

Dark Aeons

Z. M. Wilmot

Published by Z. M. Wilmot at Smashwords

Copyright Z. M. Wilmot 2012

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Books by Z. M. Wilmot

The Jakken Trilogy

The Loneliness of Stars

The Light of Civilization

The Libel of Blood

Other Works

Dark Aeons

For a current and complete list of books, go to:

http://zmwilmot.com

Many thanks to my editors and literary advisors, Jacob G. Adams and Peter Merlin, who offered me their valuable insights into my writing on many of the dark tales that follow. This collection would not be the same without their help, and would doubtless have remained a horrible, jumbled conglomeration of letters that would have driven even the most stoic reader mad. Thank them for your sanity.

Introduction

This work of horror began as a single story, "Winds of Madness," which was actually based upon a piece of fan fiction I wrote a long time ago. The story was an excuse for me to have fun with the English language, giving me the opportunity to describe outlandish scenes and a poor being's descent into madness, tossed about on indescribable winds. That initial, very short story morphed into the very first (and, in my humble opinion, the best) story of this collection.

Following the completion of "Winds of Madness," and in the midst of me reading a large amount of H. P. Lovecraft, I came up with the idea to write a number of short stories and novellas and put them together into one collection. Mr. Lovecraft's influence is especially clear in the novella "Parallax," which bears a striking resemblance to his tale "From Beyond," which I believe strongly and unconsciously influences my own work. The two tales, while based upon a similar idea, go in very different directions, and I personally feel as if the two are complements, and variations on a theme.

The process of writing and compiling this work has taken me about three years, and now the final product sits before you, dear reader. The tales contained in this volume are highly unusual, and the writing is often experimental in nature. I have focused, in many of the stories, on creating a nightmarish dreamscape, and the terrifying situations and places that the characters find themselves in is often more important than characters and plot in what is to follow.

From the prose poems of "Dark Prophecy," "The Parasite," "The Playground," and "Lord of Carrion," to terrifying visions of torment in "Hell Factory" and "The Man in Amber;" from the more standard horror stories of "The Silver Door," "Singing in the Rain," and "The Horror in the Woods," to the science fiction tales of "Station Fourteen" and "The Derelict;" from the ancient Roman legend of "The Vessel" to the century-spanning "Afflatus Divine;" from the dark poems of "What Walks Under Moonlight," "The Loneliness of the Spheres," and "Dark Aeons" itself to the grotesque tale of "Sally," and from the tiny "Wolf's Key" and "Ascension," to the novella "Parallax;" this collection covers a wide range of writing styles and subjects. Every single tale contained therein, however, is bound together by the common thread of eternal horror, which plagues our dreams at night and our thoughts during the day, that always lurks at the just out of sight, and just in mind. Enjoy, and be afraid.

Z. M. Wilmot

Winds of Madness

I

He came to us on the eve of February the twenty-eighth, at precisely seven o'clock, one year ago. I remember the night well, for a terrible storm had been brewing all day, and the forecasts had promised us all a week to remember. Like most of our patients, he did not admit himself to our esteemed institute, but was brought instead by a worried mother.

I was on duty at the door, only having been acquired a couple of years past by the Institute, and I was quite taken aback at her grand entrance. She entered the reception area behind a filthy wheelbarrow, her muscular arms tightly gripping the rotting wooden handles. Moments before, the large doors had been flung open with such force that I had feared they would fly off of their hinges, and this mad woman had burst in. I surmised that she had taken the ramp to get to the level of the door, as the stairs would have been exceedingly difficult to mount with her vehicle.

But however she may have arrived here, she pushed her way through the doors, barely managing to keep her wheelbarrow level. Dirt and mud flaked off of the wheel and basket, falling to the polished white floor. I admit, for a moment I was rather peeved at the woman; having someone nearly break down a very expensive door and then lug an unseemly farming implement into the freshly-cleaned lobby of one of the nation's most prestigious mental institutions was not something to warm the heart of an employee.

Nevertheless, I did my best to put on a smile for her and stood up from behind my mahogany desk. I politely asked her what she was doing here, and if she wished to obtain treatment for herself.

She shook her head mutely and pointed down at her wheelbarrow. Peering down over my desk, I noticed for the first time that there was a person lying inside that wheelbarrow, covered in all manner of foul-looking dirt and grass. He was curled up so that his entire person fit inside the confines of the basket, his head resting peacefully in his arms.

At that point, I became rather alarmed, and I rushed around to the front of my desk and knelt by the wheelbarrow. "My God, woman, what have you done?" I asked, horrified at her treatment of a fellow human being.

"I di'nt der it, yer blind fool," she snapped at me, her voice having that drawling quality that was common amongst the peoples of the countryside. "He done gone an' di' it ta' hi'self, I tell ya'."

I looked up at the woman unbelievingly. "So what you mean to say is that he went and got himself this filthy, and then crawled into the wheelbarrow and waited for you to push him here?"

"Naw, I ain't sayin' that. What I'ma sayin' is that he dun gone crazy, an' he's been scarin' me an' little Johnnyboy wit' his talk of win's an' tings comin' down' from da' sky. He dun' and tried ta dig hisself a hole unnergroun', tryin' ta hide from da' whatevers it is dat was tryin' ta get at 'im."

She leaned closer to me and whispered very loudly, "He ain't right in 'is mind, no he ain't. I wan' yer ter help him out a bit, an' see wha's wrong wit' 'im."

I stood up straight and faced her, my considerable height allowing me to stare down at her. She didn't back down in the slightest. After a moment, I nodded. "Very well." I walked back to my desk and sat down. I beckoned for her to come forward, and took out a writing pen. "What's your name, then?" I asked her, masking whatever the disbelief and anger moving through my mind.

"Donna Marley, goo'sir." I nodded and wrote it down in the record-book.

"And how exactly do you plan on paying your fees, Mrs. Marley?"

She looked taken aback. "Fees? I wa' told dat dey look'd at yer fer free in da city."

I shook my head sadly at her. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but not here. This is a private Institution. If you take him to one of the public ones..."

She shook her head violently. "Naw, naw, naw, that won't der 'tall. He needs the bestest care, I say. I won' settle fer anytin' less, yer mark my wor's."

I sighed. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Mrs. Marley, but I simply don't have the authority to allow your son to be treated here."

She gave me a glare that would have raised the dead, her eyes burning like balefire, then rummaged about in her patchwork dress until she pulled out an old, wrinkled piece of paper. She held it out to me, hand quivering. I gingerly took the paper from her trembling fingers, fearing that it would crumble in my own. I brought it close to my face and peered at the scrawling script upon it. It read out to be a simple request:

To Whomever it May Concern,

It is requested that whomever is receiving this letter please listen to the words of the bearer of said letter, and carry out any requests that may be asked of you. You shall be reimbursed upon contact with me.

Your friend,

Donald Quersenn

I lay the letter down upon the desk. Donald Quersenn was the late founder of this institution, having passed away just three years prior. When I informed the woman of this, she nearly burst into tears.

"Plers, sir, 'e an' li'l Johnnyboy ar' all I has left! I can' let 'im jus' waste away!"

At that moment, my superior, Doctor Fairgen, walked in through the door that led to his office. He gave the woman an odd look, then turned to me, asking me who it was that stood before me so. I replied with her name and mentioned that her son needed treatment. At the mention of her name, he took a step back, and peered at the woman with a renewed interest.

"Donna Marley, you say?" She turned to him, seeing quite obviously that she would have more luck with him than me, and nodded. He spent another moment studying her, and then nodded, apparently satisfied. "Admit her son, Dr. Jueger. We will be paid." I started to stammer a protest, feeling hurt that this woman had apparently beaten me, but stifled it upon the look that Fairgen shot me. Instead, I merely nodded and proceeded to take down the rest of the required information as she answered my questions.

Name of Petitioner: Donna Marley

Name of Patient: Darien Marley, Jr.

Age of Patient: 12

Reason For Treatment: Hallucinations, Irrational fear of wind, Desire to bury self under earth

Room Assignment: 412

Payment Methods: To be obtained at later date

This task done, I closed the record book and phoned the fourth floor, asking them to ready room number four hundred and twelve as rapidly as they could. After writing the new patient's name next to his room on the housekeeping sheet, we waited in awkward silence for an orderly to arrive and escort her son to his new room. The mother bade the boy, who was seemingly unconscious, a tearful goodbye, and waited for the orderly to lift the boy out from the wheelbarrow and exit the room towards the stairwell. The woman waited until her son was completely out of sight before lifting again the handles of the filth-encrusted wheelbarrow and wheeling it out the door, roughly kicking it open, again causing me to fear for the structural integrity of its hinges.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, aside from the pouring rain that began to fall not five minutes after Mrs. Marley left. I wondered how she was faring through the rain; it was falling harder than I had ever seen it fall in this season before. It was only later that I learned that she had, in fact, drowned in a ditch just outside of the city. I never learned what became of her "Johnnyboy."

II

An incident like that is not something easily forgotten, and whenever I had the time to spare, would follow the interesting case of the young Mr. Darien Marley. He went through seven doctors in his first year, none of them able to help him in the slightest, and all of them unnerved by his queer manner of speech and his terrible imaginings. Of those seven doctors, only two still work with us today. Three of the seven resigned shortly after their time with young Darien, and two of them were killed in mysterious accidents. The young man acquired quite a reputation at the Institution, and most doctors became afraid to touch him.

Why we kept him I shall never know. His bills were paid by an anonymous donor, presumably a relative of Mr. Quersenn, but I was discouraged from questioning it overly much. I learned to be content with reading the doctors' reports on him for the first year of his residence with us.

I was promoted out from my secretarial position to that of a real doctor shortly before Darien's first year at the Institution came to a close. I had been educated at a rather prestigious Psychiatric Institute, and I had been rather unhappy when the only work offered to me was that of a secretary. Nonetheless, I had accepted the job, seeing no better opportunities available at the time. I had been working that job for nearly two and a half years before Darien Marley was wheelbarrowed through the Institution's front doors.

Mere minutes after I was informed of my promotion I was given my first patient, and it was to be none other than Darien Marley. In preparation for my first meeting with him the next day, I reviewed all of the files that I had read so many times, in an attempt to come up with my own diagnosis and solution to the boy's problems. Of course, I had about as much success as Darien's previous doctors.

As I began to look over their reports, I realized that it would take days to go through every little detail of what they had to say about the child, so I was forced to content myself with a brief summary of each doctor's experiences and thoughts on the child, in the form of a short paragraph on the front page of their full report.

Dr. Henry Kuttner (Still Employed): The boy babbled about voices on the wind. He seems to believe that they are trying to steal him away, and take him to a place he calls Seeraith Bolow – or at least that is the best way I can transcribe his words. He likes to be as close to the ground as possible, so I requested for his bed to be moved down there. I think he would be better on a lower floor, but we are so full now that he cannot be moved. He is incoherent much of the time, and frequently goes into hysterics, during which he attempts to dig through the floor. On April the second, the boy attacked me, and I was re-assigned on my request by the administration.

Dr. Daniel Bigelow (Resigned): I can't stand the child. He unnerves me more than any other patient I have ever had, though I have been told I had more success with him than my predecessor, Dr. Kuttner. Kuttner described him as being incoherent, but to me everything he says is perfectly clear, just nonsensical – what is this Seerayth Bowlo he talks about? I cannot for the life of me surmise as to how he got the thought into his head that the winds will carry him to this place. Did he have some traumatic event in his past? If he had living relatives we might chance to figure this out, but alas, he has none. No matter what I do to help him, he remains unchanged. I have tried everything. I chose, on April the 29th, to resign from my post at the Institution and seek work somewhere that does not keep me working on hopeless cases.

Dr. Matthias Hemmell (Dead): The boy has issues – his fear of the wind has no known source. He tells me that the voices speak to him, and sometimes show him what they want to do to him. So far he has not been able to describe what it is the winds want with him, other than to take him to some dreadful place. He also seems to have an absurd fascination with blood, and has on several occasions bitten himself until he bleeds, so that he may draw strange symbols on the floor with his own life-force. NOTE: Dr. Hemmell was killed in a car accident on March the 28th.

Dr. Herbert Weighton (Resigned): I lasted longer than all three of my predecessors, by some miracle from above. I doubted at first their words, but I see now that they told no lies; he writes on the floor in his own blood, drawing strange symbols that I cannot hope to recreate in writing, so complex were they. He appears to believe that the symbols will protect him when the winds came to drag him off to Seerayth Bolow. I have done some research, and concluded that the name he mentions sounds vaguely Gaelic. Could it possibly be spelled Cireadh Bolough? He will not answer. Halfway through my tenure, he withdrew into total silence, and would not speak. A week later, a terrible windstorm blew through the county, and the boy kept the entire building awake with screams of terror. I was forced to stand in front of the window in order to calm him even in the slightest. I could not take it anymore, and on July the sixth, I resigned from my post, giving the Institution my advice that the child be dropped, as he is not able to benefit from our care.

Dr. Xavier Donalos (Dead): I requested that Darien's window be boarded shut and the walls of his room padded to be soundproof. Somehow the Institution was able to pull out funds for the former, but not for the latter. The boarded window seemed to help him greatly, though he still felt the urge to paint the wood with his own blood. My blood wouldn't do; I offered once to do it for him, and he violently resisted my suggestion, attacking me physically. He accused me of being in league with the winds. NOTE: Dr. Xavier Donalos was killed in a fatal fall down the stairs on September the 2nd as he went to hand in his resignation after Darien assaulted him.

Dr. Matthew Brighton (Still Employed): The child is very seriously disturbed. I, at my own expense, did what my late predecessor tried to do, and padded the walls of his room so as to make them soundproof, in order that he not hear the wind. I swear that the boy must be getting into my mind, for I noticed that shortly after I padded his room that the winds in the area picked up frightfully. Undoubtedly it is just my nerves. The boy claims that the winds can and still will reach him, and that I have only delayed them. When I asked him why the winds wanted to take him, he responded with a physical attack. I was re-assigned immediately on December the 18th.

Dr. Benjamin Nevai (Resigned): Young Darien has gone through quite an astonishing array of doctors. I fear what may happen to me if I stay on with him for too long; I think I shall resign before anything too terrible happens. He continues drawing sigils in blood all over his room, and tells me how the winds will rise to sweep him away, towards that Cireadh Bolough place he babbles about. I asked him what would happen to him there, and instead of assaulting me physically like I had thought he would, he told me that they would strip him of his soul and send it spiraling upwards to the stars where their light would burn it forever. I think the boy is driving me mad as well, for I too have begun to hear voices upon the wind. I have resigned from my post on the basis of my own apparent failing mental health on January the 14th.

And so, on January the 15th, I was to pick up where Nevai had left off. I immersed myself with the writings of my predecessors, and set about devising a plan of attack. It seemed that the one fatal flaw all of the boy's previous doctors save Nevai had possessed was an inability to gain the boy's trust. I thought that if perhaps I pretended to see what Darien himself saw upon the winds, I might be able to present myself to him as a kindred spirit, and so gain insight into his very soul in order that I be able to reach out to him, and help drag him out of the abyss of terror that he had fallen so deeply into.

III

I first visited him on that morning the 15th, at precisely eight o'clock. The door to his room was closed and locked, as per standard Institute policy. In my left arm I carried a simple writing pad, and in the fingers of that hand I tightly gripped a freshly sharpened pencil. I raised my right arm and closed my fingers into a fist, drawing back my wrist to knock. I hesitated a moment, fearing that if I failed my career would be doomed – or that perhaps something far worse would happen to me.

Pushing those thoughts aside, I gently tapped upon the door to his private room with my knuckles. For a few moments there was no response, and so I rapped upon the door again, with more force this time. At this second knocking, a timid voice reached my ears, asking me who it was. I responded by saying that I was his new friend, after a moment of hesitation as I deliberated on how to describe myself to him. The relationship that I wished to develop with Darien was not that of a patient and doctor, but rather that of a pair of close friends.

"You mean you're my new doctor?" The voice was slightly bolder now, and I winced at the words I heard it speak, forcing me to throw out the idea of a relationship of friends.

"Yes, if you wish to think of me in that way. May I come in?"

"Can I stop you?" I jotted down a note on my pad – Remarkably quick-witted.

I chose to ignore his comment, and warned him of my imminent arrival. I removed my key-ring from my pocket and inserted the proper key into the keyhole. I gently pushed the door open, just enough for me to enter the room, and then locked it behind me. It was only then that I looked upon the room in which I stood, that I had read so much about, and yet had never seen before with my own eyes.

The first thing to catch my eye was the window – or the space where a window should be. Like Dr. Donalos had mentioned in his reports, the window was boarded up completely by seven thick wooden boards positioned horizontally across said window, completely blocking any view of the outdoors.

The walls of the room would have been a bright white, like the rest of the Institution, had not they been covered with light blue padding. The padding was completely bare, and devoid of any features other than the crevices indicating where one pad ended and another began. To my right, in the corner farthest from the window, was Darien's cot. It was a standard cot; about two feet off of the ground, with uniform white sheets, pillow, and comforter atop it, all made very neatly. The edges around the rectangular outline of the cot were raised in order to prevent distraught patients from too easily falling onto the hard floor. I wondered for a moment, as Doctor Kuttner claimed to have moved the boy's bed to the ground. Perhaps a later doctor had failed to mention the fact that they raised it again, for whatever reason. If they had, it did not appear as if Darien had slept upon it at all.

Upon turning my attention to the floor, I must confess that my breath caught in my throat and I thought I might faint. While I had read about the strange designs that Darien drew upon the floor in his own blood, it was not until that moment that I understood what Dr. Weighton had meant when he said that he had no hopes of transcribing the symbols before him.

It is hard now to describe them; they were a vast collection of swirls, filling up almost all of the floor-space in the room, and were most concentrated in the areas closest to the window. I could make out no other discernible patterns to them other than a relatively clear space under his bed (though it is important to note here that swirls of blood surrounded the entirety of his cot) and the door, where I now stood.

Just like the time when I had first seen young Darien, the boy himself was the last thing I noticed. He was rather small – by this time he was thirteen years of age – and white as bone. His entire body trembled slightly, and he looked at me with an odd mixture of excitement, intelligence, and fear. He was kneeling on the floor near his bed, his hands clasped together in his lap.

I smiled down at him, ignoring the bloodstained floor as I walked towards him, arm extended. He did not rise or extend his own arm in return, but merely stared at mine. After a moment, I withdrew my offered hand, and squatted down on the floor in front of him. "May I call you Darien?"

He shrugged and gazed down at the floor. I repeated my question, and he shrugged again. Sighing, I marked down another note on my pad: Largely unresponsive.

"You can call me Dr. Jueger." Moments after pronouncing this statement, I took it back. "Or if you prefer, you may call me Jonathan." He did not respond at all to this, not even with a shrug.

"I'm going to ask you a few simple questions now, if that's all right with you." Again, he ignored me completely. Though I was rather put off, I hid my emotions and I began to question him, mostly about his past and his family. I say "began" here because I did not meet with any success at all. I asked him my first question, did his mother treat him well, dozens of times, over and over again, until it became a mantra. He did not react to me at all, and I underlined in my notes the word unresponsive.

As time passed, Darien began to shake ever more violently, until I ventured to touch him lightly on the shoulder, and ceased my questioning to inquire as to what was the matter. The instant my fingers touched the thin fabric of the gown he was wearing, his head jerked up and he stared directly into my eyes. I found myself unable to look away, and felt as if I was drowning in those deep blue eyes of his, pulled beneath the waves by some great serpent. The instant he blinked, I seized my chance and looked away. I stood up hurriedly. His gaze followed the movements of my head, but I forced myself to not again look into his eyes.

"Darien, what's wrong?" I asked, trying to keep the fear from my own voice. His trembling grew more violent.

"They don't like you, Jonathan," the boy said. His voice was a high-pitched vibrato, and I sensed equal parts fear and wonder in it. "They think you're here to take me away from them. They didn't think any of the others would." He slowly got to his feet and looked at me. I studiously avoided his gaze.

"Can you hear them, Jonathan? They are howling for your blood." I took a step back; the boy truly was disturbed. I had, of course, known that much from the reports of my predecessors, but it was rather more alarming to experience it in person. Nevertheless, I strained my ears for the boy, humouring his delusions, forgetting in my disquiet that I had planned to pretend to share his visions. I heard nothing.

"Sorry, Darien. There's nothing there."

He looked at me for a moment, and then broke out into the most hideous laughter I had ever heard in my life, somewhere between a bark, a giggle, a scream, and a chortle. "Oh, you may think that now, Jonathan, but you'll see. They'll come for you after they get me, and there will be no saving you then!" His laughter quieted gradually, and ended with a wracking fit of coughing. I patiently waited it out in silence, and then decided to seize this moment of lucidity to continue my questioning.

"So, Darien, you never did answer me – did your mother treat you well?"

He looked at me, and I was not quick enough to avoid his gaze this time. His eyes did not capture me like they had the last, however, and I was able to meet his gaze steadily.

"I suppose she did. She never denied me or Johnny anything we wanted that she could get, and she helped me escape the winds whenever she could." I nodded and jotted this down, again squatting down on the floor to allow myself to write upon my knee. Darien remained standing, and I looked up at him. His voice did not have that drawl that his mother's had possessed, and sounded, much to my surprise, rather cultured. He was the very image of an Aryan, what with his pale skin, blue eyes, and blonde hair. It was a shame his hair wasn't thicker. As it was, it appeared that he was balding rapidly in some spots.

