The waves spoke without words; their buckling reverence conveyed much more power than any sentence could conjure—and the way they continually attacked the lake's embankment, which rose starkly of weathered rocks and odious slime. But on the cynical mysterious lake sat a juxtapositioned wharf, its oak wood standing out from the jet black which undulated beneath it. The lake, as anyone could tell, did not like this building which stood in defiance of its waves. Still, there it stood, for someone to stand over the water as if they could walk upon the very surface and to stare into the abyss which only sickenly reverberated one's facade. And for me, it was not the same the day I stood on the dock and mockingly looked over its side to leer into the abysmal depths. Staring into the eyes of a faceless killer, I remembered what it had done—what it had taken—and I thought its waves to be an insulting gesture at me; I believed it remembered what it had done too—what it had taken—I saw myself quivering on its surface, and I thought it too, was the water mocking me with my own fear. Deep in the depth of the lake, I believed it was laughing manically at me. But I was here not for vengeance but acceptance, though now I did not know where I would find it; the waters seemed to churn with more evil now than they did that day I strongly try to forget. I sat by the edge of the dock as a ghastly vapor drifted from the distant mountains, which encapsulated the lake in an atmosphere of isolation, and soon desolation, for I would be the last human to be within its jeering presence. Listening to the waves and watching the mist descend upon the lake's surface, I thought of what it took from me; I wept, and my shimmering tears fell onto the dock, but I made sure too not to let one land within the waters lest it torment me further if it knew. And then the waters within the distance grew disturbed and swarmed with imploding bubbles that popped and displaced the water, my sadness became secondary now to my curiosity that pulled my eyes to the scene, watching with dismayed confusion. I stood up slightly in a tightened stance, ready to pull back further or run maddingly back to my car. Within the pandemonium, a silhouette began to jut out into the air and backdropped by the hoary clouds it contrasted them with its void pigmentation; then it furtherly raised from the lake before reaching a horrific height into the clouds, and it felt as though it stared at me, but now with the sun behind it, I could make out a more distinct figure. The horrendous figure of half a man, from the waist up, it seemed, but everything down was part of the writhing tentacular mass that protruded from the abysses of the lake. And so, in a stuporous frenzy, I lept from the dock to my car, not looking for a further image of what rose from that lake. Still, as I neared my vehicle, I heard a distinguishing feature that festered in the air like literal death. The sound must have come from the grave, but it was very real, and pierced by brain was a nauseating effect, causing me to fall into a panic and inexplicable fear, for the voice, the voice which bellowed from the beast, was the voice of my brother. And as I drove far from that lake, I swore to hear its mocking waves more clearly than ever, and they sounded like a laughter that was maddened by an oppressive demonic emanation.
Before I write this, I say that I am under a crippling amount of strain, for my existence now is disdained upon by men who I do not know, and I do not get to see… I am afraid they may be anywhere or even in my same apartment. I do not know how much of this tale will be coherent, for the mere thought of what I stumbled upon makes me uneasy. That horrible face, GAH! After my work here is done and I recall what little memory is left, I shall take the rope I have knotted and use it to ornament myself within the closest; life now seems derailed and morbid. My work as a private news source has often found me in the most uncanny of positions with information that the surface-level news can not, or should I say, will not acquire. Though now, now I see why. There had been monstrous rumors talked on by lifeless men in shabby, dingy pubs and the alleyways of filth and squalidness. I got my info from one of these pubs, but my recollection of it is fleeting—dam those eyes and that horrible glare. He told me after letting him swallow and absorb three to four shorts of his choice of shots. He said of the disappearing street men who would, in the thick shadows of the early morning, be snatched up and forgotten, for the city did not bother with men of the streets. The denizens who lived there did not view them as equals, so their exilement had already detached them from the world. Who would notice if they had vanished? I say I remember going home that night, oh god, but recalling so heavily brings up that hideous grin it held, oh why must I revoke such an awful sight day in and out, awake or in dream? I do remember, without sifting through my thoughts, the day I approached the house in question too, which was told to me that past midnight when the only thing to scurry about on the streets was rats and trash, terrible screams would resonate in the winds that pushed down from the mountain, which the house sat on. Oh, but I do remember those ghastly windows, stained glass they were, but I know that I thought I had seen a frightened phantasmic face imprinted upon it. It seemed to shift as if a vortex upon the nose had caught in a spiraling notion. I wish not to continue this story, for the thought of what I saw makes me quiver and tremble hysterically - but I must. The faintness, though, of my covert investigation is sparse in coherency though I do remember, oh god, I remember it all too well. Those poor humans were strung up like puppets. And their eyes and that ill-natural smile, I think it was thread weaving between their lips - My god, why. I cannot finish this, I shall give up my life now, for I cannot close my eyes without seeing that sadistic orgy and those flesh effigies made of humans.
