that terrible moment. My mother and I moved away to a different city, attempting to create a fresh start. Getting enough money for such an endeavor proved difficult, but somehow we managed. At least it seemed for a short while. Unfortunately, it wasn't meant to last.

Despite her best efforts, it's not easy to be a single mother trying to battle addiction while hopelessly drowning in debt. One slip-up was all it took, which just happened to occur during my first day at a new school. I could already tell something was wrong when she picked me up from school, and in hindsight, I should have understood enough to alert a teacher, but suffering from trust issues and being incapable of thinking even moments ahead. I let her get behind the wheel of a car. Not five minutes after we started driving, she ran a stop sign, and we were hitting the side by a bus.

It's true what they say. Time really slows down as adrenaline surges through your body. The sight of glass shattering through the car and metal bending inwards is something that has stuck in my mind for many years, no matter how hard I try. The moment of pure terror is all I remember. remember before blacking out. When I came back to, I found myself lying on the side of the road. Somehow unscathed from the ordeal. I could see our car smashed to pieces further down the road, but something had taken me

out before it had even hit the ground. I'm sorry, a familiar voice said. I turned around to see my angel standing above me, even more decayed than the first time we'd met. His flesh had fallen from his chest, revealing ribs and organs, still pulsating. bleeding heavily with each breath. Where's my mommy? I asked.

I could only save one of you. His words carrying the burden of guilt and sadness. He bent down to my level, reaching out his rotten hand. I believe this belongs to you. It was a swan plushy. He brushed off some pieces of glass and gave it to me. She's dead, isn't she? I asked.

He nodded. Why couldn't you save her? I was not supposed to. Why not? One day you will have all the answers, but until then you will have to be patient. It's not time for you yet. I don't understand. Before I could ask more questions, the angel had disappeared, leaving me alone with no one but

the mangled corpse of my mother still stuck inside the car. Years passed, and I spent most of my childhood moving from one foster home to another. Trauma and abuse takes its toll on a young child, and as it was, I simply couldn't fit in with a new family, and I found none willing to take care of someone so broken. Every now and then I would remember the angel's words from our first meeting, that the bad things were just beginning, but though my childhood was lonely, it was relatively safe. I wouldn't see my angel again until I started high school. If you ever thought bullying stops at a certain point during education, that people somehow

mature as they get older, you'd be sorely mistaken. Due to my deformed appearance, I couldn't seem to escape the nasty looks nor gangs of bullies. A particularly bad crew of people were led by a girl named Jennifer, putting chairs in front of bathroom doors as I entered to spare others to side of my disgusting face. One day, just following physical education, I wasn't fast enough to shower and exit the locker room, and as a result I found myself trapped by Jennifer's vicious gang of misfits. They'd stolen my clothes, pointing out that if I just spent the rest of the day naked, maybe

it would distract people from my disfigured head. They laughed together as they shoved me around, cold, wet, and naked. I could do nothing but hold back my tears. Out of nowhere the angel appeared. He placed himself directly behind the squad of girls and looked at me. His wings had most definitely fallen off by that point, leaving only a few bone fragments protruding from his back, and his face had become an unrecognizable mess of torn flesh. He simply nodded before vanishing into thin air as he always did.

No sooner had the angel left before Jennifer started screaming her lungs out. She had glanced in the mirror and seen the angel, but that wasn't what caused her to get so upset. What have you done to me, you crazy bitch?" She yelled at me. I didn't understand what she was so freaked out about. If not the sight of the angel, then what could be so bothersome? But I didn't dare to stick around, and after getting dressed in record time, I spread it out of the room.

No one bullied me after that day. However, the rumors had reached every corner of the school, and people genuinely thought that I was a witch. Jennifer never returned, and no one would tell me what happened to her. Whatever it was, she didn't deserve it. Despite the things she did to me, no one deserves the wrath of an angel. I spent the next few weeks searching out the angel, waking up at night, yelling for his attention, but he never responded.

In a bizarre and cruel turn of fate, the bullying had become the only attention anyone ever gave me, and without even that, I felt more isolated than ever. Sleep eluded me, and for each night I spent crying, I came close to my. and closer to finally taking the step and ending my miserable existence. I guess the angel didn't see that coming because for some reason he appeared to me once again. Only this time I was my own danger. You finally come to see me again. Why do you even bother?

Aren't there more important people you can protect? Someone that actually matters? You have a good heart. That is why I chose you. He said calmly. Chose me for what? I responded, more annoyed, been sad. He didn't respond to my question.

I was once a human too, a long time ago, and I was chosen to protect people, and even now I do not know why they chose me. So you were picked to protect people like me? No. My job was to protect important people, those who would have an impact on history, and I followed those orders for millennia without questioning my orders, fully believing that I would shape history, lead it in the right direction, but the people who impact the world aren't always good at the core, a fact that took me far too long to realize. I was confused. At that point in time, it didn't feel like I would have any important impact

on history, so I asked the only question I could. So you think I'll have an important impact on the world? He shook his head. I cannot define importance, nor external beauty, nor fairness. I abandoned my post because I stopped believing in it. That is why I deteriorate each time I visit you. I'm not supposed to protect you. So why do you?