"And what of your father?"

Darien shrugged. "I never knew who he was – he left my mother before I was born." I scribbled down more notes, and decided then that I was not fond of my head being below his, and so I stood, writing on my inner arm instead of my knee.

"And Johnny... is he younger than you or is he older?"

"He was younger. I don't know who his father was." I jotted down more notes and nodded. Then a thought occurred to me; he had referred to his brother in the past tense.

"Your brother was?" Darien nodded. "Does that mean he no longer lives?"

"I would only assume so. Without mother, undoubtedly the winds got him." Nodding skeptically, I wrote that down as well.

"And about these winds..." I began, and then stopped as the look on Darien's face turned to one of sheer terror. "What is it?" I asked him. He did not respond, and instead hid himself underneath his cot, as far away from the window as he could possibly get. I tried to reason with him, to urge him out, but he was deaf to my pleas. After an hour, I left him, simultaneously encouraged and discouraged. When I visited later in the afternoon and evening, I was to get no more out of him, as he appeared to have severed all communications with the world outside of his own head.

IV

My first week with young Darien proved most uneventful, and relatively little information was extracted from him. About his family, I learned that he and Johnny were half-brothers, and that his mother had cared for them all of their lives. Johnny was three years younger, but his mother apparently coddled Darien to a much greater extent than his younger brother. She had put up well with his fear of the wind, it seems – up until he had tried to bury himself under the ground to escape from it. Then she had finally given him to us.

In terms of why he was so afraid of the wind, I got no further than my predecessors. He believed with all of his being that the winds would carry him to Cireadh Bolough, or however it is spelled, where his soul would be ripped from his body and sent up to the stars, where it would be set ablaze and burn for all eternity. "What do you think the stars are?" he asked me one day. When I replied that they were giant balls of gas and plasma floating in space, he looked at me as if I was mad. "Don't be silly. They're burning souls."

In all of my visits, which numbered three times a day (in the morning, afternoon, and evening), he said scarcely more than a hundred coherent words, though as he became more accustomed to my presence, he began to mutter to himself frequently, though I could seldom make out what he said, and what little I could understand was meaningless to me. He spent most of his time cowering under his cot, presumably hiding from the winds that hunted him. I then spent most of my time trying to get him to come out, but I was unable to accomplish anything.

It was on the 23rd, slightly more than a week since I had first visited him as a doctor, that the nightmare began. During my evening session with him on that day, I walked in, locking the door behind me as usual, and turned around to see him kneeling on the floor in the center of the room, tracing the old lines of dried blood with his finger. As he moved his finger along the lines, I saw the lines renew themselves with the fresh blood flowing from his badly mangled pointer finger.

I let out a cry and dropped my writing materials as I rushed towards him, wanting to put a stop to this self-destructive act of madness. I grabbed his hand and hoisted him to his feet, heedless of the blood pouring out from his finger upon the whitewashed floor. He gave me a look of sheer terror and wrested himself free from my grip, exhibiting surprising strength. He stared down at the floor, and let out a shrill shriek before collapsing again to his knees, burying his head in his blood-soaked hands. I looked down at the floor and saw blood splattered on the floor, well outside the carefully-drawn lines the boy had made.

Darien's hysterics led me to believe that I had done something to upset him, and I guessed that it was this splattering of blood that caused him such despair. He ignored my presence completely for several minutes, and then glared upwards at me with baleful eyes. "You have killed me, Dr. Jonathan. I have no protections against them now! They will take me!" I assured him that it was not so, and I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder, soothing him as best I could. To my astonishment, at my touch he did not attack me like I had been led to expect, but he instead buried his head in my arms. I took this all with good measure, and I soon had calmed the boy down.

"You're safe in here, Darien – how could the winds possibly reach you through the stone and wood?" He shook his head mutely, and soon stopped sobbing and wailing. I awkwardly patted him on the shoulder, and chanced a question.

"What do these lines do? Why do you draw them?"

He sniffled and looked at me, tears still in his eyes. "The winds cannot cross the threshold built with the life-force of their chosen. I built a threshold that they cannot cross..." The tears began to flow more rapidly yet again. "But now through your actions the threshold has been broken, and they will take me!" He wasn't angry now, only pleading. "Help me, Jonathan... don't leave."

I restrained a sigh and promised to stay with him the night. I told him I just had to step outside for a few minutes, and he, after several minutes of wailing, reluctantly agreed. I hurried out of the room and explained to the secretary (my replacement) what I was going to do, and got permission to do so. I then ran back up the stairs to Room 412, and back to Darien.

When I returned and had locked the door, I found him curled up under his bed. For the first time since I had truly met him, I dared venture under the bed with him, lying next to him. After a few minutes, he shifted so that he was leaning into me.

We lay in silence for a long while, and as the long hours dragged ever onward, I committed the single greatest error of my life: I allowed sleep to overtake me.

V

My dreams that night were troubled, but I cannot recall even the tiniest moment of any of them. Nor do I remember falling asleep, but I know that I must have, for I opened my eyes upon the most bizarre scene. I swear to you that it was not a dream, that it could not have been. The sigils – the sinuous curves that Darien had so painstakingly drawn across the floor and that I had so haphazardly ruined – were glowing a bright purple. As I watched, awestruck, tendrils and ribbons of green light began to flow out of the purple, floating upwards. Then they suddenly bent to the side, all in the same direction, as if a mighty wind was blowing them. Some then changed direction, bending in the opposite manner, while others folded through space in manners that I could barely perceive, let alone describe.

It was then that I became acutely aware of Darien next to me, screaming with all of his might – and yet the sound came to me as if through a large set of earplugs, so muffled were his cries of terror. I turned to look at him, and saw that his wide eyes were fixated upon a particular spot in front of him. I followed his gaze with my own eyes, and found him to be staring in horror at the spot where his blood had been spilt outside of the threshold. A massive dark abyss had opened in the floor there, and I sensed a force begin to slowly draw us towards it. I grabbed hold of Darien and frantically searched for something to grab onto in order to anchor ourselves to the room. There was nothing, and we, along with the cot, slowly began to slide towards the center of the room. A great howling reached my ears, and I felt a wind ruffle my hair, gently at first, then with the force of a Caribbean hurricane. My screams mingled with his as the yawning abyss before us opened wider in my vision, until I could see nothing beyond it. The surface of the world began to vanish beneath me, and I made one last desperate bid for survival. I grabbed one of the tendrils of green light with my free hand, still clutching Darien tightly with the other.

The light flowed down my body and into Darien's, and a horrible shrill shriek, greater than the howling of the winds and our own mortal screams, pierced my soul, causing me to nearly let go of Darien. But I held on, and I felt myself thrown from the abyss, along with my charge, and we were both smashed into the cot and the wall. My vision went black.

I awoke sometime later. Darien was asleep in my arms, and we were both under the cot again. I was bruised and my fingers ached greatly. I lay there for a long while, just holding Darien, not knowing what to think. After a few moments of thought, I decided that the experience was in fact nothing more than an extremely vivid nightmare, and that the boy's mutterings had somehow managed to infect my own mind.

When Darien awoke later, he gave me an odd look that I cannot fully describe, and said nothing to me. He crawled out from under the cot and hesitantly approached the splatters of blood that had spilled beyond his threshold. He then, as I watched, painstakingly scratched off every last bit of the dried blood that had fallen outside of his carefully-drawn lines, until the threshold was once again secure. He smiled faintly at me and then crawled back into my arms and cried softly. I don't know how long we lay there, for I had broken my watch at some point during the night, but eventually there was a knock on the door, and an orderly let herself in to ask how I was doing. Apparently no one had heard the screams the previous night, nor the howling winds or the devilish shriek, but instead had decided to check upon me because it was approaching noon. Darien gave me permission to go, and I left (I admit ashamedly that I did so gratefully) to return to my own flat several blocks away, to get some true rest.

VI

It was with great reluctance that I returned later that evening to the Institution and to Darien. I greeted him with what I hoped was my usual cheerful demeanor, and sat down next to him. For once, he was seated atop his cot, and not under it. "How are you feeling?" I asked him. He didn't answer me for several minutes. I repeated the question, and he stared at me with a far-away look in his eyes.

"They'll try again tonight. I know they will. The threshold has been weakened; they will try to cross it. Stay with me again." Looking into those pleading eyes, I found it hard to refuse, but I forced myself to do it, for my own sake. I couldn't take another night like the one before. Though I told myself that my experience had just been a dream, deep inside of me I was not so sure. Darien did not react to my refusal with the wails and shrieks I expected, but he merely fell into a somber silence. I tried to draw him out of his shell, but he had returned back to his state of apathy, similar to that which I had encountered upon my first being assigned to him.

After two hours of no progress whatsoever, I surrendered and bid him farewell. He scarcely noticed me leave, caught up as he was with his own dark thoughts and obscure mumblings.

Later that night I awoke, at half past twelve, with a terrible feeling of dread filling my veins. Despite the two layers of warm blankets atop me, a chill seeped into my very bones and sent me shivering. I slid out of my bed and hurriedly got dressed, donning a thick coat – I had a suspicion that it was going to be rather windy out of doors.

My suspicions were unfounded, for when I stepped outside into the street the air was completely still. It was warm as well, very much unlike the cold air typical of this time of year. I considered for a moment turning back and replacing my coat upon its hangar, but decided against it lest the air obtain more of a chill as the night progressed.

The utter stillness of the night unnerved me greatly. The world around me was completely silent, aside from the sound of my footsteps upon the walk, which in turn echoed so loudly in my hearing that I imagined I was an ancient giant striding across the land.

By the dim light of the streetlamps I soon made it to the Institution, and I hurried up the stairs. Trying the door, I found it to be locked, and hurriedly fumbled for my keys from the pocket in my coat (it was quite fortuitous that I did not leave it behind), and used them to unlock the door. I stepped inside, then gingerly shut and locked the door behind me. I know not what compelled me forward towards room 412, that forceful sense of impending dread that drove me from my flat back to my patient, but I wish to the gods that it had not.

When I reached young Darien's room I knocked loudly upon the door, and upon hearing no reply, let myself in and locked the door behind me. I frantically looked around the room, a sense of unavoidable doom pervading my very soul, and I saw Darien crouching in his usual spot under the cot, trembling violently with the most fearful look in his eyes. I rushed to his side and knelt beside him, asking him what was the matter. He simply stared past me, over my shoulder, his eyes opened more widely than I had believed was physically possible.

I turned to follow his gaze, and to my astonishment, I saw that the boards that had blocked the window were gone, the holes in the wall left by the nails the only reminder that they had ever been present. Forgetting about my patient for an instant, I stood and walked over to the window. Darien grabbed my arm, attempting to stop me, but I shook him off, and he did not persist.

The windowpane was badly cracked, a spider-web of fractures crossing its entire surface. I suspected that if there was any wind outside, there would be a draft in the room. As that thought crossed my mind, I noticed that there was, in fact, a draft in the room. I took a nervous step back from the window; there had been no sign of any wind on my trip to the Institution. I reasoned with myself, against my better judgment, telling myself that the wind must have just picked up since I had stepped inside. Or maybe there was only wind on this side of the Institution. What I saw next, though, dispelled any logical reasoning my mind may have come up with.

For as I peered out of the window, I saw the wind. And no, I don't mean to say that I saw the trees move – I saw the physical form of the wind. It was indescribable, that madness that I saw hurtling towards me at impossible speeds, that colossal form of shimmering hues and colours, that writhing mass of things that pulsated and radiated that terrible glow, like that of a dying sun as it breathed its last before collapsing back into the black nether from whence it came.

And then the sound reached my ears, and I fell back into the room, a scream upon my lips, mingling with that awful howling shriek that echoed with the voices of the damned, a thousand souls crying out in eternal agony, screaming for a release that would never come, edged with a malice that no mortal soul should ever have to bear. My back hit the floor, but I felt no pain as the voices overwhelmed me. The howling of the wind came then, carrying above even those immortal voices, sounding with the thunder of a thousand hurricanes.

I have only a dim recollection of what happened then, as my mind fled me at that instant to dwell amongst the peaceful sheep that graze in the back of my mind, heedless of the terrors and dangers of this mortal world. The winds came into the room, all of them – and there were thousands, tens of thousands, of them, and they rushed in, their terrible appendages breaking through the dimly glowing lights of Darien's threshold, tearing asunder the barriers between them and my patient. Darien surely was screaming, but over the cacophony that assaulted my ears I could not hear him. They reached out and took him then, all of them at once, and he was gone in an instant, vanished, while the winds left me alone, shrieking and writhing upon the floor of room 412, not daring to believe what I had witnessed.

VII

I fell into a black slumber that night, a dreamless sleep filled with nightmares that were not dreams, but visions – I saw the damned winds as they bore my charge over the land and seas, across mountains and deserts that no earthly being has known, across the vast distances between the stars, blazing onwards through the trails of mighty comets, heedless of the heat of the supernovae they left in their terrible wake, intent upon their dreadful journey. Moons and asteroids, planets and suns, nebulae and galaxies, all flashed past as the winds carried ever onward.

They moved like nothing ever seen on Earth, both backwards and forwards, right and left, up and down, and in strange and weird directions that our minds could not even begin to comprehend, even had we before known of their existence. Despite their erratic and utterly alien movements, I sensed beneath them a purpose, a forward direction, from which they never wavered nor faltered. Their course remained true, past entire civilizations, paying no heed to the crystalline spires and flaming towers through which they soared, flying past massive tentacled beings and cyclopean cities, past swarms of horrors and masses of dripping flesh. Worlds never meant to be glimpsed by a mere man flashed before my eyes, and I fear even now that which I glimpsed in those dark aeons as I followed those cursed winds across all of eternity.

Everything was laid out before me, and the world became clear as I saw that I passed over what once had been Earth, and saw the planet I once called home degenerate before my eyes, from a glimmering metropolis to a smog-filled complex, threatening all life which yet depended upon it, and further then I saw the race of man fall as it turned all that it had against itself, and I saw the great industries that had destroyed it and reduced the planet to a melted husk. I saw the fey spirits that preyed upon the new and young inhabitants of the land, who defended their Earth from the Eldritch, and who even now carry my mind away with my young charge, across both space and time to that which sits at the end of it all, Cireadh Bolough, that dreaded place where the Fey lord sits upon his throne of blood, and calls to those he desires with his dread winds, summoning them to him for his eternal pleasure.

Then I witnessed before me the sundering of a soul, as the dreadwinds converged upon young Darien, tearing out that which inhabited his frail body. The shining life that had once been a boy was removed from his mortal shell in an instant, the body cast aside to fall forever among the stars.

And the Fey lord beckoned, causing the dreadwinds to deposit the soul of their victim upon his lap. He looked at the soul and it met with his approval, and so he tossed it into a star which floated by his left ear, causing it to soar across that damnably human, and yet utterly alien, face. I heard the scream begin then, through the shrieking and howling of the winds around me; that one, solitary scream that I knew to belong to the soul of Darien Marley, adding its own dark music to the cacophony at the end of times.

The Fey lord looked at me then and saw into my very soul, his eyes piercing my body, burning it away and leaving me exposed and helpless. He laughed then, a laugh which came from a thousand mouths on a thousand worlds, and cast me back to the shell from whence I came.

And then when I awoke, I found myself to be in a police cell, the visions still clear in my head. I begged for a pen and some paper, and have transcribed hence the tale which you have now read as best I could, with all that I could remember.

But heed my words, spawn of humankind: it is hopeless to resist, for the end will come to us all; I have seen it, how we have all come to rise as the playthings of the Fey beings who have always been and always will be, and how we shall be cast aside when they are done with us, as have so many others before us. Enjoy yourself while you still can, for you have not much longer, and I even less than you, for surely they will come for me now...

VIII

POLICE EXAMINER'S NOTE: The inmate taken in on the morning of January the 25th, a certain Jonathan Barrymore Jueger, a doctor at the Silver Creek Institution for Mental Health, is most certainly criminally insane. He denies that he killed the boy and then disposed of his body, and instead claims that the wind took young Darien Marley away. It would certainly explain why the boy's body has not been found – but how could the winds have carried him through the still-intact window? The doctor was found on the floor of room 412, Darien Marley's old chamber, laughing madly to himself and rolling to and fro. It is recommended that Dr. Jueger be put as quickly as possible into a high-security Sanatorium, as he is clearly a menace to society in his current state. Attached is an account that he wrote with the paper and pen loaned to him by Officer Downey, yet further evidence of his mental decline.

CORONER'S REPORT: On February the 18th, Doctor Jonathan Barrymore Jueger was found dead in his cell at Townshend Sanatorium. No physical evidence of death is to be found, other than a stopped heart and a lack of breath. Given the nature of his insanity and his irrational fear of winds, it is likely that he died of fear, for there was a terrible storm that night.

Dark Prophecy

I

A POLICE INTERVIEW

They come to me when I dream. Not always when I sleep; one does not have to be asleep to dream. Indeed, more often than not, I believe that I actually, in fact, dream more often when I am awake than when I am asleep. What? No, I'm not a narcoleptic. Yes, I know what that means. I'm not stupid. I don't fall asleep at random intervals and have dreams. I go into a trance when the dreams come to me.

Yes, they are visions, not true dreams, like ordinary people have. I am not ordinary. I have been marked. I have been chosen. I am different. They have deemed me worthy of their gifts.

Who are they? Them, of course! Who else could they be? The ones who have granted me the power of visions, and have allowed me to see what will be in the dark aeons that shall come to pass.

I just answered your question! Don't you police types ever pay attention to what people say to you? How slowly do I have to talk for you to understand me?

So you want me to tell you what I have seen? I warn you, the revelations will drive lesser beings such as yourself mad. It is only my own mental fortitude that has spared me.

You want me to continue? If you wish, but don't say I didn't warn you.

II

THE FALL OF MAN

I have seen how the civilization of man will fall, and that future is not far off. They have hastened the process of man's destruction by supplying him with the knowledge of lost civilizations: the nuclear power of the Q'Shan, the forgotten physics of the Vizelkli, the terrible industry of the R'ylekk... all will contribute to the downfall of man as They stir anger in the hearts of your people with the subtle prods of sharp sticks, goading them to perform the most abhorrent of acts: the destruction of brother by brother, sister by sister, mother by daughter, niece by uncle, and grandchild by grandfather.

The terrible warheads will darken the sky as the flock of sparrows even now casts shadows upon the streets outside. They shall fill the Earth with their whistling laments, and their bellows of anger will shake this world as they strike true, leaving only destruction and death in their wake. Thus the civilizations of man will fall, brought down both by their own selves and by They who grant me my glimpses of power.

And then the Earth shall too die, as the flora and fauna wither at the advent of a nuclear age, where the mutagenic waves wash over the land, changing those that they do not kill into hideous, unrecog-nizable horrors.

Even in the sea none can escape man's misguided wrath, for the fouled water of the rivers shall flow into the oceans and seep into the deepest craters of the Earth. All life will then begin to die as even the Earth itself succumbs to the poison that mankind has injected into her very lifeblood, and all will grow still.

Those few of you that survive the deadly holocaust will not last long, fleeing into your abodes deep beneath the earth, praying to your lying gods that the corruption will not reach you where you lie. But all will be in vain, for reach you it shall, and you will be forever changed.

III

THE INSECTS OF THE NEW WORLD

As the planet becomes still and the cold frost approaches, then the insect shall come to dominance. The hardy cockroach, the communal ant, the terrible wasp, all will band together, accepting the gifts of corruption with open wings and great rejoicing, for finally the world shall be theirs.

Within your toppled cities they shall now reign, their minds growing to hideous intelligence, and with their gained sentience shall construct their hives across all the lands of the Earth. Their unholy rites will be performed at the sites of the greatest corruption, where your harbringers of death hit the hardest.

They shall see these sites, and rightfully so, as the source of their power, and great pains will be taken to keep them safe. Their foul religions shall develop in accordance to the placement of these fountains of corruption and decay, but they shall be so alien that no human mind could ever comprehend them.

But even yet, not all of the race of man has been defeated. Some live still, enslaved by their terrible new overlords. Entombed and entrapped by the honeycombs of their lairs, men shall toil under the harsh eye of their masters, doing those tasks which the insects themselves find unpleasant. The working men become fodder as they fall old and die, or else fail in their duties, brought before the rulers of the new world on a glowing platter, chained down, and forced to watch their body and soul devoured by the hideous beasts that he once crushed without a thought.

But no empire can last forever, and so too shall the great nations of the insects fall, but to an outside force, and not to themselves as man had, for they have learned from your folly.

IV

THE DREAM EMPIRE OF K'LAK SUL

It is then that the dreamers shall again rule the world, as they had in aeons past. The sleeping ones, who slumber eternally on the world of Kaddall Shar, will come in their dread ships and take the insects as they enter their final dream-sleeps, gently putting them finally to rest. They shall come and settle upon the poisoned world, their dream-selves able to ignore the corruption that has so thoroughly taken hold of the once-green planet. Their black cities of sleeping stones will rise, and massive halls shall be built so that they may spend their final days in comfort, upon a distant and insignificant world.