The flame erratically flared within its glass container, swirling the mighty darkness into a cascade of swooshing shadows. The fire showed me my way, though it could not have told me where it led me. In the midnight bleakness, when the ghouls of eccentric life and fiendish attributes stalked the plane of man was when I rushed only in my nightgown into the vortex, I was running, but I had not an actual realization of why, but a continuously fleeting, though never absent, feeling of dread; that some unseen assailant was indeed hunting me. The shrub which I charged through, orange from the flickering light of my lantern and breathing from the winds which moaned and cried out to me, seemed to mock the imprisoned flame which I held, that my chase was within a nightmarish hellscape and my perpetrator be a demon from the devil's zealots. I could not hear the footfalls, which were apparent to my subconscious though I did not risk a moment to listen. Time seemed absent, I had lost how long I had run, yet the scenery seemed never changing, always a steady encapsulation of black and the maniacal laughter of the wind. And for as long as I ran, the chaser still was present within my mind, and I was pushed by fear to continue though I was still ignorant about what was chasing me.
I found myself crying out for unrecognized names to save me, to help me from this nightmare, but I had not realized why I called out to strangers. My subconscious had seemingly called out to my conscious mind in that instant, and I now knew that I was dreaming and that these unrecognized names were that of my real-life mother and father. But I had still yet to wake, running from a monster I had not seen but felt like it was right beyond the wall of blackness. My pleas were met with omnipotent laughter that rode the deriding gales of the dream plane. The blackness felt like it was growing stronger, was my only source of safety expiring? And though I could not see this monster, I felt its breath on my back as I continued to run the humid fetor reminded me of death and decay. Something told me to look down at myself, and I saw that I was decaying, flesh wrinkled and wizened off my bones, which they too began to brittle and atrophy. My light now was extinct, and though I never saw the monster chasing me for so long, I could feel its cold fingers dig into my withering chest and pull out my heart, which had finally stopped beating.
Verdancy dominates the landscape, I am a guest within this maze of shrub. Walking through, I feel reverence for the elder trees. I feel threatened by the looming canopies. And now I hear an unfamiliar sound, A sound that contests my ideas of nature. What had Mother Earth been hiding inside the thicket? A beast of unspeakable proportion? Or has my sanity been tainted by the waxing moon over me? Have the trees whispered maddening utterances to my subconscious? Maybe its a wolf, Though I think a wolf could not bellow in that way My walk is almost done, But now my mind feels shaken and churned What if that sound was not of this world And my life had been stalked and hunted by some ghoulish fiend But I shall never know, But the howl still frightens me now That walk was not just another walk in the park
My wandering of the ivory forest had left me hopelessly and maddeningly lost within myself, believing that I would never once feel the warmth of my heartbeat now, It be just a beat of survival. And I tranquilized my foreboded fate with memories of nights when the moon looked through my window seat hither and paid me attention with its midnight omnipotent eye. At the same time, I enwrapped myself amid toasted blankets baked by the warmth of my beating, youthful soul. Then came a yellow tint to the damnable deathly whiteness, and being a difference in the monotonous plain, I stalked through the banks of snow toward it. Then my eyes began to shimmer though I feared the tears might freeze quickly, puncturing my weeping portals. Human life, albeit no identification of a human but the makings of one, sat almost entirely concealed by winter's embrace, and a thought I damned to be forgotten was that if the lights had not been on then, I might have walked towards a frigid death. The home was coated in a layer of hard snow, but the windows held a picturesque scene of an inviting home within, which had me barreling at the door. My chilled digits cracked and snapped into a fist, landing on the wooden door though the sensitivity of my skin had my hand throbbing from the sharp pain which began after my knock. One knock was all I landed though it was successful in churning up life within the cabin, for I heard the sound of floorboards croaking and an audible footstep approaching the door. It shook, and a distinct latch sound was heard before the door opened a sliver, and the light which poured out was quickly halted by a body, and that of which I only saw the glaring bulbous eye investigating my presence. I spoke to the