Because you are a good person. Good enough to let other people suffer? I asked. getting angrier by the minute. He looked at me in confusion, as if his past actions hadn't allowed other people to get hurt to even die. I do not understand. What did you do to Jennifer? I demanded to know. She had been a horrifying nightmare during the past couple of years, but did her torture warrant whatever the angel had done?

I only made her see what she truly is, he said. And what is that? Someone with darkness in their heart. I shook my head and a mixture of sadness and anger. What's going to happen to her? That does not matter. Yes, it fucking does!

The truth about her will weigh her down and she will eventually give up on herself because the only thing she sees in the mirror is her own soul. Her life will end by her own hand. We stared at each other in silence. Despite no words being spoken, we communicated. The angel showed me visions of the future. The pain I would go through because of the evil. in people's hearts, and he showed me that all of it could be fixed if only I allowed him to help me.

I won't let you do this. Stop it right now. I have to protect you. Not like this. You care about her, despite what she has done. I thought about the statement for a while. Of course, she meant nothing to me, but letting someone kill themselves so I could avoid discomfort was a disturbing thought. Whatever you did, undo it.

This is not how I want to deal with my problems. So her actions should not be punished. She's a kid like me. She can still change. He acknowledged my demand, and I could tell he was about to leave. Wait! I rummaged through my drawer to look for my old things. After a minute, I pulled out the swan plushy from my childhood.

By then, its color had faded, and each limb was partially torn. This is for you to remind you that, just because something's broken, It doesn't mean that it's not beautiful, and it doesn't mean that it can't be fixed. With that, he disappeared once more. Over the next decade, he appeared a couple of times, but never got close enough for us to exchange words. Even from a distance, I could see he was falling to pieces, degenerating more and more with each appearance. Though my life never felt threatened, I know he must have done something to save my life. I'm not even sure I want to know.

Only hints of dangerous things would let me know that there are horrors in this world around each corner, and if we knew half of it, we'd probably be too afraid to even leave our homes. I started wondering if everyone had their own angel like mine, one that had abandoned their post in order to protect insignificant but decent people. It wouldn't be until the summer of 2018 we would be close enough to even exchange words, and as I now know, it would be for the very last time. A simple night out, after years of coming to terms with my past, I had gotten an education, a job, and even a few friends.

Life had become bearable. We decided to hit the clubs. My friends insisted that I try something new, but I left early. Clubs were not really my scene, but it's not always safe to go home alone at night. It's not safe when people think you're an easy target. As I crossed the empty street, a heavily dressed stranger approached me. He was wearing a hoodie, just enough to make it impossible to identify him. And it immediately made me uncomfortable.

He bumped into me and demanded that I handed over my wallet. As he did, I felt something hard, press against my side. It's either a knife or a gun. I was never good at identifying these things, but I feared for my life. Immediately after feeling panic set in, I saw my angel appear before the both of us. He was missing a leg and half of his face started to sloth off. The mugger screamed in horror and froze. My memory shot back to my paralyzed father being torn apart by the angel, but this time nothing happened.

The mugger simply stood frozen in place for a minute. I will not kill him, but he will be in a great deal of pain when he wakes up. The mugger fell limp to the ground, a few drops of blood seeping from his nose and ears. As soon as the threat was eliminated, the angel collapsed as well. He was falling apart. I ran over and embraced what remained of him in my arms. I wanted to say something, provide a few words of comfort, but nothing came out. Do you remember the name you gave me?

He asked. I fought back to our first meeting. It was a stupid thought by a five-year-old girl, but I remembered. Yes, I called you Gary. He smiled at me. That is a good name. Thank you. I said as tears started forming in my eyes.

His flesh tore apart under my fingers, just disintegrating as I held his hands, leaving behind pieces of flesh and bone fragments. Please, tell me how I can save you. I have lived for thousands of years, and only by helping you was it worth anything. I made my choice. The question is, will you accept? Accept what? I chose you for a reason. The world needs someone to keep you.

them safe, the normal people just trying to get through life. I knew what he was suggesting. He wanted me to be an angel like him to help others in need. Well, how would I even do that? You just have to say yes. His face started to fall apart, jaw falling off and leaving him unable to speak. All he did was reach out his hand. In it, he held the swan that I had given him years earlier.

That would be his final act before he passed. I cried, holding the angel's dead body. He had kept me safe my entire life, and for the first time ever, I was truly alone, wondering what even happens to angels as they die? It has been a month since I last saw Gary, and since then I've tried to make a choice. If I decide to leave my life behind, I figure I won't disintegrate like him, seeing as I haven't betrayed any higher power. Life has been hard, and it has left much to be desired.

And if I leave now, I'll never live a happy life, but I could spend the rest of eternity protecting the less fortunate people of this world. I guess no one will ever see me again, not after I leave. In fact, I'm not entirely sure how all of this will work, but I suppose I'll have all eternity to figure it out. things for sure. If anyone ever needs me, I'll be there.