It is the Dream Empire of K'Lak Sul, the sleepers, that shall rule the earth the longest, for only they, of all who are to come, can live now upon its wretched surface. They do not need nourishment, for it is only their dream-selves that dwell here, as their physical selves are vast distances away.

But it shall all come to an end, and their homeworld of Kaddall Shar will fall to the hideous V'Lak'Ytar, the Stardusters. Their dream cities shall vanish, and nothing shall ever again walk the Earth. The last traces of anything that mankind had ever accomplished will die on that day, for that is too the day when Sol shall implode upon itself, a result of the actions of my dread masters, and all earthly remnants shall be obliterated in a torrent of starfire.

V

THE STAR SONGS

Let it not be said that the sun shall die without a memory, no – for the stars themselves vibrate and thrum with hidden life, and deep within themselves contain purposes that no mere mortal could ever comprehend. Sol will not be pleased with the actions of my masters, and will fight terribly against their mighty will, but shall eventually fail and succumb to the death that comes to all stars. This death shall come to Sol far ahead of its time, and Sol shall lament his untimely demise in a sorrowful song, the like of which never has been heard or ever will be heard again, echoing across the universe, filling all who hear it with a despair and longing for life that shall linger forever.

Not one soul shall remain untouched by the loneliness and anguish of the star's black song, and the brilliant companions of Sol shall take up the cry, sending his lament across the bridges between the universes, filling all of existence and beyond with a terrible grief that will never fade away.

The singing shall continue long after Sol's flame has gutted out, and a terrible anger will then take hold of the blazing music. A clamor shall ring out among the denizens of all universes and all times, a dreadful sound that departs then from the realm of music into that of charged noise. The rage of the stars will take hold of all that is, and terrible violence will spread across all of existence, extinguishing the tiny sparks of life that fight for their own survival.

The stars themselves will take the war to my masters, who will drive them back and back again with their untold power of unknown aeons, and the supernovae and noble sacrifices of Sol's kin shall all be in vain.

But war cannot last forever, and soon the stars shall tire of their bloodshed, their anger and aggression faded away. The song of the stars will again take on its soothing, lulling tone, sending the races of the worlds to a peaceful state, where harmony and accord abound, all according to the vibrant chords and glorious hymns of the star songs.

VI

THE COMING OF ESHAN A'BOL

But the millennia of peace and prosperity cannot last, either. Out of the darkness at the end of time, from the great place at the end of all space and existence, comes into being the visage of the terrible Eshan A'Bol. His body writhes sinuously to a forgotten tune, and his countless maws open and close endlessly as his distended eyes stare out into the past, the present, and the future. He had been hurled backwards through the river of time, and then forced his way into this universe to interrupt the songs of the stars. His roars of ungodly rage shall fill the auditory receptors of beings on countless worlds, and they shall tremble and quake with terror, for they have known only the loving care of the stars, and their new god shall be a blight upon their very existence.

He shall muzzle the stars and silence their voices, taking all their power for his own, and with it he shall forge a great empire for himself, sating his every desire, never allowing for any to refuse him. And so in this manner shall history proceed for an eternity, all races condemned to this slavery of the body, mind, and spirit, knowing that no hero shall ever rescue them from their hopeless plight.

And so then the end of time will approach, and the blackness that dwells there will reach forth its ungainly arm, beckoning for all to come closer, into its toothy maw...

VII

OFFICER'S REPORT

"Let it be known that this man, Leonard Harrison Bradshaw, died suddenly on May the 21st, 2011, after having been taken into custody for the murder of three children in Central Park. The cause of death is unknown, but as he told me of the visions he had been receiving up to this point, he suddenly began to choke, then shake, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. He collapsed onto the ground, and blood gushed forth from his eyes onto the tile. He died in less than ten seconds – how, I'm not sure anyone will be able to tell. Enclosed is a transcription of his exact words. He was pretty damned eloquent for a backcountry hick."

–INSPECTOR DARRELL O'MONTAINE, NYPD

The Silver Door

I

We always had wondered what was behind that large silver door on the lowest floor of the city library. It was an oddity in that dusty old building, easily one and a half times the size of the polished mahogany doors that populated the rest of the structure. For a long time, I never got too close to the door itself; it was one of those items irresistible to my childish curiosity, but at the same time clearly forbade anyone from coming too close. My fear had always overridden my curiosity, and the same had been true of my two best friends – Jack and Valerie – as well.

It didn't help our curiosity that we never saw anyone ever open that door. Many a time we would sit at the table nearest the door – though this table was still a good twenty feet or so distant – and watch it intently, all the while pretending to study.

I say that the silver door was an oddity, but in truth, the entire lower level of the library was odd. It was below ground level, and one had to walk down a spiral staircase to get to it. Five more floors extended upwards from the first, for a total of seven floors. The library was the oldest structure in town, and I would not have been the least surprised if the lowest level predated the rest of the building. The stones in the walls of that level were different than those used throughout the upper portions of the library; they reminded one of the walls of some ancient castle, very much unlike the red bricks of the structure above. The carpets on the floor were also much older, and looked like antiques brought in from the Orient.

The bookshelves down there had the same appearance as those of the upper floors, but their contents were an example of what was perhaps the starkest contrast between the upper and lower levels. While the books above were those one would expect to find in a library of this day, the books in the cold stone cellar were much older and far more sinister in appearance. Many of them were locked, and almost all were bound in thick leather, with thin yellow parchment in place of proper paper pages. Most of them looked as if they hadn't been touched in centuries.

To make the room even more curious, at least to us children back then, was that all of the books were written in either Latin, Greek, or Arabic. None of us could read a word out of any of them, although we often tried. We didn't go down there for the books, however, though one would describe us back then as bookworms.

We went down there to escape. Our intelligence and bookishness made the others jealous – we were teased and bullied mercilessly. The library was the only escape for the three of us – Jack and Valerie and me. We had always visited the place when we were tiny, and as we grew older, spent more and more time there.

There was one day, though – I think it was a Tuesday – when the biggest bully of them all, Billy McDermott, and his friends chased us into the library on a sunny afternoon. Terrified, we ran down the first staircase we saw – the one leading down to the lower level, where we had never before been in our lives. Billy never found us down there – perhaps the work of the doddering old men (and occasional young lady) who worked at the place, or perhaps they failed to notice the descending spiral stair. Or perhaps he sensed something about that cellar that we did not.

We found quickly that we loved it down there – we all fancied ourselves to be medieval folklorists, and the atmosphere in that basement was that of a medieval study, perhaps one in an ancient monastery. We soon found ourselves going down there every day, sitting at one of the old oak tables – maybe from an old Viking meetinghouse – reading various works of fiction we had brought from home, and doing our schoolwork.

We found the door a month or so after we began to inhabit the room, staying there every day of the week. The floor was very large, much like the others, and we never ventured far, for we never had any need to. Eventually, though, curiosity got the better of us and we went exploring. At the farthest end of the room we found the door. As I said, the closest tables were above twenty feet away; there was a large open space in front of the door. The three of us, on that day, approached the silver door, but all refused to cross that threshold marked off by the tables. We stood silently at the edge of that area for several minutes, all overcome by mingling senses of curiosity and fear. But, as always, our fear overpowered our curiosity, and we retreated back to the stairs, where we discussed our findings.

Gradually, over the course of a few months, we began to sit nearer and nearer to that door, until we regularly inhabited that table closest to it, no longer quite so bothered by the odd mixture of emotions that tended to accompany its presence.

Only once did someone other than ourselves descend that staircase and enter our domain. I do not know whether or not he was a librarian, but he was an old man in an ancient tweed jacket, supporting himself on a silver cane topped with an intricate carving of a howling wolf. He stayed with us for only a minute or so, quickly locating a gigantic black volume, and walking back upstairs with it.

And for many more months after that, the silver door waited, unmoving, its cold surface both taunting and terrifying, both beckoning and warning us against the secrets it hid behind its implacable face.

II

Two weeks after the school year ended in June, we were sitting at our usual table on the bottom floor of the library when Jack decided that we should find out what was behind that door. Valerie objected to this line of thought, saying that it was not our business to go poking about the library in places we weren't supposed to. Furthermore, she continued, the library had offered us shelter for so long and so well that it would be bad luck to question its gift. She feared we might no longer be welcome there. She won Jack over with that argument, but her spell over him only lasted a few days. That same Thursday, he decided that he had to know. Valerie again argued with him, threatening to never come here again with us if he went ahead with his plan, but this time he was adamant.

They both tried to drag me into the conflict, Valerie asking me to please tell Jack how foolish he was being, and Jack telling me to tell Valerie that she was being a coward. Well, Valerie wasn't going to stay around after he called her that, and she stormed off in a huff, presumably going home.

Without Valerie there to counter Jack's arguments, he finally persuaded me to join his side. A few minutes after Valerie's departure, the two of us stood at the threshold, our toes in line with the end of the table. We looked at each other, took a deep breath, and stepped forward into the space around the door.

There was no change.

We both exhaled loudly and grinned. Exchanging a glance, we both confidently strode forward to the door, stopping several inches away from it.

The door, up close, gave a very different impression than when seen from afar. When viewed from our table, the door's surface appeared almost perfectly smooth, and glinted sharply in the dim light, hinting at an immaculately polished surface. Upon looking more closely, however, all of those perceptions vanished. It became readily apparent that the door was neither smooth nor polished, although it was still silver. The entire thing was covered in a thin layer of dust and dirt, indicating little recent use. Etched into the metal were designs of a most disturbing variety, and Jack and I spent several minutes looking over them, each lost in our own musings and thoughts.

There were carved runes and hieroglyphs that I had never before seen, appearing utterly alien to my uneducated eyes. They did not appear to be in any earthly language I had ever seen, and in between lines of what I assumed was text were vivid images of strange scenes, featuring weird beings performing odd actions. Near the top of the rectangular door was a massive head covered in groping tentacles, all wrapped around a variety of anthropomorphic figures. The faces of these figures were rendered in exquisite detail, but yet I could not determine whether they were gasping in pain or moaning in ecstasy.

Below that image was a truly hideous beast, carved in the same detail as the above, but evoking a far greater response in my mind. It was a large blob-like thing, with claws and tentacles and strange limbs whose functions I could not discern, and interspersed between those monstrous limbs were innumerable gaping, toothy maws – some closed, some opened, some biting down on what appeared to be humanoid figures. The thing was on a beach of some sort, and it seemed to me that every grain of sand was etched into the silver, though I know that was impossible. Half of the scene consisted of water, and various human figures were swimming away from the beast on the beach. About halfway across the expanse of water, the swimming figures began to change direction as they fled from a second terrible monster, only half-visible above the waves. What I could see was terrible enough; a massive claw connected to a wolf-like visage, a forked tongue snaking out of its mouth to wrap around the fleeing mortals.

Further down was an image of what appeared to be a star, high above the earth, and down from it fell great balls of fire, obliterating the earth below. Humans fled before its onslaught into toothy maws lying in wait beneath the thin layer of soil.

Other countless images were shown upon that door: orgies of destruction and creation, sexual acts of which I dare not even imagine, and tortures more terrible than any human mind could ever have come up with on their own. I could not look at the pictures any longer, and tore my gaze from them.

Jack seemed less affected than me, and stared at the images with an almost greedy light in his eyes. I whispered his name, and then shook him into attentiveness. He looked at me, and the odd light that had inhabited his eyes faded. He smiled thinly at me.

"I think... we had best return tomorrow. I feel tired." I found myself feeling the same way, and quickly agreed. We got our things together and left the library several minutes later.

III

We returned the following day. Valerie passed by us on the first floor, but she merely glared and walked on. We made little of it as we descended the stairs down to the lower floor, making our way hurriedly over to the door. We had no bags that day, so we did not have to stop to drop them off at our table. We walked directly up to the invisible threshold, stopping for an instant before walking the rest of the way to the silver door. We halted in front of it, as we had done the previous day. I did my best not to look at the grotesque imagery that covered its entire surface, but still caught a few horrifying glimpses.

The two of us stood where we were for several minutes, scarcely moving. Unnerved by the silence, I eventually broke it. "So what do we do now?"

Jack did not reply for a moment, but reached his hand out and placed it upon the door's surface. I gasped at his boldness as he looked at me, grinning childishly.

"It's warm. Feel it!" Before I could react, he grabbed my hand and thrust it against the door. He was wrong. The door wasn't just warm. I almost let out a shriek of agony as I felt a searing pain shoot down my arm as unimaginable amounts of heat passed through my hand. A terrified look crossed Jack's face, and he hurriedly jerked my hand back and asked me what was wrong. The heat stopped the instant my hand left the door, but the pain continued. A few moments later, I fainted.

I imagine that I gave poor Jack quite a fright. I woke up what seemed an instant later, with a slight pain in the back of my head. I sat up, for I had fallen upon the floor. The room was dark, and Jack was gone. I slowly got to my feet and looked around, and was immediately gripped by fear when I realized I was no longer in the room. I soon discovered, however, that I was. It had a rather strange appearance in the dark, making it almost unrecognizable. The door was still there, and I walked up to it cautiously, careful to make as little sound as possible. I thought I heard noises coming from inside it. I turned my ear towards the door, and placed it as close as I dared without actually touching the silvery surface.

I heard what sounded like a faint scratching on the other side. After several moments, the sound of something heavy and metallic being dragged across the floor reached my ears. Then there was a low growl. Frightened, I backed away, but in doing so caused my hand to brush against the door again. There was no pain this time; I merely lapsed back into unconsciousness.

When I awoke again, the dim lights were back on, and Jack was standing over me, a worried look upon his face. He was shaking me, asking me if I was alright. I sat up and replied that I was fine, then quickly remembered that he had abandoned me. I turned on him in anger, and asked him why he had done it.

He looked puzzled, and said that he had done no such thing. I asked him then where he had been, and why the lights had gone out, and he said that he hadn't gone anywhere; according to him, I had only been out for a minute or two. I contradicted him, and we argued heatedly. Gradually, it occurred to me that perhaps I had suffered a hallucination after I had fainted. I suggested this to Jack, and he readily agreed. After mutual apologies were offered, we were friends again. My episode unnerved him greatly, however, and we both left the room, spending our time instead looking for Valerie elsewhere in the library. We failed to find her.

As we left to return home that evening, Jack asked me if I thought that my dream meant anything. I shrugged, and told him probably not. I always had possessed an overactive imagination. He laughed and agreed, and we spoke no more of it. I couldn't shake the feeling that what had happened was meaningful in some way, however. I was reluctant to return to the door the following day, but Jack made me promise to go back with him before he bid me farewell.

IV

And so there we were the next day, back in that room, standing in front of the door. It took a bit of cajoling from Jack to get me to approach it again, but approach it I did. We stood in front of it, neither of us daring to reach out and touch it.

After several moments, I asked what he wanted to do now. Jack put one hand on his hip and stroked his chin with the other. He suggested that we try opening the door. We both stared at it, I doing my best not to look too closely at the hideous images on the door's silver surface, trying to find a way to open it. There was no doorknob.

Jack then suggested that we try to push the door. I shook my head at this; I was unwilling to even take another step closer to it. Understanding and possibly worried about what would happen to me if I touched the door again, Jack walked forward himself and pressed his shoulder against it. It did not budge in the slightest. He tried harder, and he grunted as he strained. He gave up after a minute or two, and turned to look at me, saying that the door wasn't going to open that way. I nodded absent-mindedly in agreement, for though I had tried my best to avoid looking at the door's terrible illustrations, one of them had drawn my gaze.

It showed what looked to be a massive wolf towering over a village of frightened people. A small group was shooting arrows at it, covering the flight of their companions, but it looked as if the wolf-thing, easily four or five times the height of the tallest man, was shrugging off its wounds. I heard Jack's voice faintly in my ears, but it gradually fell from my hearing as I was absorbed into the image, leaving the real world behind me.

I blinked once, and the scene before me was transformed. No longer was I standing in front of a silver door on the bottom floor of an old library, but I was instead standing on grass and dirt, in the center of what looked to be a village from long ago.

The spell that the image had cast upon me was broken, and I was aware of my surroundings, no longer just focused on the door. A few yards ahead of me was a well in the old style, consisting of a circular wall of stones topped by a crude raised roof, with a bucket tied to a rope sitting on the damp grass nearby. Around me were several buildings, made entirely of wood except for the stone foundations poking above the dirt, with crumbling roofs and ill-fitting boards in the walls. I shook my head violently, hoping to clear whatever dream had taken hold of me, but nothing changed.

I walked forward past the well, wondering where I was and where all of the people were. I told myself, over and over again, that this was just a dream, that none of it was real, that the images on that door were making my mind work in strange ways.

As I continued to walk, discovering more buildings on both sides of the dusty street, I began to hear voices. I quickened my pace and hastened towards where it sounded like they were coming from.

They led me to an old building, almost completely destroyed. The walls had been smashed to splinters, and if there had ever been any floors at all, they were long gone. It was more of a hole in the ground than a house, the basement open to the sky. I peered down into the cellar, and then drew back, reeling in disgust as the stench of decaying corpses assaulted my nostrils. I gagged and then vomited, collapsing onto my shaky knees. I shivered in revulsion as I knelt there for several minutes, not believing what I had seen.

I eventually managed to pull myself together and get to my feet. I gingerly stepped over my vomit, and stepped again to the edge of the pit, covering my nose this time. The sight of dozens of corpses greeted my eyes as I gazed down into the abyss. They all appeared to be in about the same state of decay. Most of their flesh was still there, but it was vanishing at an almost visible rate as writhing maggots and droning flies worked their way through it.

Despite my covered nose, the sight still made me sick, and I vomited again, this time into the pit. The force of the action caused me to lose my balance, and I began to fall backwards. I let go of my nose and flailed my arms in order to correct myself, but instead was sent flying forwards, down three or so yards into the pit itself. I landed with a loud thud amid the soft bodies and wriggling things, and screamed in terror and revulsion. I vomited, again and again, all the while scrambling to get to my feet, but slipping every time as bones snapped, organs gave way, and blood spilled out onto the ground.

Less than half a minute later, I was sobbing, covered in vomit, blood, and rotting flesh, and unable to get to my feet. I retched, over and over again, but no longer had anything left to expel from my stomach. I wanted desperately to wake up from this horrible nightmare, but I was beginning to believe more and more that this was no dream.

I don't know how long I lay there for, but eventually I forced myself to move, slowly and deliberately. I got to my feet without slipping once, and searched for a way out, holding back my terror and panic. I spotted a series of what appeared to be handholds of sorts set into the far wall, and I carefully made my way towards them. Once I was there, I then slowly climbed up the side of the wall, and soon was on solid ground again, albeit on the opposite side of the house. The moment I was out of the pit, I crawled away from it, to where I would be in no danger of falling in, and let myself cry again for a few minutes. I wanted to go home.

It took me longer than I had intended to pull myself together and stand up. I began walking down the road I was on, parallel to the original one, doing my best to ignore the filth that I was covered in.

Half an hour or so into this walk, I finally reached the edge of the town, and came across a series of sharpened stakes, all pointed outwards. Many of them had been snapped in half, and I trembled to imagine what force it would have taken to do such damage.

My blood chilled at that moment, for I realized something terrible: the place that I was in now was the same as that place I had just seen on the door.

V

As soon as this information entered my mind, the world before me began to change. The broken stakes became whole again, and human figures began to appear all around me, shouting and running to and fro. They ignored me completely, and a few even ran directly through me. They were of Native American descent, it appeared, but they wore the garb of early European settlers. They lacked firearms, but several of them carried bows. I strained to understand their words, but they spoke in a tongue I did not recognize.

Their shouts changed tone with a dazzling speed, and fingers began to point out towards the distant woods. I turned to follow their fingers with my gaze, and nearly screamed with fright.

The wolf-thing from the silver door stood at the edge of the trees, shaking slightly as it lowered its head in the direction of the village. Someone nearby uttered a ululating war cry, and a group of villagers charged forward at the beast.

The giant wolf threw back its head and let loose a terrifying howl, and in it I heard the echoes of death and despair. It leapt forward in great bounds, rapidly closing the distance between itself and the charging villagers. Many of my fellow humans lost heart and fled as the slavering beast approached nearer and nearer. The wolf spared none, and devoured all who attempted to fight it off. It made short work of those attackers who had fled as well, and then turned its hungry eyes upon the rest of the village. Its yellow gaze passed over both villagers and village, and came to rest on me. I fancied I saw a slight grin cross its features, and it began to walk slowly forward, directly towards me.

At that point, I turned and fled, not wishing to come to the wolf's full attention. It was too late for that, however. As I looked behind me, I saw it loping forward more quickly, its eyes fixed upon my back. I picked up my pace, sprinting as quickly as I could away from the monstrosity.

I heard the splintering of wood behind me, and knew now what force had broken the stakes. My pace slowed as my body tired; I never had been one for athletics. I soon could go on no longer and collapsed onto the ground, panting for breath and turning to look at what I knew was coming.

To my astonishment, I saw a figure standing in front of the wolf, bedecked in what appeared to be some kind of ancient shamanic attire. It waved its arms wildly, and from the ground around the charging wolf tendrils of white light shot up, forming a massive cage around the beast. The monster slammed into the white bars of its prison and howled in agony and rage. Its hate-filled eyes shot death at me and the shaman before him, and it shook with the anger of all the world. The wind began to blow, and its howling filled my ears. Through the howling I heard a deep voice, whispering in my ear.