human of my dire need for help to which I was replied to with silence. For a moment, all hope was crippled when the door slammed shut, but a second latching sound was heard, and the door swung farther now to show the gaping opening into the inviting luminous of the inner walls. My voiceless guest had begun already walking back to his seat, which I saw was his from the opened book and glasses that sat on an ancient wood end table. He sat down in his chair, picked up the book, and held it to his face, further mystifying his identity. For some time,, I sat by the door, waiting to be additionally introduced to the home, in silence, except for the crackling and snapping of the fire which danced in its cage and the man's irregular turning of pages. Then I watched the man's left hand release the book, and with his long finger, he pointed to the opposing side of the fireplace where an empty sofa chair sat waiting for me. It was an offputting gesture, but out respect, I obliged my hosts request and walked towards the offered seating. As I walked closer, my host slightly shifted his book as so, I could continuously not see his face and as I sat down on the chair was face to book with my mysterious host. I sat, taking in the warmth from the fire and resting my feeble consciousness, enjoying the serenity of my rescue. The man's house was vast inside with walls hidden by rows of books with unknown titles and of obscure languages and the walls with no books adorned with strange ornaments that had untold mysteries and reasoning to hang such decorations I could not figure out. A clock hung above the mantlepiece, silent in its passing of time. It read five thirty-two p.m. I do not know when I fell to my exhaustion, but when I awoke, the clock had read nine forty-eight p.m. The fire was now but an incandescent mass of coughing coals. It was a suffocating silence in the home, though the whining of the winter's tempest was at the door, shifting the house, causing it to moan from discomfort. I had assumed that my host must have left me to my dreams while he found his own within his bedroom. I got up from my chair and found myself drawn towards a bookshelf behind me. The books were hazed with darkness and a thin layer of dusk, which after careful prodding, I had come to realize that most of the home was unkept and time-lost, seeming to be more used by the insects which commonly lurk in the deterioration of man, than the man who lived here. In the darkness, a quick succession of scratches echoed within the silence, and with instinct and fear driving me, my head snapped to look behind, but nothing but a still scene of absence and nighttime ambiance was shown to me. I continued my scan of the curious books, picking at random one from the shelf, which, when I blew off the collection of forgottenness, read an unrecognizable dialect that I had never seen and though I am not of advanced intelligence to see such symbolistic characters made wonder what they meant and who would read such books; books that too me had weird suggestions of occult like literature and pictures that perturbed me greatly. Then another scurrying in the dark, this time far more aggressive and lasting for a more significant period than before, but as my eyes peered with great worry into the void that encapsulated the interior, I saw nothing but a quiet room. I walked up towards the mantle, which was gloomily illuminated by the smoldering coals beneath yet still smeared the objects’ shadows that lay upon it, up onto the wall like a stain. Objects of odd uses and or meanings which I could not make out by a mere view yet holding the items also left me perplexed, and they held similar qualities of occultism as the books did. And then for a third time did I hear the scurrying scratches of something within the dark and at this I turned completely back around and exclaimed myself aloud with courage yet my world shook slightly as I peered aimlessly into the dark. And although I sense a presence I was not expecting, or maybe wanting, a response yet I did receive one and it spoke with a croaky voice that seemed to hiccup and droop in its words. Though the words it spoke I could not understand for they were syllables of some tongue which did not even sound human. And from the dark I saw movement. The Host fell into the tenuous light from the almost dead coals and in that moment I saw his face. A long vertical mouth slit which ran down all the way from the top of his cranium to the beginning of his chin and jutting out were quivering teeth of cone like proportions. He pressed forward maniacally towards me and though I pleaded, the fear which dripped from my pores only seemed to arrose him more, now a black ichor dripped from the bottom of his mouth. His slanderous tendrils reached out towards me and though I tried to run his arms kept me prisoned within his eye sight, to watch me breakdown and see the light in my eyes fade when he takes his first bite.