"You who are out of your time, it is you who must take my key and unlock that which holds me at the edge of all existence. All things must come to an end, and this world is no exception. Your race has only delayed its destruction." A sinister laugh echoed on the wind, and I felt a weight suddenly make itself known in my pocket.

I watched the shaman walk around the imprisoned wolf, and I knew it had been the wolf-thing that had spoken to me. It looked at me with hunger in its eyes, and it was that hunger that remained in my soul as the glowing white bars of its prison expanded and blotted it from sight. There was a blinding flash of light, and then the prison was gone, in its place a massive silver cube.

As I got to my feet, I saw the years pass before my eyes. The shaman spent countless moons carving intricate designs into the silver, warning any who found it of the evil that lurked inside. The villagers all abandoned their town under the direction of the shaman, and the silver cube began to sink into the earth, until it was no longer visible. A town began to form itself upon the ruins of the ancient village, and with growing horror I saw a familiar building come into existence over the spot that the wolf's prison had been buried: the city library.

My vision darkened at this revelation, and then I came to, still standing in front of the silver door. I blinked, then shook my head to clear it. I turned to look at Jack, who wore a worried expression upon his face. He asked me if I was alright. My voice shaking, I told him I was fine and not to worry. By this time, I believe, he had been thoroughly unnerved by my behavior around the door, and we both decided it would be for the best never to open it. He turned around to leave and called for me to follow him, but I told him that I would be a while; I wanted some time to recover. I politely refused his offer to stay with me, and he left reluctantly.

I remained where I was, staring at the door before me. I slipped my hand into my pocket, and felt the cold metal touch of an object that had not been there before. I withdrew my hand, grasping the silver key in it. I gave it hardly a glance, for it was merely a key. Certainly, it was six or seven times the size of a normal key and was made from a valuable metal, but it was otherwise perfectly normal.

It was then that I noticed, for the first time, that the door was not set flush with the wall, but that it was set into the wall, almost as if the wall had been built in front of the door.

Or as if the wall had been built in front of a large silver object with a rectangular opening in the shape of a door cut into the wall, revealing only a part of the larger mass that lay behind it.

There was, on the right side of the door, a carving in the shape of a keyhole. I stared at it for several moments, and then pocketed the key. I heard a deep voice whisper in the back of my head. "No. Now is not the time to end all things." I smiled as I felt a dark presence settle in the shadows of my mind. It was right, of course. Now was not the time.

I would wait for the perfect moment.

What Walks Under Moonlight

The darkness of hills at the heart of midnight

Illumined only by fading lantern's light

As sounds fill the darkness of the mounds and the trees

While half-formed nightmares did never surcease

The Elder in vain sought a path to his haven

Ignoring his best the cry of the raven

His footfalls unsure and his eyes never resting

As they roved to and fro at the shadows divesting

At the edge of dark vision and the border of fright

And under the sway of catalytic moonlight

The monsters of mind can take shape and form

And rise from the ether realm of ichor and worm

The nightmares of sleep can come out in the night

And when one is alone bring their faces to light

And under the blighted gaze of the moon

The wavering dreams oft emerge far too soon

The pebble-strewn path weaves 'tween dark mounds of earth

The moon's tricks of light giving strange monsters birth

From behind the black wall of the gloomiest hill

A horror comes forth from degenerate will

The primordial ooze that flows onto the ground

From the eyes and the mouth on the head of the hound

Glows under the ethereal light of the moon

As it stands and refuses the Elder's last boon

Foul ichor drips from its long silver tongue

As it whispers him promises and beckons him come

The Elder kneels down and remains in one place

Not daring to look at the thing in its face

Mad eyes glow red as they wither and age

And twin tails of snakes lash the air in a rage

Then the hound's many legs step forward as one

As foul wriggling things chant that his will be done

The hound speaks then with one final demand

And the Elder's head shakes with a quivering hand

And there comes then a slithering, shuddering sound

And the Elder is nowhere ever after to be found

And under the light of the sun's shaded twin

The hills at the heart of midnight grow dim

And as the glorious sun rises high in the sky

It finds only a lantern, damp hat and a sigh.

Singing in the Rain

Sophie Lanson looked up into the sky, sheltered from the downpour by the overhang at the entrance to Bartlett Hall. The rain had been acting oddly all day, and it seemed to Sophie that it was going out of its way to irk her. Every time that a class ended and she had to walk between the scattered buildings on campus the rain seemed to pick up, and then when she was safely inside it ebbed again, its dull roar becoming a light scuttling on the roof.

Now that her final class of the day was over, the rain had picked up tremendously, and she was almost afraid to step outside and walk through it. Students and professors hurried by on what had once been paved pathways, but had turned into rushing rivers. She didn't see a dry pant leg anywhere, and those people who had managed to keep the upper parts of their bodies dry were doing so with the greatest of difficulty as the rain whipped by in all directions.

Sophie sighed. Her dormitory was on the complete opposite side of campus, easily a fifteen minute walk. She tapped her umbrella impatiently against the cement beneath her feet, thinking about what to do. Two men walked by her, holding hands and whispering conspiratorially, and plunged into the rain, cuddling together beneath a single large umbrella. She smiled for a moment at the sight, and then felt a pang of pity for them as the wind reversed the umbrella and dumped a large load of water on the pair.

Right. Not going out in that quite yet.

Sophie turned around and walked back inside the building, watching the two men out of the corner of her eye. They were laughing, having abandoned the umbrella, and were carrying on their merry way like nothing was wrong. For the briefest of moments, Sophie felt terribly alone. She shook off the feeling and sat down at a table in the building's lobby, staring morosely out the window.

As had been happening all day, the rain stopped shortly after her retreat indoors. Sophie sighed again and got to her feet, then walked to the door and stepped outside. The moment she did so, the rain picked up again slightly, but then subsided once more, until it was little more than a drizzle. Sophie smiled, opened up her umbrella, and started the long trek back to her room, hoping to get home before the next deluge began.

She was halfway to her destination when the rain came down again in earnest, the light drizzle against her umbrella becoming a roaring tide of water descending from the heavens. Sophie swore violently as her sneaker splashed into a deep puddle, soaking her up to her knee. Why can't it ever start raining when I'm getting dressed for the day? It was perfectly sunny this morning! Damn New England.

Sophie stomped forward through the rain, angling her umbrella forward to deflect most of it before it could hit her. What a rotten ending to a rotten day. Two failed quizzes and a nearly-failed paper was almost too much for Sophie to bear. She cringed at the thought of telling her parents. Maybe they won't notice if I don't call them this week...

It took ages for the walk signal at the busy street that cut across campus to light up and allow Sophie to cross. She sighed; her dormitory still seemed so far away. She trudged across the street and took a left along the cement sidewalk. There was almost no one else outside, unsurprisingly. I should have skipped today.

A soft warbling noise reached Sophie's ears. She rolled her eyes; if she could hear the music playing through someone's headphones over the pouring rain, then the music was turned up way too loud. From what she could tell, they weren't listening to anything worthwhile, either. It sounded a lot like opera. Sophie had no patience for opera that day. She turned around to tell whoever was walking behind her to shut off their music player, but there was no one there. Confused, she looked around her, but saw nothing save the buildings to her right and the road to her left. There weren't even any cars out. Today was definitely a skip class and sit in bed with a mug of hot cocoa day.

Sophie squinted at the buildings next to her and listened to them carefully, trying to determine if the sound was coming from them. Perhaps someone has their computer's speakers turned up way too loudly. As she listened more carefully, she found that she could actually hear less and less of the sound, until it was gone altogether.

She shook her head. I need to get more sleep. I'm hearing things again. She started walking again, and was soon forced to hold her umbrella almost perpendicular to the ground in order to keep out the rain. What is up with this wind?

As soon as Sophie had managed to position her umbrella to block out most of the rain, the wind suddenly stopped and the rain fell from directly overhead. She paused for a moment as she was soaked to the bone and looked blinkingly up at the sky. "Really? Really?" She whipped her umbrella back up over her head and kept walking.

"Of course. It had to happen, didn't it?" The rain was now pelting her from behind, almost horizontally, the wind having once more picked up. She winced as it bit at her back. It was raining harder than she had ever seen. It almost felt like hail. It's probably not safe to be out here.

Miserable, freezing, and soaking wet, Sophie finally reached the final street she needed to cross to get to her dormitory. "You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding." There was no longer any street in front of her. The entire road was covered in rapidly running water, overflowing over the curb and onto the sidewalk. Sophie stood for several moments, just staring out at the river before her. We call this a flash flood, her meteorology professor said in her mind. "Fucking hell," Sophie said in response.

Sophie looked down the road to see if the part of the road on higher ground, on top of the hill, was perhaps dryer, but found that she could not see anything further than twenty feet away, as a thick fog had set in. She turned all around, and found that her world was now entirely defined by fog and mist. "That doesn't make sense," Sophie said, puzzled. Fog and mist and rain? All at once?

It was then that Sophie realized that the fog was getting closer, pressing in on her from all sides. No. I'm imagining things. She peeked out from under her umbrella, looking up, and saw that the fog was above her, too. What on earth?

Her heart beginning to race, Sophie began to walk quickly forward, heading towards where she knew the sidewalk went uphill. To her relief, the fog did not seem to approach any closer as she walked, though she was still unable to see any of the buildings or landmarks surrounding her.

The warbling sound again reached Sophie's ears, but this time she did not stop. I really need more sleep. Hearing opera singers, being scared of the rain; what's up with me? The singing did not dissipate with time as it had before, but instead seemed to grow louder and crescendo as Sophie trekked determinedly onward. She could distinctly make out a woman's soprano voice carrying over the mass of other voices below her, loudly warbling unintelligible words. A deep male baritone counterpart joined her shortly thereafter, and Sophie thought she could distantly hear the sounds of an orchestra, complete with a full percussion section.

I don't even like opera. Why does sleep deprivation have to send me opera?

As the sidewalk began to slope upward, the mood of the opera turned considerably more melancholic, and the tempo slowed. It also got louder, and the fog seemed to press in on Sophie more and more. The wind picked up, and she found it difficult to walk forward, as she was going uphill and against the wind. She could scarcely see anything anymore; only a few feet in any direction. The rain was coming down harder and harder, and her poor umbrella was quivering under the onslaught. The drumming of the rain upon Sophie's shelter got louder and louder as the rain intensified, and she soon heard the booming of tympani and the deep vibratos of a group of baritones in the sound. The streams of rain running along the sidewalk, feeding the river, sounded like a tinkling children's choir. The river gushing on the road beside her sounded like a chorus of tenors and altos, and the wind swelled like an off-key soloist over the din.

The river that filled the road was spilling over onto the sidewalk more and more, and the water began lapping at her feet."Ow!" Sophie said, jumping, as a wave rushed over the curb and hit her soaked socks. "That hurt!" She wondered a moment later who she was talking to. That really hurt. It felt like my puppy was nipping me. Since when does water have fangs?

A second wave of water spilled towards her, coming from the river, and she sidestepped away from it, letting it dissipate before it reached her. Accompanying the wave was a distinct crescendo in the operatic music filling Sophie's head. As the wave weakened and then vanished, so too did the music.

The wind suddenly picked up, and a violent gust of wind ripped the umbrella from Sophie's grasp, sending it whirling out into the fog and the river atop the road. "Fuck!" she screamed. She considered for a moment going out to look for it, but decided that it was safer to just get back to her room. Today is, without a doubt, the worst day of my life.

As she trudged onward up the hill, the rain pelted down at her and tore at what flesh was exposed to the elements. Sophie shivered and pulled her coat closer, but without her umbrella, she had nothing to protect her. Why does the rain sting? She found herself wincing at almost every raindrop that hit her; it felt as if they were trying to chew through her coat and skin. Get a hold of yourself. It's just rain.

Singing rain.

The opera's tone was now distinctly menacing. A low baritone permeated the air, with occasional soprano squeaks piercing through the rumbling veil. "Great. I have my own mental soundtrack now," Sophie muttered to herself. She was soaked completely through at that point, and considered just crossing the street anyway. I won't get any wetter. I just have to hope that no cars come by. She paused and turned towards the water, ready to just walk across the street, wishing that she could see past the enveloping fog, which even now was beginning to prickle her skin. What is up with this rain?

As she lifted her foot and prepared to step down onto the flooded road, the water rose up before her very eyes, arcing over her foot and lunging towards her. Sophie leaned backwards and planted her foot firmly on the ground before backpedalling wildly. The risen water splashed down onto the soaked sidewalk and lapped at her feet, dragging them slowly towards the road, against her will. "What the hell?!"

Sophie screamed, turned around and began to run, pushing her way through the fog. The rain came down harder, feeling like needles piercing her skin. She shouted and cursed as she ran from the flooded road, and in response to her rising voice, the opera all around her crescendoed, filling every part of her being with its deep, rich harmony. She could hear thousands upon thousands of voices singing in the rain, but their melodies fell upon deaf ears as Sophie raged against the fog, which clustered ever more thickly around her as she moved through it.

Soon, the fog was completely solid, and Sophie could move no longer. "Fuck! What the fuck is happening?!" Sophie whirled around and tried to run up the hill again - or what she thought was the hill, at least - but found herself being pushed, instead - pushed by the fog. As it pushed her, a chorus of deep, booming voices vibratoed through her, beckoning her to follow them. The stream of water coursing over the sidewalk added its own tinkling soprano choir to the call, and Sophie found herself unable to resist. "Stop! Stop singing! Rain doesn't sing! Let me go!" No matter how hard she tried to move forward, she found she couldn't; the fog and the water beneath her feet was moving her ever closer to the water-filled road, the raindrops falling like daggers from the sky.

Tears streamed down Sophie's face as her left foot ceased its contact with the ground, hovering above the river of water. The waves splashed hungrily beneath her foot, and a group of tenors joined the opera, calling for the feast. "No!" she cried. "No, no, no!" The tears fell off her face and added to the rainfall upon the ground. Her own voice began to sound among the choir, and she heard herself shouting and screaming melodically. "No, no, no, no, no noooooooo!"

"Help me!" The fog pushed Sophie one last time, and she fell, shrieking, into the cold embrace of the river below. She screamed as her entire body was pulled under by the maelstrom and the fierce current, bubbles streaming from her mouth. She felt her soul dissolving, and the dark choir entered her through the breaches in her consciousness. Her screams grew louder and louder, higher and higher, until her body dissolved completely into the water from which it was made, and her dying voice joined the fell chorus that sang eternally in the rain.

Afflatus Divine

I

"You shall be late, Brother Florence! Get your quill and follow me immediately!"

Brother Florence scrambled amongst his scant belongings, desperately seeking his quill. There was no theft at the monastery, so it could not have been stolen. As quills were not alive, there was no way that it could have walked off on its own, either. He must merely have misplaced it, as Brother Florence was wont to do. It did not appear to be among his belongings, which led the poor monk to believe that it had fallen from his hand on the way back from the scriptorium.

Just as despair and the fear of a lashing at the hands of the Father Abbot began to sink into the weary mind of Brother Florence, he spotted it: his quill! Or, more precisely, a quill that bore a superficial resemblance to his own, but with a slight variation in the distribution of black spots upon its white feather.

As Brother Florence picked up his tool of the word, the spots shifted before his eyes – or had they been in those places all along? It was definitely his quill, yes. He quickly set off to the scriptorium, quill firmly in hand.

Florence waddled furiously across the damp dewed grass; the sun was already peeking its head above the treeline. The bumbling monk was naturally the last to arrive, and was sternly ordered to his seat by the Father Abbot.

And so his day's work began.

His hand moved seemingly of its own free will, as it had ever since his first few months at the monastery. He had learned to scribe very quickly, after having been left there by parents unable and reluctant to spend even a single copper to pay for their son's well-being. His hand knew especially well this current document; the monks had been working on The Annals of the Kings for three months now, and Brother Florence could recite the entire document from memory.

In the Thyrd Monthe of the Fourthe yeare of the Seventh King, there was indeed prosperity throughout the lande. The greate beaste Fellmawg had been slain moste greatly, and celebrations did flourish throughout...

Florence's mind began to wander as his hand wrote, not that there was much to think about. He lived the same life day in and day out; he prayed, he gardened, he wrote. Sometimes he would sleep, and on special occasions, eat. Mostly, though, he wrote – Florence was a horrid gardener and had trouble concentrating during prayers. He was not a willing monk, but knew that he had no other choice; no others would take him in, as he had no skills.

And so he spent his days, wasting his life, transcribing manuscripts to be distributed throughout the kingdom. He didn't even illuminate; his world was black and white, and his words were the same. He finished the page, placed it in his "finished" bin, took out another sheet of parchment, and began again. In the Thyrd Monthe...

Lunch was a short, meager affair. Florence received half-rations for his lateness, and his potato and lentil stew seemed even harder to swallow than usual, especially after Brother Vindus' sickening grace.

As the brothers returned to the scriptorium from the dining cell, Father Paterias called Florence aside. Cringing, Brother Florence did as he was bid. Paterias held a sheaf of parchment in his hand. He showed it to Florence, saying not a word. Scanning it, Florence's face paled. "But, Father, I did not write that..."

"But this is your parchment, is it not?" the Father asked quietly. Paterias was one of the kinder Fathers – certainly much more kind than the Father Abbot – but his disappointment stung more than another's anger ever could. Florence could merely hang his head and nod.

"And what possessed you to write this upon the parchment? Surely the third King never did 'impregnate the mighty Beaste' and 'raise its half-formed chylde to rule the Kingdom as his heire?'"

Florence shook his head. "Surely not, Father."

"So what, then, made you write this?"

The monk could not say why – his imagination had always been vivid, but the monks had done their best to quash it beneath their thumbs. Imagination was not a suitable quality for a monk. But every once in a while, as Florence sat silently in the scriptorium, his thoughts would wander and he would think impure, bestial thoughts – and often would apply them to the page in front of him. For example, of late, he had been trying to determine why the great Seventh King's successor had been one of the worst kings of all time. Combining his impure sexual fantasies – which should have been done away with in a monk long ago – with his hatred of the Eighth King, the grandfather of the current one, he had come to the conclusion that the Seventh King must have copulated with a dragon-beast to give birth to such a terrible son.

"I am unsure, Father – I must have let my mind wander."

"Then your mind is a place where I should not want to be – nor should it be in the state it seems to be in." Father Paterias looked sternly at Brother Florence, and then said those dreaded words. "I am greatly disappointed in you, Brother Florence..."

Florence's head hung down even further as Paterias continued. "Normally I would overlook such an error – but three out of your five pages so far have been like this, variations on a similar theme. Impure thoughts muddle your mind and destroy your purity; as such, you will write again these three parchments, and then transcribe an additional three. Every impure manuscript thereafter will acquire you two more transcriptions: one for that which you have ruined and one for penance. You will receive quarter rations until that task is completed. Is that understood?"

Florence nodded gratefully – Father Paterias was so kind! The Father Abbot would have had Florence flogged. "It is, Father – it shall not happen again."

Paterias nodded and walked off, slowly ripping apart Florence's corrupted work. Seeing the last of the monks ahead vanish into the scriptorium, Florence waddled after them, earning himself another sour remark about his tardiness.

He tried to write more quickly this time, and so his first new parchment came out incorrectly; not with impure thoughts given physical words, but with the misspelling of "Thyrde" as "Thryde," and so he had to begin again. He did his best to banish his any thoughts unrelated to his current work in order to not make such a mistake again, and finished his three re-writes very quickly, earning him a faint nod of approval from Father Calixtus – who Florence often thought of secretly as Father "Vindictivus."

Florence finished his three copies of penance as the other monks began to retire from their writings, having completed their quota of ten copies. Father Calixtus, the Chief Scribe, left as well, leaving Florence under the watchful eye of Father Paterias. What use is it for me to produce three copies of this one page, Brother Florence thought, when no one else has caught up to me?

Doubtless they believe it is good for you, said a voice in the back of his head.

All that it does is make things even worse and increase my bitterness!

Indeed, came the voice again. Don't you sometimes wish they would go away?

Brother Florence was still writing – working finally on the first manuscript of his next required five – and his quill quivered angrily. I wish worse – I wish sometimes that Father Calixtus would be consumed by hellfire where he stands, arms outstretched to the false heavens for repentance as he melts and burns into nothingness before the horrified eyes of the Brotherhood!

What could only be described as a chuckle echoed in the back of Florence's mind, and a faint smile touched his lips. That would indeed be good...

To Florence's horror, he saw that he had written down what he had been thinking. In the Fifthe Monthe of the Fifthe Yeare of the Tenth King, Father Calixtus of the Monastery at St. Mary's was consumed by a balle of fiendish Hellfire, plummeting down inexorably from the Heavens in the manner of God's Fiste, damning him to the fires of Helle as his flesh did melte and burne, consuming his very being in a greate and terrible orgy of death and destruction.

Horrifed and mortally afraid of what would happen if Father Paterias saw it, Florence hastily folded up the parchment as Paterias dozed off, slipping it into the folds of his habit. I will dispose of it later.

A wise choice, said the voice approvingly.

"Shut up," Florence muttered to the voice, startling Paterias awake.

"Did you say something, my son?"

Florence shook his head. "No, father."

"Oh. I could have... very well, then. Does your work come along, Brother Florence?"

His stomach rumbling fiercely, Florence nodded. He needed to finish tonight so that he did not have to endure quarter rations for very long.

"How much do you have left?"

"Just the five, Father."

Paterias nodded. "Very... good. Carry on."

Florence inclined his head in respect and continued to work. He concentrated very hard, but could not figure out why his thoughts had come out on the parchment, when he had thought similar thoughts for quite a long while. This has never happened before...

It was well into the night when Florence finished, approaching that midnight hour in which nothing has any right to wander. Brother Florence woke Father Paterias from his nap, and Paterias was well-pleased. "You have done good work and made up for your sins in good time. Our Father in Heaven will be most pleased, Brother Florence."

"Thank you, Father."

"Now go and claim your quarter ration for supper – you did skip that to finish your work – and let us both retire." Brother Florence was more than happy to do so. On his way to the dining cell, he tore up his offending parchment and scattered it among the bushes. No one will find it now. Following his small bowl of soup and breadheel, did his best to sleep on an empty stomach, pushing all of his impure thoughts aside. Perhaps they do do more harm than good...

Don't let them get to you, said the voice in the back of his head. It's what they want. Exercise your imagination! Let it grow! Don't let them defeat you. You are better by far than they.

Brother Florence groaned. "Shut up," he muttered as he turned over on his stone cot.

***

Florence had slept badly, but managed to wake up on time the next morning. To Calixtus' astonishment, Florence was the second monk into the scriptorium, and he diligently began his work. I will not let yesterday happen again...

Indeed, Florence did far better that day, having only to throw out two manuscripts; one with two spelling errors, and the second with errors of a more serious nature. The second erroneous manuscript again contained some of his less-than-pure thoughts, with regards to the nun named Sylvia who had visited the monastery briefly three years past. Like the last time, Florence slipped the parchment into his habit and continued working.

Even with these setbacks – which were not abnormal, as each monk typically had to redo one or two pages every sitting – Florence was the third to finish his five. As he waited for the lunch hour to arrive, he pretended to do as he should and pray – while he really thought about what had changed in his life of late. Why is it that my quill no longer obeys my will? Has it a mind of its own?

Don't be ridiculous, said the voice in his head. Quills are not alive – they can't just go ahead and talk, can they?

I suppose not, Florence replied. Although... when did I start talking to myself inside my own head?

There was no answer.

It happened on the way back from lunch, during which Brother Florence had enjoyed his first "full" meal in quite a while. Father Calixtus was leading the column of monks back to the scriptorium when there was a noticeable rise in temperature. The line halted, and as the air grew brighter and hotter, the monks all looked up and gasped in horror.

Descending from the sky, whistling down from the heavens, was a great ball of fire, shaped like the Almighty Fist of God. The monks, abandoning their faith in the protection of their Lord God for just an instant, scattered to the four winds – all save Father Calixtus, who was held in place by a horrid fear and terror. From his hiding place back inside the dining cell, peering around the door, Florence knew with a growing dread that the ball of fire was headed directly for Calixtus; the Father was its target.

And, indeed, the fiery Fist of God impacted the Father, igniting him instantly. Screams of agony echoed across the monastery as Florence watched Calixtus' flesh melt and twist as it burned, the ball of fire retaining its shape as it pulsed disturbingly above the ground. As the form of Father Calixtus dissipated, the ball of flame did as well, sinking into the earth below. The grass remained unscathed.

It was a good half-hour before anyone had the courage to step back into that grassy field between the dining cell and the scriptorium. Father Paterias led the way, the Father Abbot close behind him, as they approached the spot of Calixtus' last stand. The pair stood in silence for a while, and then conferred. The monastery bells rang, and the monks all gathered in the clearing to hear the Father Abbot's words.

"Our Lord God, the Father in Heaven Above and Divine, has seen fit to remove Father Calixtus from our ranks. The Lord God's disapproval is clear; we must consider Calixtus hereafter as a flawed man who abandoned his ways. We must not seek to emulate him. Therefore, then, edicts will be issued to fix the flaws he introduced – more rations and less harsh punishments shall begin these measures." No one cheered or smiled – not even Florence.

"The Council of Fathers will seek the Lord's holy wisdom in selecting Calixtus' replacement," the Father Abbot continued. "Until then, return to your cells and meditate upon this occurrence and how you can be better servants of God."

In silence, the Father Abbot was obeyed. Brother Florence returned to his cell and thought deeply about what had occurred. They were my words...I wrote that! How could it have come to be?

Afflatus Divine, came the voice in the back of his head. Inspiration from God – you were his vehicle. You passed judgment upon Calixtus, and he was punished.

Florence was both appalled and elated by this revelation. I... am the chosen of God? Then who are you?

I am his representative on Earth, came the voice.

So you are not the voice in the back of my mind?

Who is to say that that voice is not the voice of God?

Brother Florence had no answer.

So then, it is my duty to pass judgment on my Brothers?

It is the divine will of God.

A faint smile touched Florence's lips. Thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.

***

Florence had pushed aside his thoughts of the previous day by the next morning – why would God choose him as a vessel? When he had questioned the voice, it had remained silent. He took that as a sign of his own madness. Indeed I have lost my sanity – that fireball must have taken what little of it remained. Having conversations with my conscience and believing it was God – what rubbish!

As Florence began work on his manuscripts, Father Paterias – who was now the Head Scribe following Calixtus' death – was called away to speak to a rider that had arrived. When the monks were left unsupervised, they immediately began to mutter about its meaning; no one visited the monastery except with very important news. Florence, however, took no part in the conversation, merely continuing his transcription.

It would have been better had he not, for when Paterias returned he was in a state of great unrest. "Brothers, I have news for you." The monks fell all silent and listened with all of their ears. "A new fact has come to light with regards to the Seventh King, in his Fourth Year, in the Third Month – Brother Florence's page." The monks all turned to look at Florence at once, who bowed his head. What happened?

"It seems as if..." Paterias' voice faltered. "The Seventh King, for all of his lordly virtue, faltered once and copulated with the Great Beast Fellmawg, producing as his offspring..." the Father swallowed. "The child that would become the Eighth King, the grandfather of our current and Tenth King." Florence was stunned. Truly I have gone mad.

There was silence. Brother Florence stared into the frightened eyes of Father Paterias. They shared common knowledge – what he had written had proved to be true.

Paterias broke off the eye contact moments later. "As such, we must begin anew that page – many copies of the Annals have not yet been sent away, and it is our sacred duty to be as up to date as we can. Brother Florence, I have prepared a new parchment for you to copy, and wish to speak with you privately. The rest of you, finish your current manuscript and then begin copying this page." Paterias laid the parchment down on the table in front of him. "Begin now – Brother Florence, come with me."

Filled with trepidation, wonder, and fear, Brother Florence followed Paterias to his study. The Father closed the door behind him. Sitting down opposite Florence, Paterias looked him in the eye.

"Tell me, Brother Florence – how did you know that this was true?"

Florence was silent for a moment. "I – I did not. The thought came to me unbidden."

There was silence. "Then perhaps it is God who speaks through you – please inform me of any other 'thoughts' you may have. God might very well be using you as his voice – though such thoughts do go against the Church's main teachings, there have been some cases known to mystics of this occurrence."

Florence nodded, and was then dismissed. He returned to work, copying down the new page. His hand remained under his control the entire time, and by the end of the day, the current copies the monastery held of the Annals had been successfully edited.

As Florence lay in his cot, thinking hard on what had happened, there was a soft tap on his door. Confused and slightly afraid, he opened it, and found the figure of Sylvia the nun standing before him. She sidled past him and shut the door behind her. Before he could make another move, she had dropped her habit, revealing her glistening, naked body.

The rest of the night was a blur.

***

She was, of course, gone the next morning. You pass judgment and you write, and your will is done. Florence listened to the voice carefully now, that voice which had returned to him.

Anything that I write down will happen?

Yes. Anything at all.

But... why me? Why has God chosen me? And what proof do I have that you even are God!

Trust your faith – that is what your creed is based on. Blind faith. Trusting faith. Do you trust me?

Florence wasn't sure if he did – but he clearly had the power. He thought back to last night and smiled. He had written about Sylvia, and she had come. He would have been a fool to refuse this gift. I do.

And so he was resolved, but told himself that he would use his newfound powers for good. Even as he copied down manuscripts during the day, by night he wrote his judgments on parchment lifted from the scriptorium. Father Paterias' health improved greatly, and he appeared to lose age before the very eyes of the monks, who took it as a miracle and a sign of God's blessing. Calixtus' replacement among the ranks of the Fathers, Turtakles, was not a man Florence liked, and one afternoon proceeded to accidentally chop his left arm off with a hoe.

Florence's punishments – and few rewards – were very creative, and almost always grand and epic. Brothers Johnathan, Patrick, and Donavus all met their ends within a few hours of each other, for snide remarks sent Florence's way. The spirit of God clearly is not with them, the voice had remarked. Would a true man of God say those things? Florence had been forced to agree. The privy collapsed upon the head of Brother Johnathan, who then drowned in a pool of excrement, while a terrible beast from the woods seized Brother Patrick not an hour later, consuming him rapidly before the horrified eyes of the cowering monks. Brother Donavus, while cleaning the roof of one of the houses, suddenly turned to ice and slid onto the ground, shattering into a million shards upon impact.

The Father Abbot took these sudden, inexplicable, and terrible deaths as a sign that God was watching their monastery very closely and punishing the wicked, and so did his best to adhere to the rules that he had learned from the Holy Bible.

But that was not what mattered; what mattered was Florence's own view of them, goaded and prodded by the voice of God in the back of his mind. As he became more and more confident in his new powers – and advised by the voice in his mind – Florence began to develop a habit of waking up late, at first only a minute or two, and eventually reaching lengths of up to twenty whole minutes. The Father Abbot took notice of this, and punished Florence with reduced rations for his lax behavior. Of course, this did not worry him much; Florence bent his own regulations about the use of his power in order to supply himself with food conjured up from nothing.

Eventually, however, the punishments for his behavior became impossible to avoid when the Father Abbot ordered Florence stripped and flogged. Following this humiliating and painful display – and after he had written his wounds away – Brother Florence decided that the time had come for the Father Abbot himself to be written out of the picture.

And as he walked between his study and his quarters, the Father Abbot of the monastery at St. Mary's was struck by a thunderbolte as if sent downe to Earthe by God himself, and his internal fluids spewed out all acrosse the greene.

It came to pass that that afternoon, while all was sunny outside, a bolt of lightning – seemingly descending from the sun itself – clove the Father Abbot in two, covering the green grass with his blood. An assembly was held, and Paterias was chosen as the next Father Abbot.

Paterias chose Brother Florence to be the official scribe of the monastery records following the untimely death of Brother Gregorius, who had fallen into the monastery's pond and had been devoured by something that dwelt there. The monks feared to approach the shallow pool after that.

Indeed, many of the Brothers feared for their lives everywhere. The monastery had numbered fifty-seven before the death of Father Calixtus, and now numbered only thirty-eight – nineteen dead Brothers, all over the course of a month. The monks felt the wrathful eyes of God watching them, and several began to secretly perform the forbidden practice of flagellation. Though many considered fleeing, none did; God's eyes could find them no matter where they ran, and any sign of doubt in one's own morality would only hasten God's harsh hand.

Free now of his normal tasks by his promotion, Florence's imaginings became even more wild, and he began to do more than pass judgments. He feasted every night upon the best of food and drank the best of wine. He wrote into existence a hidden trapdoor that led down to a palace, where he had naked women, men, and beasts to tend to his every need. He ruled an underground kingdom of faeries and sprites, each of whom would subject themselves to his every whim.

As he sank further and further into a life of debauchery, the quill only encouraged him. It was a wonder that Brother Florence did not merely write his fellow monks out of the way so that they would stop interfering with him; perhaps some hidden need to be reminded that he was superior to others around him stayed his pen, or perhaps it was the dark will of the god in his mind. His face became constantly flush with wine and his form became more and more bloated. His brothers could not help but notice his changing appearance and frequent absences.

And thus he was eventually called to Father Paterias' office. "Brother Florence, what has gotten into you? You were once a brother who did his best to work hard and be diligent, but this promotion I think has gone to your head. You have some hidden supply of food and wine; speak now, where did you find these unholy temptations? They must be done away with!" Paterias was more stern than he had ever been before.

Brother Florence merely shrugged and giggled; the wine of the night before had not yet wholly left him. "I do not know what you speak of."

"In the divine and holy name of the Father in Heaven, tell me at once where you have hidden it or I will dig and search until I find it myself!"

Brother Florence's giggling stopped. "I am serious, m'lord Father – I know not of what you speak."

Paterias' self-control was tested mightily and his hand twitched. "I am not the lord father – only God in Heaven is that! Whatever voice God may have given you all those weeks ago has by now surely left you – and as you are failing in your duties, I hereby return you to your position as a transcriber in the scriptorium. Brother Hexarius will take your place."

Florence nodded calmly and accepted his demotion with a faint giggle, but inside seethed with anger. Who are you to tell me what to do?

Are you going to let that windbag push you around? came the voice. God is with you. Give Paterias what he deserves: the most creative death imaginable.

Smiling, Florence spent all night writing a grisly account of the deaths of Father Abbot Paterias and Brother Hexarius.

Fuming with rage, the next morning Brother Hexarius confronted Father Abbot Paterias, wielding his quill as a weapon and shouting abuses at the man. "You have abused me your whole life – raping me and giving me your terrible, corrupt seed! And you expect me then to obey you and work for you! And now, to stand by and watch as you ruin the rest of my life? No more shall I take this; I denounce you as the spawn of the Devil himself!"

Paterias was similarly flustered; memories surged in his mind that told of the truth of Hexarius' accusations, yet he was sure that he would never have done such things.

"I am a man of God," Paterias responded calmly. "Never would I have done such a thing."

"You lie even now," shouted Hexarius, taking a step closer to Paterias. "Your lies will betray you, and you shall die now by my hands!" Hexarius' rage was fueled by an unknown source, and deep down inside he did not understand why he was doing what he did, and why he was going against all that he believed in – but he was compelled to do so nonetheless. He leapt forward, but never made contact with Paterias, who had taken a step back and held forth his right hand. Where his hand touched the air, a circle of rippling darkness began to spread.

Horror was shewn clearly upon the face of Brother Hexarius as a tentacle lashed out of the darkness, wrapping itself around his struggling body, dragging him screaming to his doom. Paterias closed his hand and the darkness vanished. Paterias looked at his hand in abhorrence and fear – he had never possessed sorcerous powers like that before!

But how were the brothers to know that? Seeing a sorcerer in their midst, they were filled with the holy rage of God and set themselves upon the Father, tearing him quite literally limb from limb and then throwing his various bodily parts into the monastery pond, where the beast of the deep shallows snapped up the morsels.

Something snapped then in the mind of Brother Florence as he watched, and he began to scribble upon his hand, giggling madly. The power is all mine...

The great beast of the shallow pond that yet was deep, spurred on by the words of Brother Florence, leapt out of its abode, the terrible pike sprouting wings and legs, and began to devour and consume the flesh of the monks of the monastery at St. Mary's. Screams filled the air as the monks fled from the hungry fish's snapping maw, but none could escape. It broke down doors, smashed through windows, and dug beneath the ground. The entire population of the monastery at St. Mary's was consumed and digested within an hour – all save Brother Florence, who had now gained the attention of its great yellow eye.

Brother Florence laughed, tears running down his eyes as he dropped his quill. "Take me, devil-beast! I do not want to live any longer!" His laughter became wracking sobs as he collapsed to its knees. "This power is not for me – God, the Devil has taken hold of me! Let me die!"

The great fish obliged, and Brother Florence was no more. As the beast flew away from the monastery, seeking other morsels, Florence's quill quivered and then relaxed. Any nearby listeners would have sworn they heard a sigh, and would then have rubbed their eyes in disbelief as the quill stood up and walked away.

After all, quills don't just get up and walk away.

II

"A new typewriter, Emilio?"

The man on the opposite side of the counter shrugged. "Unfortunately so, Daniel – got any recommendations?"

"For you, nothing – you go through typewriters like nothing else. What on earth do you do to them?"

"I type on them, just like any other person." Emilio relented. "Perhaps with a hair too much passion."

The shopkeeper snorted. "More like terror – I swear you believe those obscene horrors that you crank out day in and day out."

Emilio D'arcy shook his head. "There may be but one grain of truth in every hundred tales I write, but no more – I am capable of distinguishing phantasy from reality, thank you very much."

"I am not always so sure – you definitely believe that flying fish of death one you always go on about," Daniel the shopkeeper mumbled.

"That one is true – or at least people thought it was." The shopkeeper rolled his eyes and went back to repairing the typewriter on the counter before him as Emilio ranted on. "I did the research myself, you know – eyewitness accounts of it are everywhere, across all of Southern England and France, and I've even seen a drawing of its head! Someone slew the beast, one 'Sir Gregoric,' and its head was put on display in what became a museum in Normandy. Shame the place burned down."

"Aye, indeed," muttered Daniel as he pried loose a stuck key.

Emilio was unperturbed by the shopkeeper's sarcasm. "I traced the pattern of deaths and sightings, too; it seems that the fish originated from the monastery at St. Mary's, near the sea – the place was found demolished, with decaying, half-eaten human remains all scattered about. And best of all they found an old crumbling parchment, with neat handwriting – probably a scribing monk's – detailing the almost fantastical deaths of a 'Brother Hexarius' and a 'Father Abbot Paterias.' He claimed that Paterias used sorcery to slay a fellow monk – that being Hexarius – and then was torn limb from limb by the other monks and fed to the beast in their pond! Apparently they kept it as a pet, and that day it got out of control and killed everyone, and then escaped!"

The shopkeeper sighed. "And how old is this evidence?"

"Err... a few centuries?"

A snort again. "And you say you can 'distinguish between phantasy and reality.'"

"I can!" Emilio said indignantly. He waved his hand through the air. "Besides, this is all irrelevant – I just want a new typewriter."

Daniel put down his tools. "Can the old one be fixed? At this rate you'll go broke if you keep buying new ones."

"I'll manage," Emilio responded primly. "And if you have no suggestions, I'll just take a peek around."

"Be my guest," Daniel grunted, turning back to his mechanical charge.

Emilio wandered about the shop as Daniel rummaged for a replacement key. Emilio and Daniel got along rather well – or at least, Daniel tolerated the author's eccentricities. Emilio was a writer of horror in a time when if one was not Poe, one could find no audience. As such, he wrote his grisly and macabre tales by night, hunched over his personal typewriter, while during the day he worked as a desk journalist, carefully handling the company's typewriter.

Emilio used Daniel's (rather expensive) self-publishing service for his tales of horror – but he never managed to sell more than two, and as a result had several large stacks of his writings in his flat. Not even libraries would accept them.

Pushing such melancholy thoughts aside, Emilio concentrated on his search. There was, of course, an abundance of typewriters in Daniel's old shop, aptly named "Ye Olde Scrivener's Shoppe." The store carried all manner of fascinating and useful things for a writer, and it did very well for itself; Daniel was certainly much more well-off than Emilio, whose spare income went to failed efforts at self-publication and replacing typewriters.

In addition to typewriters, the store carried ink, pens, pencils, pads, paper, parts, and the antiquarian could even purchase type for his archaic printing press; Daniel did not sell the devices himself, but had two in the back room that he would let people use – for a fee, of course. He also had four modern presses that saw considerable more use, by people like Emilio. The man also offered bookbinding and could recommend one to an illustrator if he needed one.

But Emilio just needed a new typewriter – it was a shame about the old one. It had almost lasted him four whole months.

There were five brands of typewriter filling their designated parts of the shop, and Emilio had tried them all. He shook his head in disappointment and carefully began inspecting them, looking for anything that might indicate durability.

After a few minutes of careful inspection, he came to the conclusion that none of the machines before him were different from each other in any way other than the name emblazoned on the side. Resigned to his fate, Mr. D'arcy chose a typewriter of the same make as his last one, in the hopes that it would last him just as long.

Then his eye caught it. Or did it catch his eye? Whichever it had been, Emilio was reasonably sure that the typewriter had not been sitting there on that table a moment before. "Hello," he murmured, carefully approaching it. It was an older model of a brand he did not recognize. To further confound matters, it did not appear to have a brand name on its side at all.

Emilio stopped about a meter away, afraid to approach any nearer. The thing exuded a strange malignance, accompanied by the sense of something moving from a state of smug satiety to one of a dull hunger. The writer shivered. Has it gotten colder? Surely not.

But yet – the font used by the manufacturer in the type was unique and extraordinarily well-suited to Emilio's needs. Archaic, spindly, and almost calligraphic – but still easily readable – the font would create the perfect atmosphere for a writer of horror. Then there was the bulky, ominous nature of the device itself – anything inspiring such chills in a self-proclaimed master of the macabre was certainly a good investment for said master. The thing also seemed invincible, giving off an air of immortality, eternity, and most importantly for Emilio, durability. This typewriter would not break.

A smile slowly crept across the young man's face. He stepped closer and picked it up. It was surprisingly light physically, but in the metaphysical sense he could feel a certain weightiness to it. All the better for him. He carried it back to the desk, where Daniel was proudly staring down at his completed repair job.

"Found something, did we?" Daniel asked, carefully storing his work in a box and shelving it under the counter. Emilio laid the machine down in front of Daniel, whose face began to take on the characteristics of one befuddled and confused. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"In the back, on the table near the Schuermanns."

The shopkeeper's brow furrowed. "I've never seen-" Daniel hadn't gotten to where he was by failing to notice those times when fate handed him cash on a gold platter. Then he could take both the cash and the platter. "-anyone want to ever buy that one before," he finished smoothly, smiling slightly. "For you, dear friend, only a hundred pounds." Since it was free money, Daniel could afford to be a little generous.

Emilio's face brightened considerably. "Much obliged, Daniel." He hurriedly wrote the shopkeeper a cheque of the proper amount as Daniel boxed the typewriter for easy transport. "Got to be going now," Mr. D'arcy said as the pair switched their respective items. Daniel nodded in agreement and understanding; each man was eager to go his separate way before the other changed his mind. Wishing Daniel a cheerful farewell, Emilio stepped airily out of the shop and onto the street, where the light clouds had begun to sprinkle water down upon the earth below. Smiling down at his new partner, Emilio D'arcy hurried back to his flat to get to work.

***

The remains of Emilio D'arcy's old typewriter were swept off the desk and onto the floor, where they bounced and slid on the dusty wood until they clattered against the wall. Kicking the door shut with, Emilio put down the box containing his new partner in prose and opened it excitedly, lifting it gently out of the box and placing it carefully on the rickety chair that sat before his desk. He tossed the box over his shoulder, where it flew into the bathroom and landed by the toilet there. The smell of rotting food floated in from the flat's underused kitchen, but the writer never noticed it.

The new typewriter was quickly placed on Emilio's desk, a typewriter ribbon from one of the myriad boxes scattered about the flat strung through it, and the chair in front of it occupied by the form of Emilio. His foot tapped lightly on a pile of ink-filled papers, containing half-considered notions turned into what resembled a story. Only one in five of Emilio's creations ever saw completion.

A piece of paper was slipped under the door, from the author's landlord, informing him that his rent was overdue and that if next month's wasn't paid on time either, the landlord would have no choice but to evict Mr. D'arcy. Emilio paid no need, however, as he thought and considered what he should put onto the page before him.

It needed to be something scary – no, terrifying – more so than he had ever done before. It had to be better than anything found in those pulp fiction magazines – and certainly better than those stories he wrote for the paper by day.

Despite his low earnings and atrocious living conditions, money had never been an issue or an object for the young man – the true purpose of his existence was to bring the Word to life. True, the Word often fiercely resisted being brought into existence, but it was the sacred job of the scribe to make battle with the many-headed monster of the Word, and chain it down to a blot of ink on a piece of pulped wood.

Creativity can never be chained.

The author smiled at the voice in the back of his head. "Ah! My muse! How I've missed you." He felt ideas began to churn and rise in the back of his mind, and he laughed giddily as their power began to flow through him. There were so many things he could do, so many worlds he could create...

"But let's start closer to home, shall we?" he said lightly to himself. "The scariest stories are those that we know well and can understand, eh?"

Of course, said the voice in his head. It was growing fainter. Just start writing!

"Yes," Emilio nodded, finally settling upon an idea. "Let's."

***

His girlfriend came around four hours later. She knocked tentatively on the door, but Emilio failed to answer, wrapped up as he was in the composition of what he was sure would be his greatest tale ever. He had decided to write what he knew, and what he had written was what he knew best; his own life. Embellished, of course, by the supernatural, lurking just behind the veil, hidden by the thin veneer of reality.

People know, intuitively, that there are things beyond their comprehension in the dark corner of dusty attics, on the tops of bare mountains, at the eye of terrible storms, in the sewers beneath their feet, and in old, forgotten temples half-buried by the aeons. But though they know that these things exist deep down inside themselves, they will never admit it – except during the hour of the wolf, in their own tortured dreams, and in the Words that make up tales of horror. It is the hidden monster, concealed and cloaked by the darkness, that makes mankind tremble and afraid.

And it is the hidden monster that, when added to a story of utmost realism, turns it into a most disturbing phantasy.

The monster in this particular tale was not yet formed in Emilio's mind, but that was more than acceptable at the tale's current stage; it is the unknown, unseen monster that caused one's heart to race and one's palms to sweat. Once the beast becomes known, it can be fought and rationalized. So long as it clings to the shadows and stays in the dark, it is invincible and unknowable.

Emilio's tale, "The Print Shop Horror," was developing into quite a chilling narrative. It was based very heavily off of the town that he himself lived in. It opened in a printing shop, haunted by an unknown beast that started out doing little more than unnerving customers.

But it quickly began to grow, feeding off of the energy in the creative minds of those visiting the shop. Soon it was stalking the shadows in corporeal form, and when it managed to drain the life-force of an old author passing through, it was able to venture forth from the shop and into the streets. It chose a target – one author named Emile Darie – and began to slowly sap away his energy, driving him mad. Over the course of several pages, he began to perform unspeakable acts, causing him to become more and more depraved, all under the direction of the terrible, unknowable beast.

Emilio's door was never locked. His girlfriend pushed it open gently and stepped inside, gingerly closing it behind her. Emilio had still not noticed her entrance, entranced by his own description of a grisly murder committed by the insane monsieur Darie.

"Emilio?" she asked tentatively. "We have a date, remember?" Her gentle voice was enough to snap the author out of his trance, and he turned around and smiled. "Ah! Greta! Of course, I'm so sorry – my muse returned earlier today, and I've just been so wrapped up in it..." He stood and embraced Greta, who happily returned the favor. "Where are we going tonight, my dear?"

"Dinner and a play, remember?" she said gently. She had the greatest of patience; one had to in order to love the scatter-brained Emilio.

"Ah yes, yes! The Salesperson in Venice! Or somesuch! Quite, quite, let me get my coat, my dear." A few minutes later, after a search for the key to the flat and for Emilio's coat, the pair had exited the studio, the door locked behind them.

On the desk in the darkened room, the typewriter clicked.

***

The play had been marvelous and the food wonderful, but Emilio had scarcely noticed. The fire of creativity blazed brilliantly in his mind, and it was all he could do to keep track of what was going on in front of him. He and Greta had returned to his apartment following their evening out and had bid each other fond farewells, complete with much embracing and promises of seeing each other again on the morrow. A small voice in the back of Emilio's head, which grew louder as they approached his flat, told the author that his story was more important than Greta was, and that he should cancel all of his plans, but he quelled the voice uneasily and made plans for the next night anyway.

The instant Greta was gone, Emilio turned his light back on and bent over his typewriter, his hat and coat still on. He reread the last lines he had written.

As he wandered to his mother's grave and laid a flower upon it, a noise sounded from behind Emile. He snarled and whirled around, a bestial gleam entering his eye, and began to stalk amongst the gravestones. His ears pricked up as he heard heavy breathing and a rapidly-beating heart nearby. He paused before one of the large mausoleums, and silently padded around its edge. Without even breaking stride, he leapt around the corner, his hand slashing outwards, ripping the throat out of a terrified young girl crouching there. She fell before she could scream, and Emile knelt down next to her twitching body and buried his teeth in her throat, his hand running up and down her slender body. He could feel the excitement stirring within him...

But no! What was he doing? The young author came back to himself and stood slowly. His eyes widened as he saw what he had done. He cried out and howled pitifully as he fell back down to the ground, the beast having gone from his mind, replaced by a terrible remorse. No... it can't have been him who did it! It was all just a dream! Wasn't it?

And yet when he opened his eyes, the corpse was still there, and Emile knew that what had occurred had been all too real. He slowly gathered himself back together and resolved to bring the body back to his home, hiding it there. "Yes. Then I can make amends! Somehow..."

He wasted no time then in dragging the corpse from the graveyard and back to his home, making great use of the dark alleys on that moonless night. Following his depositing the body upon his bed, he went back with water and towel and cleaned up the trail of blood as best he could, before furtively locking the door to his flat.

What had come over him? Would it happen again?

The author paused, suddenly feeling nervous. Did I write those last two paragraphs? They don't sound familiar...

But they were good paragraphs. "It must have been me," he reasoned. "No one else could have gotten into the flat. Plus, this would be a pretty stupid prank."

And so he did not let himself be overly troubled, and launched again into his composition, losing himself in the Words. What do you think would happen if the beast that originally inhabited the printshop returned?

Emilio thought. "Well, my dear muse, doubtlessly it would take revenge on the place that had imprisoned it. It would return just as the shop was closing, when it was dark out, and sap the essences of everyone still there."

If the beast has so much power, then why has it not sucked out Emile's essence yet?

"He's an author. We are strong-willed." Emilio smiled. "We do not succumb easily to the leaching of our essences."

Interesting.

Emilio looked at the typewriter and blinked. It had felt like five minutes had passed, and yet three pages had come out of the typewriter, covered in words. As Emilio read them, they seemed vaguely familiar to him, but yet he was sure they were not his words.

What does it matter? His muse said. My Words are your words; all Words are the same. And it is your idea behind it all, your imagination laying the seeds for the world to grow. The Words are merely vessels through which the seeds can become all they can be.

"Yes... of course," Emilio said, still reading the pages. They were a very good three pages, he had to admit. It detailed the beast of the print shop returning to its home and slaying the shopkeeper and his final two customers as twilight fell.

And so the shadows fell across the print shop , and one by one the gaslights all went out as the beast stalked by them. It was the final customer who noticed first the chill in the air, who turned around and for a terrible instant caught sight of the beast, its eyes glowing malevolently in the shadows, before an appendage snaked out of the darkness and dragged her away. As her essence flowed into the maw of the beast, it felt its power grow, and moved again in a final attack as the last gaslight went dark.

The beast in Emilio's tale was becoming too powerful to remain unnoticed, and the author saw that soon his tale must end soon, with either the death of the beast or the death of the author. But which ending would be better?

Suddenly realizing how weary he was, Emilio decided that he would sleep on it and decide in the morning what to do. He stood and stretched, stepping over his landlord's notice, and collapsed into a fitful sleep, still fully clothed, upon his unmade bed.

***

A knock awoke him the next morning, and he blearily woke up and rubbed his eyes. Staggering over to the door, he peered out into the face of Greta. Tears ran down her face.

He hurriedly pulled her inside and shut the door behind him. "Greta? What's wrong, my love?"

She sniffed and rested her head upon his shoulder. "Daniel... is dead, Emilio... he died last night. Just as he was closing the printshop. Someone in the street said the place slowly went dark, and then..." she began sobbing again, and Emilio held her in his arms, his heart growing cold.

"What... happened to them?" he asked hesitantly, fearing he knew the answer already. And the next morning the three were found, no cause of death immediately apparent. Inspectors were, as always, baffled.

"The bodies... are in the morgue... they said... the inspectors... that there was no outward way to tell how they'd died. They just... died. Very quickly."

Beautiful, said a voice in the author's head.

This cannot be, the author thought to himself. Just a coincidence...

That's right, the voice said soothingly. A coincidence.

Emilio nodded slightly to himself and hugged Greta harder. Daniel had been a good friend to them both. Emilio's shock was still too great for grief at the death of a friend, and it was that which allowed him to comfort Greta. She stayed with him for several hours, until she said that she must go, and left.

Emilio spent the next few minutes in silence, staring at the typewriter before him.

She distracts you, the voice said. See how your story is yet unfinished? Had you but been writing instead of trying to comfort her, your greatest achievement could have been completed!

Emilio nodded slowly, the hinges on his mind slowly beginning to fall off. "Yes... I must concentrate and focus. She must be removed. But first... the story."

And with that, Emilio again lost himself in the Words. As he reviewed what he had written so far, he decided that something was not right. The order was all wrong; the printshop attack should occur just before the murder in the graveyard, not the other way around. Mr. D'Arcy shuffled around his papers until the order was correct, and began to retype the pages so that the reordering would be smooth and flawless. After due consideration, Emilio also tweaked the identity of the gravestone Emile laid his flower down upon. The flower was laid upon the grave of the printshop owner, not his mother.

***

Despite his best efforts to concentrate and think, several days later Emilio had still not decided on an ending to his story. Who would die: the author or the beast? If the author died, then the beast would triumph and devour the city, with the threat of the rest of the world being next. Emilio wasn't sure if that was the ending he wanted. If the beast died, however, then Emilio was sure that some part of it would live on. The continued threat of its existence could be far more terrifying than the beast devouring an entire city. But it was also less grand...

He was still agonizing over the decision, becoming increasingly annoyed by Greta's clinginess and frequent visits and becoming more and more detached from the world, when Daniel's funeral rolled around. He was laid to rest in a long ceremony, at which Emilio declined to speak. He was forgiven quickly, as clearly his grief was preventing him from saying what was on his mind.

Even after Daniel was laid to rest, Greta visited him every day, desiring more comfort than the cold man was now capable of giving. A full week after the printshop-owner's funeral, he promised Greta that he would go with her to Daniel's grave on the night that the moon was dark. Greta missed her friend terribly, and hoped that what was said about the new moon was true, and that spirits sometimes return to earth on those occasions.

And so on the night of the new moon, he made his way to the graveyard, Greta having said she would arrive on her own. As Emilio walked among the gravestones in the dark night, he heard a sound, and froze in sudden fear. Had that been a hiss? Wait... what was that? What's making that noise... a growl? He decided to ignore the strange noises at the edge of his hearing, and instead hurriedly walked over to Daniel's grave.

Greta was not there when he arrived, but a bouquet of flowers was. Emilio recognized Greta's handiwork and laid the flower he had brought himself down upon the bouquet.

Then he heard a noise. Not the disturbing noises of before, but a sob and a shuffling of feet. Emilio's ears twitched at the sound, and a strange gleam entered his eyes. He knew who lurked in the graveyard.

Remove her, the voice urged gently in his mind.

Emilio was suddenly compelled by a force far greater than his own will, and he hunched himself over and loped amongst the graves, his nose practically able to see her perfume. Her footsteps ran behind an old mausoleum and stopped. Emilio stopped as well, listening on the opposite side of the building for a few moments.

Yes, she's there.

He padded silently around the edge of the mausoleum, and then leapt out around the corner, his long-nailed hand lashing out before him. There was a gurgle and a thump as Greta, eyes wide with terror, collapsed to the ground. Emilio grinned in feral triumph and knelt down by her corpse, tearing out what remained of her throat, his hands groping her body.

No... wait. What have I done?! The author leapt to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, as he stared in horror down at the body of his lover. No... this can't be happening! I am Emilio, not Emile! That was just a story! They were just words...

That's right. Just Words. The voice in his head was practically cackling.

Emilio regained some measure of control over himself, bent down, and lifted Greta's body off the ground. Tears flowing down his face, he hurried home, careful to keep to the dark alleys that none dared traverse.

His flat was fortunately only on the second floor, and he made his way through the building without incident. He had unlocked his door, closed it behind him, and dropped Greta into his bed before he was able to completely control himself.

"What's happening?" he said, voice trembling. "I... I can't be doing this. I can't think straight..."

It's called madness. All writers suffer from it eventually.

"No... I'm too young! What would cause me to go mad?!" He looked down at Greta's corpse and began sobbing. "This can't be happening..."

But it is happening, Emilio, just like you imagined it, in exquisite detail. You wanted to write your own story – and now you're in it. And what a beautiful tale it is.

"My own... story..." Emilio said, slowly standing. "My own story. Hah! My story isn't worth writing, let alone living, anymore." He strode purposefully over to his writing desk and sat in front of his keyboard. His fingers flew across the keys before anything could stop him.

And the next time that Emile Darie sat before his typewriter, the ceiling above him caved in, and he was killed instantly and painlessly as the beam above him cracked open his skull.

Emilio smiled and closed his eyes as the ceiling creaked ominously and then collapsed, the beam over his head killing the author instantly. Fortunately, the flat above his had not been rented for many years.

In the rubble and wreckage of Emilio's flat, the typewriter spat out the last piece of paper it had been typing on. The paper floated down to the floor through the dusty air as the typewriter shook itself off. It stretched its legs and scurried along the fallen beam, then out the cracked window. A man passing by the street, who witnessed the collapse of the flat above Emilio's, would later tell the constables that he had seen what looked to be a large black cat leap out of Emilio's window and stride regally off into the shadows.

The constables would shake their heads, thank him, and send him off. It was well-known that Emilio D'arcy could never abide cats.

III

"Nothing ever happens around here! Reality is supposed to be so much more interesting than the storybooks! Who said that? I'm pretty whoever it was never paid any attention to reality at all! What's the point of a news show when there's no bloody news to report?" Katherine Bendecker clenched her fists and took several deep breaths to calm herself. Just two more months.

"Relax, honey," said her co-anchor sweetly. "Besides, when interesting stuff happens, people tend to get hurt." Bendecker's hand moved like lightning, and Max Sweeney was soon rubbing his reddening face. "What was that for?"

"As much as you wish it, I am not your 'honey.' Got it?" Katherine didn't even look at Max.

"Alright, alright, fine." Her coworker leaned back, suitably subdued. A hint of a smile graced Katherine's lips. Much better.

"Kat, did you hit Max again?" called the cameraman from across the room.

"He had it coming," she replied, checking to make sure she was presentable.

The cameraman sighed. "Kat, at least wait until after the show next time? He already had his makeup on and everything."

She shrugged as the makeup artist retouched Max's face. "Can't you just digitally alter it?"
"Not without the tech-savvy viewers noticing," he muttered. "And we can't do it live, either."

A sound-tech approached Katherine and disconnected her microphone, removing it from the gleaming table in front of her.

"Hey, what are-"

"It's dead," the tech said nervously. "I'm replacing it with this one."

Katherine nodded shortly and leaned back as the tech hurriedly connected the new one.

"We go live in five, four, three..."

"Hurry up and get out!" Katherine hissed at the tech, sitting up straight, clasping her hands in front of her. Max did the same beside her.

"Two..."

The tech finished his job and scurried out of the way. Behind the two anchors, the blank wall came to life, suddenly showing a tranquil city skyline towering above a shorter treeline.

"You're on!"

A second later, Max spoke. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." The trumpet fanfare that served as the show's theme began to play. "Welcome to the Midnight Hour with Max Sweeney!"

"And Katherine Bendecker," Katherine said, smiling. "Bringing you all the news fit to report for the midnight crowd!"

The fanfare ended dramatically, and the digital contact lenses that each anchor wore began to display the text for that night's show.

Katherine and Max did their best to make the news sound interesting, and did a satisfactory job for most viewers. The pair of them were very talented speakers, able to spin a tale any way they liked, and both were fond of diving off the prompts in their lenses. Had the pair been any other two people, management would have come crashing down on them, but as it was, Sweeney and Bendecker brought the station the highest viewings and ratings. It was best to let artists do their work.

"And in New Baghdad today, the World Peace Summit concluded its final meeting of the season. The event consisted primarily of farewell formalities, but with them they bring a promise to extend the peace over the next year." Katherine smiled brilliantly.

"That's all we've got for you tonight, folks," Sweeney said, grinning. "We'll see you again tomorrow at midnight, with another fascinating day of news for you! This is Max Sweeney..."

"...and Katherine Bendecker..."

"...signing off!" the pair finished in unison.

The ending fanfare played as the pair dramatically stood from their seats and departed the camera's line of sight, pretending to be in deep conversation about something or other.

"That's a wrap! Nice work, folks!"

The show's producer, Randy Morgan, walked up to the pair of them, beaming. "Well done as always, you two – made the whole day sound absolutely fascinating! If I didn't know any better, I'd have thought we lived in interesting times! See you both tomorrow – get a good's night sleep!" Morgan tipped his hat and walked out of the studio as the techs began to put things away, preparing the room for the next show. The microphones were both removed from the table and put away, and as Bendecker watched them be reshelved, she felt a twinge of sorrow. She didn't know why.

"Let's blow this joint," Sweeney sad, donning sunglasses. "Care for a drink, my... Kat?"

Katherine ignored the near-slip. "Take off those glasses. It's midnight. You'll be blind out there. And no."

Max shrugged. "Suit yourself, sweets." Katherine whirled to face him, but he had scooted out the door and was gone by the time she had turned around. She cursed under her breath and followed him at a more sedate pace, grumbling the whole way. She got into her hovercar and drove back to her house in silence.

Once home, she took a long shower, attempting to calm herself down. Her job had been fine up until a few months ago, when management had changed high up in the company. Pay rates went down and benefits dropped, most of the difference going to the new management themselves. The company, she knew, was in the midst of a hostile takeover, and whenever that happened, only one group of people lost – the employees. Fortunately for her, her contract ended in two months. After that, she would be free. She didn't know what she would do then, but she would no longer be under the annoying scrutiny of the new management executives, looking for some excuse to dock her pay. She and Sweeney remained the only two who had managed to keep the same salaries and bonuses that they had had before the takeover.

I wonder how much longer that will last.

She finished her shower, brushed her teeth, dried her hair, and flopped down onto her bed, grabbing her eReader and opening up a collection of old news journals. She began to read. The grisly stories of the good old days never failed to cheer her up.

Katherine Bendecker wasn't a sadist, per se, but she was easily bored, and the easiest way to hold her interest was to have something get hurt in some way. It didn't have to be a physical hurt, even if that was the most fascinating kind. The most interesting news stories that she got to report on anymore were the deaths of prominent political figures, and even those were few and far between. Ever since the Peace Accords of 2080 had been signed, there had only been one assassination, twelve murders, and one suspicious death. In the entire world. It was 2112 now, and deaths (and births) were both at an all-time low as education around the world soared and medical practice became almost miraculous. "Natural causes" was almost the only known cause of death in this day and age.

It was wonderful for most people. Everyone had access to good healthcare, relatively fair representation, and a decent minimum standard of living. It was the golden age of the world.

If you were into that sort of thing. Katherine Bendecker was not.

She longed for a time when there were evil men and women about, stirring things up and causing heroes to arise. The past thirty-one years of existence had been stagnant. Nothing had happened. It seemed as if history had ended.

It doesn't need to be this way, a voice in the back of Katherine's head softly said. You could make things so much more interesting. Or at least make it seem like they're more interesting. Maybe start writing fiction?

Katherine smiled and sighed. If only she could. She had wanted to be a writer when she was small – it seemed to be the only outlet for people to see interesting things anymore, books and holovision shows – but that dream had been quashed by her father one fateful night after she showed him one of her manuscripts. She had never touched a DigiPad again.

She had little talent with the written word, she knew. When she had to chain the words down on a page before her, they didn't come. It was only when she was talking that they flowed. The words had to be free for her to work her magic.

She turned the page in her eReader. 1934 – The Strange Incident of Emilio D'arcy. Synopsis: Horror author's flat collapses. Girlfriend found inside, her throat torn out, a few weeks after her cousin, a printshop-keeper, and two of his customers died under most mysterious circumstances. Read more?

Katherine shook her head. "If only things like this happened now." She sighed and pressed the Read more? button.

***

"We're on!"

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!" Max Sweeney's voice rang out as he introduced the "Midnight Hour" once again. The fanfare began to play. "Welcome to the Midnight Hour with Max Sweeney!"

"And Katherine Bendecker," Katherine continued, grinning. "Bringing you all the news fit to report for the midnight crowd!"

"And what a show we've got for you tonight!" Max said, beaming. "The International Festival for the Continuation of Peace and Goodwill go into full swing today, with acts like 'The Lovebirds' and 'Twelve Turtledoves' blowing crowds away! No one has ever seen anything like it!"

Except for the festival last year. And the year before that, Katherine thought. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Why not spice things up a little? the voice in the back of her head suggested. The voice back there had been telling her to do that for a long time, but she had always pushed it down and away. Tonight, though, the voice seemed more insistent.

She smiled even more brightly. Hell. All they can do now is terminate my contract early. And is that really so bad?

The answer, of course, was no. Her contact lens told her to begin speaking on the "overabundance crisis" in Sudan, but she decided that something more interesting should be going on there.

"And in Sudan today we had a most astonishing turn of events," she said. "Angry at the government stockpiling of excess grain, peasants in the African nation raided a secret armaments factory that escaped the mass disbandment following the Peace Accord of 2080. They burned down the silo keeping the excess grain and laid siege to the government houses in Khartoum. We currently have no footage, but hope to obtain some soon."

There was a stunned silence for a moment from Max. After a few more moments, he cleared his throat and plunged onwards, failing to react to her revelation.

"And the Fijian fishing season has begun without any trouble..."

Katherine wore a smug grin for the rest of the broadcast, and Max had almost recovered his stride by the end of the show.

"And done! Katherine, what the hell was that?"

Katherine smiled at Morgan and patted him lightly on the head. "What viewers wish they were hearing about." Without another word, she walked out of the building, leaving the confused staff of Channel 78 behind her.

***

Katherine was awoken by a call at 7:02 AM the next morning. She turned on her phone's speaker as she answered it, not even sitting up in bed. "Who is it?" she asked, her voice still slightly slurred by sleep.

"Randy Morgan! How the hell did you know?"

"Know what?"

"About the Sudanese riots! No one else knew about them! We were the first ones – and they happened only two hours ago – wait a second! You reported on that before it happened! What did you do? Instigate them yourself?"

Katherine was awake now. "What?!"

"The riots! Sudanese rebels are laying siege to government buildings in Khartoum! For the exact reasons you said! How did you know?"

"I-" For the first time in her life, Katherine Bendecker was speechless. Something interesting is happening! And... I predicted it? But I just made something up!

What does it matter? said the voice in the back of her head. You are the face of the news. Whatever you say is reality for the people watching you. You are in charge.

Katherine smiled. I am, aren't I?

Go get 'em, girl.

"I just had a feeling that it would happen... so I said it. Apparently I was right."

"Well, if you could do it again, that would be marvelous!" Following the riots, viewership started to soar! Hell, we almost had more people watching us yesterday than were watching Channel 76!"

Katherine almost smiled. So the invaders have found that perhaps their conquest is more valuable than their original territory. Hah.

"I'll do my best. Can I go to sleep now?"

"Oh! Certainly, certainly – see if you can dream something else happening!"

"Alright. Bye."

"Bye!"

Katherine hung up and tried to go back to sleep, but found that she couldn't. She felt exalted, and at the same time, terrified. I can't do that again. It was just coincidence! What will they say if I can't predict something again?

I'm sure you'll manage, her head-voice said. Coincidences have a habit of grouping together.

***

Upon her return to the studio at 10:30 PM, Katherine was treated with a strange mix of respect and fear. Max avoided her until he had to sit next to her for the show, much to her delight. She enjoyed unnerving the annoying man. Morgan, on the other hand, had been all over her, asking if he could have hints as to her next premonition. Her stomach was full of butterflies and she remained tight-lipped, saying that it would be a surprise.

The show started almost without a hitch, save that Max's normal dazzling smile was not quite as brilliant as it normally was. The show went on flawlessly for the first fifteen minutes, and then Katherine decided it was time. Instead of reporting on a bountiful harvest in Estonia, she suddenly sat up straight and pretended to look off into the distance. She smiled, nodded, and then spoke. "And in Estonia today, an ancient, forgotten landmine exploded, killing a farmer and his son. The explosion also set the field it was found in on fire, which then spread to engulf the nearby village of Stonlat. We are currently unsure as to the extent of the casualties."

Max had been briefed earlier and had been told to just go with it. "Yes. A most tragic and terrible occurrence. In other news, in nearby Lithuania, the pre-Olympic scything contest has a clear winner in the form of Lars Johansson..."

As Katherine drove home that night, having rushed out of the studio the instant the show ended, something in the back of her head purred.

***

It was true. The terrible fire, caused most strangely by a single exploding landmine left over from the Baltic War of 2028, had killed one hundred and sixty-seven people, and left hundreds more wounded. The next morning, Katherine was again woken up at an obscene hour by Randy Morgan, who was practically bubbling with excitement as he filled her in on all the details. She sat up groggily in bed and nodded. "Of course, Randy, of course – I knew it was going to happen! You don't need to give me any details."

"Oh... right! Quite right! Err... well, if you can do another one-"

"I'll do my best. Goodbye."

When she returned to the studio that night, instead of avoiding her, everyone started talking to her – something that Katherine did not appreciate in the slightest. She brushed off everyone asking about their future or the futures of their families, and went straight to her makeup room. She applied the necessary makeup and remained locked in the room until it was time to go out. Max smiled at her and waved as she sat down next to him. She did not return the gesture.

What will happen today?

Go for something big! said the voice in her head. Oh! The new President of the United States of Yugoslavia! What if he went mad? Maybe he pushed the big red button!

Katherine blinked, horrified at herself for thinking that. No! Absolutely not! I don't want people to be killed!

Oh? And what about the fire yesterday?

Katherine visibly hesitated, and Max gave her an odd look. My god... I did kill people!

Yes you did... and wasn't it wonderful?

No! I won't do it ever again! No. My interesting news will be peaceful from now on.

There was laughter ringing beneath her skull. But doesn't death and violence make the world so much more... interesting? The world has been left to its own devices for far too long! It is time someone took a more active hand in creating a more interesting planet!

No. Katherine was firm with herself as the fanfare began to play. She smiled sweetly and introduced the show, taking over Max's normal lines. About halfway through, Katherine prepared to launch into her prophecy for the night – about an Italian sex scandal of the type that hadn't happened in fifty years – when her throat seized up for a moment.

"And... it seems that Aleksandr Tiyonevic, the newly-elected President of the United States of Yugoslavia, has apparently gone mad! Yes, he's gone mad, and has actually given the order to launch nuclear missiles at the Republic of Greece!"

There was shocked silence for at least a minute. Max swallowed. "Well! Are you... sure that that's the case, Katherine? There haven't been functioning warheads there for several years."

Katherine Bendecker, trapped deep within her own head, screamed No!, and yet she found herself nodding. "Yes, absolutely sure. And... the Russian Prime Minister isn't happy about that, and has ordered a retaliatory strike against Yugoslavia! It seems as if the end has finally come..."

The voice in the front of Katherine Bendecker's head chuckled. We shall see now if I have learned enough, young Katherine. I was given the Power in the beginning, and the Imagination, but not the Words. From your species I have learned the latter. We shall see on the morrow if I can make your Words, and my Idea, come into reality. Then we shall know that I am ready

Deep down inside herself, Katherine Bendecker struggled against her chains. No! You can't! The world will end in fire if what you made me say comes true!

And I shall live and move on. I can fuel myself now.

Katherine's will began to give in and her consciousness retreated. What's happening to me... to the world... what have I done...?

The voice that dominated her soul chuckled. Afflatus divine, dear Katherine. Afflatus divine.

Ascension

The old priest smiled and raised his hands to the sky. "They come for me now, my followers! My chariot of fire, come to take me up to heaven!" The crowd gathered at the sandaled feet of the old man and looked up at the sky in awe as a bright dot appeared and then grew, its light soaring through the sky to illuminate the priest's balding head. He held his right arm up in benediction and smiled. "I leave you now, my flock, but you are in good hands! My altar boy will serve you well, and you now know all you need to know. I shall see you when Heaven descends again to meet the Earth!"

The priest closed his eyes and again lifted up his arms. The column of light struck him head-on, and the pillar of brightness soon became too much for most men to look at. As the crowd shielded their eyes, the pillar expanded and then contracted. The light soon began to dim, and the crowd again turned their eyes to it. They all saw a humanoid shadow in the center of the column begin to rise up along the column of light, gaining speed as it ascended higher and higher. Some even fancied they could see a hand raised in benediction.

The altar boy, though, standing to the side of the column, could see into its heart with eyes unclouded. He saw the light for what it truly was: the small bodies of millions of tiny, tittering, winged imps, glowing with a foul inner light. They had soared down from the sky and surrounded his mentor, clawing his limbs and tearing his clothes. Their bodies were deformed and hideous, their eyes too many and their limbs multitudinous. An insane glee manifested on their faces as they dragged the terrified priest up into the sky.

The altar boy alone could see the terror reflected on his master's face as he was taken away from the earth, faster and faster, by those terrible winged things, up into a realm of eternal torment. As the crowd marveled at the priest's ascension, the altar boy despaired. He had not ascended – he had been dragged up to Hell! But who would believe a mere altar boy?

What fate awaited him now?

Hell Factory

The cherub of sleep fell up and away from me as the burning pain jolted me awake. I opened my bleeding eyes and slowly sat up. My few moments of rest had been blissfully divine, which made my awakening all the more painful. The metal cot – if indeed it could be called even that – I had been lying upon quickly heated to the temperature of an erupting volcano, and I yelped as I rolled off of it onto the rough, sharp obsidian of the floor.

I grimaced as the black stone of midnight scraped against my raw, smoking flesh, but did not make another sound. My yelp alone was enough to bring them down upon me.

Three piercing points of pure agony manifested themselves on my back, and I collapsed as the waves of torment shuddered through my body, speeding along my back and stopping to linger at my heart and my eyes. My vision went red and then black as a wave of blistering heat cracked my dehydrated eyeballs open. I could feel what little moisture remained in them pouring down my face like tears of pure pain.

"Grzlt mbrkl!" came the command from behind me, through a voice like the devil's claws slowly screeching their way across a chalkboard. By now I understood the command, but my memory failed me, as it always did. In this place, nothing could be relied upon except pain.

The three points of agony came again in the same place. My body was not inured to the pain; no matter how much punishment it endured, every stroke of the lash or stab of the trident was worse than the one before. I collapsed onto the jagged obsidian and let my mind go, screaming and thrashing in a vain attempt to relieve myself of the torture. But my mind was always clear; that was the real horror. There were no defenses to hide behind, no ways to block out the torment. There was nothing between myself and the pain.

With my convulsions there came no release, and then the hellwhips descended, their flaming lengths arcing across my body, delicately wrapping themselves around me and then roughly twisting away, tearing off hunks of burning flesh as they did so.

They eventually stopped, and with it stopped much of the agony. One cannot appreciate torture fully if one is constantly in anguish; brief moments of reprieve make the return of torment all the more terrible.

As I lay sprawled in a pool of my own burning blood on the obsidian floor of Hell, my wounds began to heal and my eyes reformed in their sockets, and soon I was whole again, covered with a new layer of tender and raw skin.

Wishing to avoid more pain, I scrambled to my feet, cutting open my hands, knees, and feet in the process. "Chzrt rkltq!" I obeyed the command, turning about and walking away from my white-hot metal sleeping bench, past the grotesquely obese black imp in charge of my torture. Its glowing red pitchfork was lowered menacingly, and its impish eyes glimmered evilly. A flicker of red in its hideously elongated mouth, lined with razor sharp, glimmering white fangs, told of the serpentine tongues that lurked within.

My speed earned me a jab in the shin with the pitchfork, and I nearly collapsed again with the pain. I remained upright, though, and the imp giggled and jabbed me again. The second stab was enough to send me down to the floor, and the punishing hellwhips descended once more as the imp laughed, snorted, and giggled madly.

When it stopped and my flesh was once more whole, the imp prodded me to my feet and gently stabbed my back with the trident. I stayed upright, and this time a second jab did not follow. I was led out of my private torture chamber through an iron door and out into the blinding light. The floor outside was a rough pumice that scoured my feet as I trudged along its length. I was on a narrow walkway, and on the opposite side of the glowing iron door to my cell was a thousand-foot drop into the center of a pool of bubbling magma. The screams of those who had tried to end their torment by a fall into the blessed oblivion of fire sounded in my ears as loudly as if I was there among them. There was no escape from the pain; it was everywhere.

I did not wish to look down into the maelstrom of heat that lay below, but a blow to the side of my head from the blunt end of the imp's trident caused my head to turn and look, and I saw the mangled and twisted victims of the unlucky escapees swirling in the eternal fires of Hell below, doomed forever to burn and roast beneath my feet. The magma was dotted with millions upon millions of bodies struggling in the fire, and I knew that below the surface were even more lost souls, constantly drowning in the unimaginable heat.

"Grtl vtfg!" I walked to the right, passing other iron doors, walking slowly and gingerly in front of my personal imp. The heat from below began to wane, and suddenly became cold. Had I glanced back down, I would have seen the magma become a cold blue liquid, the transition from heat to cold shattering many a body. Of course, the body would reform quickly, and the pain would never leave them. The constant change from molten magma to liquid nitrogen would have been unbearable, and I was glad I did not have to suffer down there.

That thought earned me a whack from the imp that almost sent me tumbling down to join those below. "Hgrf wqrpnb!" Not even my thoughts were my own. My body, my soul, and my mind were all in the possession of the imp, and through him, the Torment.

I fortunately maintained my balance and hurried forward, trying and failing to ignore the constant scrape of rough stone against my bleeding and burned feet. Other damned souls shuffled forward, prodded on by their own personal imps of every shape and size. It had been made very clear long ago that speaking to our fellow lost souls was not only impossible, but also would be punished harshly. Even eye contact was forbidden, and I dropped my head to the uneven floor as I approached the line.

Elevated obsidian paths jutted out of the narrow ledge outside our prisons at semi-regular intervals. Rows upon rows of personal prisons extended above and below us, and similarly countless obsidian paths were being walked upon all around me. Even thinking of my fellow prisoners was enough to earn me a scrape on the ankle, the pain of which I stomached with a terrible grimace.

I joined the line heading away from our prisons, over the sea of endlessly churning magma, seamlessly, which pleased my imp so much that he decided to brush my spine with his trident. I collapsed to the ground and was rewarded with a thorough beating with the point of the trident, from which I barely recovered. For having delayed the progress of the line, I was prodded forward again, and barely kept my balance as I scurried forward like an animal to make up for the lost time.

After an eternity of walking on the gritty bridge between our prisons and what lay before us, I finally found myself on a plane wider than three paces. The plain before me was bordered on two sides by tall, black mountains, from whose darkened tips poured a never-ending cascade of molten rock, feeding the swirling liquid down below. The plain itself was covered with a dull grey mixture of pebble and sand.

It is a long road that leads to the Factory, to my place of terrible slavery. It lies in the center of the plains between the mountains, at the end of a long, well-trodden road. No matter how many times we trudge across the grey plains to the great Factory, shards of broken glass always pierce our feet, and we walk forward in the blood of other lost souls, adding our own to the mix.

Even our personal imps seem subdued every time we approach the factory, their poking and prodding becoming less sure, their pace slower. We have nothing to lose and trudge ever on forward, towards the glittering factory of obsidian that lies before us.

The Factory has the appearance of a perverted and desecrated cathedral, its tall towers and looming spires marred by untold aeons of smoke and fire. Where stained glass windows would have graced a cathedral, the Factory instead has hideous smokestacks, belching out a continuous stream of foul brimstone.

The great doors of the Factory were pushed open as we approached, a pair of gargantuan, satanic satyrs acting as doorbeasts and guardians. They stared down at our trailing line with amused malice, occasionally selecting a helpless victim and swallowing him – or her, as it often was – whole. I did not envy them; they would spend eternities sloshing about in the bellies of the mighty satyr, drowning and burning in the most powerful of acids, until they emerged in the beast's feces, which were in turn used to help fuel the terrible factory...

I averted my gaze from the inner walls as I passed by the satyrs untouched. Those whom the satyrs take never return, but if one looks carefully at the walls of the Factory, he might recognize their screaming faces staring back at him in horror, having become a part of the architectural abomination.

Our imps had by then left us. They never come into the Factory, for fear of joining our ranks. A new imp will escort us back, and a different one will wake us up the next day; the same imp never appears twice, and we always are returned to a different room, so even our sense of familiarity is gone.

Save for that which comes from the Factory. The Factory is constant and unchanging. In the untold epochs during which it has existed, it has never changed. I have seen the mountains that surround it grow, rising up from a terrible, twisted forest, and I have seen even the plains change, their solid obsidian surface long since gone, but the Factory remains as it was when I first saw it, with boiling red clouds filling the skies above it.

Inside the factory, massive cauldrons hang from chains on the ceiling, filling the entire place with the rancid smell of rotting feces and decaying corpses, emanating an eerie red glow. The entrance hall has many shadows, and they all watch us hungrily as we march through the room into the next, through a single large doorway.

And so our work begins. It has been a long while since souls flowed down into this place from the dead, and so the soul chutes themselves remain rusted and unused, hanging high above us like unused pipes. Hellish spiders dwell in their vast lengths now, and those few unlucky enough to work beneath one often find themselves taken by the horrible beasts and pulled away into the terrible darkness above, where they are imprisoned forever in the spiders' sticky webs, their innards torn out every few minutes for all of eternity.

Forges line the floors of the factory, as far as the eye can see in all directions. Physics long ago had ceased to apply to us. We walk forward and fill in the forges as they become available, as we always have done, and pick up our red-hot hammers, ignoring the seared flesh they cause, and hammer away at whatever appeared on the anvil before us. Our overseer begins to prowl among us, a terrible lupine beast who stands on five legs and bears flaming whips in twelve arms. He is everywhere at once, watching us with his deadly septet of eyes, and those who fall behind find themselves missing several layers of skin in a matter of moments.

Many unfortunate souls around me lost their skins this day, but I myself worked as hard as I could. Sheets of metal appeared before me, and I hammered them all into swords, shields, whips, scythes, sickles, carpets, tapestries, boots, and whatever else needed to be made as the images appeared in my mind. I tried as always to distance myself from the work, but the leering face of the overseer kept me focused on my torture, his eyes seeing into my very mind.

There had been a time, once, when the soul chutes functioned, and a stream of souls from up above would pour down to us. Where the chutes themselves led I could not tell, as the Factory appeared to be unconnected to anything save the ground. But come the souls did, and it had been our duty frequently to sort them; some were to be tortured, some bound into weapons and armour, and others sent to join us. We had been the lucky ones.

But the souls no longer came. Perhaps our Factory – for surely there were many more – had merely stopped receiving them, or perhaps the world above had ended. It did not really matter which; my world would never end. It just kept on going and going, and always would. Who would have guessed that a small piece of rotating metal, flying through the air at great speed, would be all that it took to send me here. I had bled out on the cold, rainy streets of the big city, and then had tumbled down a terribly long metal passage, eventually coming out of one of the soul chutes. I had been chosen to work in the Factory, and in that very moment my new life of torment had begun.

I did not know why I labored, nor could I ask; the imps would not answer my questions, and a stray word to a comrade would send me flying down to the waters below. My hard labor in the Factory earned me at least some reprieve occasionally from the agony of Hell, and if I lost my privilege I would be in even greater torment and constant pain.

There had never been any chance for us. I had prayed every day, made the proper offerings and sacrifices, and believed in God with all my heart. I had given what I had to those who needed it, and I never did anyone wrong. And then a stray bit of metal ended it all, and sent me down here. There wasn't a better place. There was only here, this damned place where the satyrs and the wolves and the imps funneled the souls of the dead for their own nefarious purposes, to torment us and make us do their labor. And we are powerless to stop it. There is nothing we can do. Life above was hell. Life after death is Hell. It is inevitable.

I shriek in agony as my skin leaves my soul's body, and I collapse to the floor as the lupine overseer, his eyes gleaming red with sadistic pleasure and terrible malice, whips me again and again, tearing me apart completely. My thoughts are not my own. I am a mass of organs, connected only by the sharing of a common pain. My soul slowly starts to pull itself back together as the overseer throws back his head and laughs, his whip of flame ready to repeat the punishment. I cannot resist, I cannot run, I cannot hide.

There is no escape.

The Horror in the Woods

I

Harney had always said that there was something in those woods – those dark, twisted woods just past old man Jenkins' cottage, across the stream, and through the ditch. We had played there as children, dubbing the ditch "Dead Man's Gully." It was rumored that a dead man had once been found there. We played at being murderers and thugs every weekend, when our parents let us off our leashes. I usually played the dead man.

When I was in the seventh grade, one of my erstwhile playmates, Ernesto Valdez, vanished without a trace. I was home ill that day, but the story was that Erich had dared him to go bring back a colored stone he had thrown into the thickest thicket. The woods themselves were very thick, and that thicket was nigh impenetrable. It wasn't too deep into the woods, but it was far enough in to be almost out of sight, right at the spot where the trees grew closer together and became taller and gloomier. An aura of dread always hung over that place, and to this day I wonder what courageous folly prompted Valdez to make that ill-fated journey. He walked through a parting of the trees into the thicket, but never came out. Adults later turned the woods inside and out, but they never found a trace of poor Ernesto. After that day, we stopped playing near the forest.

But some of us just couldn't leave it alone. Tragedy again befell our community during my last year of high school. My former friend, Tommy Whitman, now the star player of the football team, dared George Pickman, a year our junior, to spend a night out in the woods in order to be admitted to his top-secret jock club. Pickman was eager to please and leapt at the opportunity, leaving that very same night, sneaking out of his house with his sleeping bag under his arm. Pickman had always been overly rational; he always had said that there was nothing to be afraid of in the woods.

But something in there got him that night.

His skull was found the next morning in his sleeping bag. It had been picked perfectly clean, without a trace of flesh on it. There were no bite marks on any surface of it, or any sign of trauma. It was just a skull, and the dental records and skull structure showed it to be his. The rest of him was never found.

Since then, only the bravest dared venture into those woods...

II

I moved away from my childhood home after I acquired a B.A. in Psychology, and decided to pursue my studies and work towards a PsyD. I always had wanted to help people, and I thought that this would be the best way to do so. My studies took me far from Arkheim in Maine, sending me to the distinguished halls of Harvard University in Cambridge. After I began working on my M.A. in Psychotherapy there, I stopped visiting my parents back in Arkheim, preferring instead the many attractions of nearby Boston and its nightlife. I became quite the wild man – I couldn't keep my hands off women, and alcohol and drugs couldn't keep their hands off me – LSD, THC, MDMA, Psilocybin, Desoxyn, Vicodin – you name it, I could have gotten it. I knew every dealer in the city, and they all knew me. Rarely did a moment pass that I was not on something.

Gradually I began losing sight of my goal, and only a year into my Master's I was told I had one chance left, and would have to repeat the whole year due to abysmal grades across the board. Of course I promised I would try my best after that, but that didn't work out, and I was expelled the next semester.

To make matters worse, only two days after my expulsion, I was evicted and my parents both died. The funeral was scheduled for the following week, and I was named the executor of their will.

Having no home and a funeral to attend, I immediately made the journey back to Arkheim by bus. I moved back into my parents' house, and it was about that time that the alcoholic haze and drugged stupor wore off, and the full impact of my parents' deaths hit me. I was delivered the will of my parents, but it wasn't until the day before the funeral that I emerged from my coma of despair and withdrawal – for I had no access to any form of drug whatsoever in the middle of nowhere.

The will was very straightforward, and left almost everything to me. Only the porcelain set and a lamp went to two of my parents' close friends – in fact, their only two close friends.

It also was not until that day that the manner of my parents' deaths was revealed to me. They had last been seen alive entering their abode after a walk through the town, and were found the next morning at the edge of the woods – or at least their bloodless and pockmarked heads were. The rest of their bodies had not been found, and a combing of the woods by armed police officers and firemen revealed nothing more.

I forced myself to deliver the specified items to the proper friends and exchange the proper condolences with them, and then I turned the will over to the lawyers. Once everything was signed and done, I consigned myself to sleep and slept terribly, half-formed monsters and vampires stalking through my addled brain.

The next morning – the day of the funeral – I donned my only nice clothing, which thankfully were the least stained by unsavory liquids, and set off. I gave, as was proper, an impromptu speech at the relatively small funeral, and their two caskets – containing, I presumed, merely their deathly-white heads – were lowered into the ground and buried, side by side. I laid roses and a wreath down upon their grave, and stood in silence, watching their final place of rest, until everyone else had left.

When I was finally alone, I knelt down and cried among the ruins of my life. I was indisposed for a good half hour or so before I regained my composure and stood up again. As I began to walk away, I thought back many years in the past, to my days as a child growing up, and the unexplained deaths of my two friends. Someone was out there, in those woods. I imagined that I felt his eyes on my back as I made the long walk home.

III

I began to rebuild my life, rising up from the ashes. I quickly forgot my misgivings about the woods and took work as a store clerk down at Davidson's General Grocery. As a side job I offered unofficial psychiatric advice – unofficial because I had failed to obtain an M.A., let alone a PsyD – to those in need. I become somewhat of a lowly celebrity in the little town of Arkheim, counseling couples and talking people out of depression. I was just another hard-working homeboy.

I was closing up the store one day when Harney came up to me. Other than the decrepit hermit Old Man Jenkins – who had reportedly died the same year I was told I needed to repeat a year of university – Harney was the man who lived closest to the woods. When I was a child, he had always told us not to go in there, because something evil lurked there – he said he could hear it snuffling about and scraping in the dark. Even before the first death, that of poor Ernesto, he had told us that. It was a wonder that no one was ever suspicious of him.

Harney was old when I was young, and now that I was grown – or was pretending to be – he was ancient. Even so, he scarcely looked a day older than when I had first seen him.

"Hey, you kids – best not go any further!" the old man called down to us. He was up on the sides of Dead Man's Gully, and we were in the ditch itself. He carried with him a fishing pole, a bucket full of fish, and a tackle box.

Erich Dornet, always the leader of our group, shouted back up at him. "And why not? 's a free country!"

"Not as far as your parents are concerned."

Us children all made disapproving noises and carried on our way. "And the freedom of a country don't matter much if you ain't got no lives," he half-muttered back at us as we left. I may have been the only one to hear.

Harney had appeared a few more times as we played in the woods or the ditch. Once he had walked out of the woods just as Erich, pretending at being the infamous "clipper" serial killer, was about to snip my head off with his invisible pair of garden clippers.

"I've got you – don't try to resist." Erich breathed down at me, his hands widening as the clippers opened. I did my best to pretend that they were there, and for a moment I saw them flash before my eyes. I struggled – in vain, of course, for no one escaped the clipper killer – as the tips of the terrible blades were placed on either side of my neck, and Erich threw back his head and laughed as he prepared to squeeze them shut on me.

"That ain't how the clipper killer laughed," came a voice from deeper in the woods. Erich yelped and fell back on his behind and glared at the figure emerging from behind a tree.

"And how'd you know, Mr. Rogers?" he said, getting to his feet. "Did you meet him?"

Harney winked and hefted a black bag with an odd shape over his shoulder. "You could say that."

Then there had been the time when Ernesto had gotten his leg stuck between two roots and was crying because he couldn't get it out. None of us could, either.

"I'm gonna die and rot away here because no one will be able to save me or find me!" Ernesto wailed, the tears streaming down his face. "Why me?"

"Shut up, you ninny," Erich said, he who had gotten Ernesto into the situation in the first place. "You won't die here."

"He will if he doesn't escape," Harney said, appearing out of nowhere. He knelt down and gently moved the root out of the way – none of us even considered to ask why he had been able to move that thick root when we could not. "There you go." He stood, odd bulges in his pockets catching our eyes. "Now, let's get home before dark comes. You don't want to be caught out here then."

And here he was, before me. He waited in silence for a few moments. "Can I help you?" I asked politely.

Harney shook his head. "I think not, son – it's me who can help you."

A chill crept down my back. All I could manage was a weak "Oh?"

He leaned in close to me and I could smell what seemed to be suspiciously like alcohol on his breath. "You're not safe there."

I blinked. "Where?"

"In the house, kid. It got your parents there."

I pushed back an upwelling of anger. "They must have gone out when no one else had seen them – my house is nowhere near the woods!" It was true – the woods themselves came to the town center proper nearest to Harney's house, and he lived on the opposite side of town – it would have been difficult for me to get much further away.

"It can roam freely now. It stalks the town at night."

"What is this 'it' you're talking about?" I wanted to redirect this conversation. Badly.

"The killer in the woods. It got Valdez – that young Hispanic kid you hung out with a decade or so ago. And then that other kid, what was his name – Pickman, aye? Him too. It got him. And then it got Teddy. Poor man."

"Who's Teddy?"

"Eh? Teddy Jenkins? Ol' Theodore?"

"Ah. Old Man Jenkins. I thought he died in his sleep?"

Harney laughed harshly, and his laughter soon devolved into a fit of coughing. "That's what the press told ye, yeah. Can't trust 'em farther than y'can throw 'em. Truth is, I saw the body afore they ever got near it – the blood'd been sucked clean out of him, just like with the other victims. He was left intact though, for whatever reason'r'other. I pumped him back up full o'blood afore anyone else saw him."

"Why'd you do that?" I asked him, continuing to clean and close up to keep my emotions under control.

"Don't want no suspicious questions a'comin' my way, or at anythin' in those woods. Nothin' good can come of it." He nodded decisively and turned around. "But it's a-roamin' at night, kid – it got yer old folks, and it'll get you too. Watch out – I'd move."

And then old Harney Rogers exited the store. I put what he had said out of my head and finished closing up.

IV

I didn't see Harney again for another three months, and when I did see him, he didn't make me any happier than he had the last time.

Exactly a week prior to my next encounter with the old man, there was another death. Two, actually. Valerie Morkowski and Dylan Kenkowitz were both seniors at Celaise-Arkheim High, and apparently had been dating for the whole span of a year and a half – some sort of record there. They had decided on that late May night, just before they graduated, to consummate their relationship. In the middle of the woods. In the dead of night. In the area where four people – five if Harney was to be believed – had been killed and had their blood drained from their bodies.

The gene pool certainly wouldn't miss the pair of them, but quite a fair number of people did. The two of them hadn't even been separated when they were found – their corpses were locked in the coital act, lying across two sturdy branches on the edge of the woods. Harney had discovered them and reported them to the police.

Their heads were both gone, as were Valerie's breasts. They were both completely naked and drained of blood. Police determined that they had been killed somewhere else, as no blood was found on the scene. Not even the tiniest drop.

Police and armed volunteers combed the area, but as always came up with nothing. It was only then that the force admitted that they had a serial killer on their hands, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation was called in.

They stayed in the town for about a month – there were six of them – asking questions of everyone and combing the woods themselves. They didn't ask me anything useful – or anything that I could really answer. In the end, they had to give up. The leader of them, a man the others called only "Joey," told the mayor that "we're gonna have to wait for another death, with more evidence, if we're ever gonna solve this. We'll be watching." Then they left, leaving us back where we started.

My next encounter with Harney occurred the day before the federal agents arrived. I was taking the day off, and was sitting in Hoverman's coffee shop, reading the local newspaper – which took a sickening delight in the carnage, the staff doubtlessly overjoyed to have something larger than a downed birdhouse to report on – when he sat down across from me at my table. I did my best to ignore his presence, but when he physically lowered my newspaper, I was forced to look him in the eye.

I spoke before he could. "They wandered into the woods on their own. Their friends said so."

He chuckled. "Mighty stupid of 'em, that was. Mighty stupid. You might be next, though – I'd watch out."

I sighed and got up, snatching the newspaper out of his hands and folding it. "And how do you know?" I said, not bothering to lower my voice. "Are you the serial killer? I should go tell the police you covered up the evidence!" It occurred to me at that moment that the fact that he had, indeed, done what I was accusing him of, made him the prime suspect.

The other diners looked at us with interest as I stormed out. Harney said nothing to me.

I learned the next day through the owner of the shop that Harney had been taken into custody by the police and that the feds had been summoned. I felt a pang of guilt for a moment as I realized that I had probably been the one to cause him this trouble; likely one of the other customers in the coffee shop had heard my brief tirade and reported him. I figured that if he was guilty he would be found so, and if he was innocent he would be released, so I didn't worry too much.

The federal agent arrived two days later, and the very same day Harney was transferred to a prison in Celaise, Arkheim's larger sister city, where all of the important local functions were held. Celaise proper was only about a half-hour drive away, but most of those who chose to dwell in Arkheim liked the small-town atmosphere and didn't bother making the journey.

Rumors began to spread like wildfire as soon as word got out that Harney had been imprisoned. Accusations of murder began to fly at him, and the whole town was in an uproar within hours, the rage in the air almost palpable. It didn't help that Harney had always been unpopular, which made him an easy scapegoat.

The trial was relatively swift, and Harney was sentenced to death four months later. There were no killings in that time span, and everyone believed that the serial killer – who had now earned the epithet "the Woodsman" – was done for. There were celebrations, which to me seemed more like ancient pagan blood rituals, and a strange contentment mixed with a latent anger.

No one ever knew who reported him in – it was always assumed that Jean-Pierre LaMont, the chief investigator at the time, had come to the conclusion on his own. I was relieved at this – perhaps it hadn't been my fault after all. But then again, it was leaked out that Harney had pumped blood back into Jenkins' body, and that originally the man had been bloodless – indeed, analysis of the blood showed it to be that of a pig. Harney truly looked guilty. It disturbed me greatly, and doubtless the rest of the town, too, that a serial killer had been living among us.

The execution was slow to come, however, and was scheduled for five months from the day and hour of his sentencing. Everyone waited those five months with anticipation.

But that much-awaited date never came, for the Woodsman killed again.

V

It was, this time, an older man by the name of Walter Kreevy. Like my parents, he had been nowhere near the woods when he died – he had last been seen walking home from a grocery store after having purchased a cucumber and two zucchinis.

From me.

I was, naturally, brought in for lots of questioning, but I really couldn't tell them anything. He had disappeared into the dark, heading towards his house – which was only five houses away from my own – about half an hour before the town's curfew. I hadn't seen him since, but someone else apparently had.

He had been found in five pieces – or rather, five pieces of him had been found – of pale alabaster white, with no associated clothing or blood at all. His right arm was missing, and his other limbs were scattered all about the edge of the woods, covering a distance of almost a kilometer. His torso, left leg, both arms, and head were all found – but not a drop of his blood was seen anywhere.

I was released from custody quickly, as I was clearly innocent, and then the combing began. Their fatal mistake was beginning the combing in the evening, as darkness was beginning to settle. Five officers and twenty armed volunteers set out, divided into five groups of five, each headed by an officer. Somehow, as the town's curfew approached and everyone began heading in, Jack Millinger – a volunteer – became separated from his group for a few moments.

Apparently that was all that was needed.

According to the papers, Millinger vanished in a matter of seconds, for that was how long he had passed out of sight. Despite frantic attempts to locate the missing man, no one could find anything that night.

The next afternoon he was, of course, found drained of his blood and missing an arm, lying in the middle of Dead Man's Gully.

VI

They never combed at night again. Sweeps were made daily from that point on, and two federal agents were stationed in the town. It wasn't until a week and a half had passed that we discovered the ruins.

About four kilometers into the woods, the massive trees had overgrown the foundations of what was probably once a village of some sort – they couldn't at the moment date it. What they found there was disturbing beyond belief.

The village consisted of twenty-four buildings, ranging from lodgehouses to cottages, with rotting wood planks and crumbling stone foundations. Everything appeared to be empty; the builders had left nothing behind, almost as if everyone had abandoned the village at the exact same time.

A dozen men - including myself this time, as a volunteer - combed the whole place and found nothing inside it. However, just outside the ruins of what may have been a tall fence, one of the federal agents found a veritable graveyard.

There were bodies – or what remained of them – hidden in a small cave under the ground, the entrance of which was between the roots of a great tree. A police officer and the agent ventured inside, peering in with their flashlights, and found body parts laid out before them. A larger team was called in and a thorough inventory was taken: among the decaying bodies were Ernesto Valdez, most of George Pickman, my parents' headless bodies, Valerie's Morkowski's breasts, Dylan Kenkowitz's head, Walter Kreevy's leg, and Jack Millinger's left arm.

The truly disturbing part of this – even more so than discovering remnants of bodies – was that there were far more body parts, in various states of decay, found there than could be accounted for with recent murders. There were, in the end, the remains of one hundred and fifty-seven different bodies in that cavern, dating over the span of two hundred years.

After that point, the entire town was swamped with feds. They took over the inns – both of them – and turned Arkheim into what amounted to an archaeological dig site. It began to grate on us locals after about three days.

Harney was, of course, released following the killing, and returned to Arkheim, back into his own house. No one spoke a word to him for almost a week, until I decided to pay him a visit.

I walked up to his house that day, which was rather chilly for the middle of summer, and knocked upon his rotting door. The house was rather small; it looked to be a three or four room, single-storey affair with boarded-up windows and partially rotted planks. Doubtless the building no longer conformed to required structural standards.

Harney answered the door about two minutes later, creaking it open a hair. "Aha, it's you. Finally come 'round to see that I've been warning you? Come in, then." He opened the door all of the way and gestured me inside, locking the door behind me. His friendly demeanor threw me off; I had expected the man to be more upset with me, as I had likely been the one who had nearly had him killed.

The interior of his house didn't look much better than the exterior, and he sat me down on a padded chair that was falling apart while he himself sat in an old rocking chair. "So what have you come to ask me, eh?" There was a faint glimmer in his eyes that made me uncomfortable, causing me to wonder what game he was playing.

I swallowed. "What do you know about the Woodsman?"

He laughed. "That name's ridiculous –'s not a woodsman at all. In fact, it ain't even a man. 'Tis a beast."

I sighed. "Don't be ridiculous. It has to be a man – or rather, several of them. Perhaps a cult, or an intergenerational series of serial killers, with each one training a successor. It's the only way they could have killed for two centuries."

"Or 'tis not human 'tall, and's actually an unnatural beast."

I rested my head on my folded hands. "Like a vampire?"

He laughed shortly. "Don't listen to those tales, son. Vampires aren't real."

"Then what is this beast you speak of?" I asked, irritated. The man was proving obstinate. I thought perhaps it would be best if I left.

"It has no name. It has lived on many different worlds, in many different times, and just now lives with us in the Arkheim Woods. It is a terrible thing to behold; no earthly creature has ever looked like it does." There was a shift in the language and speech that Harney was using; his slang was dropping away and his words getting longer.

"It needs the blood of its victims – or rather, the life-force contained therein – to sustain its own. The life-force contained in you human-types is strong, and the more of you it feasts upon the stronger it becomes. It is no longer merely sustaining its life-force; it is increasing it."

I sighed. I had read my own share of horror stories. "And then it will use its enhanced life-force to take over the world and slay all of its inhabitants." I stood up. "It's about time I left, I think – I have business to attend to. I thought you might be more helpful. Clearly I was wrong."

Harney laughed. "This is reality, my friend, not a cheap horror story. It has no desire to destroy this world; that would be a waste of its time and effort. It has larger plans."

I held back a sigh. "And how is it that you have come to learn all of this?"

He smiled knowingly. "I have spoken to it."

VII

Whether or not I believed Harney's story was irrelevant. He knew more about the killer than anyone else – or at least claimed he did – so I guessed that I should at least humor him and see what he really knew. Perhaps he was right, and an alien monster was stalking us from the woods. Somehow I doubted it.

So we went into the woods together. Not at night, of course – that would have been stupidity of the highest degree. We left at noon.

"You promised me you'd tell me how you met it," I reminded him as we tramped forward through the woods. Even in the daylight they had an eerie feel to them.

"Huh? Oh, right. I was out fishing one night when it snuck up behind me."

"And it didn't kill you?"

Harney laughed. "Nope. Would've, but I jumped into the lake. The thing doesn't like water, apparently."

"Is that so?"

"'Tis so. It didn't follow me in at any rate. Seems to cry out a fear of water to me." I supposed it did.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. I was still very skeptical, but I felt it was my duty to try to find out what I could – even if it meant sneaking behind police crime scene tape.

We arrived at his destination after about an hour of walking: a place very far away from Arkheim, in the center of the woods. "I tracked the beast once in the day and it ended up here." We had stopped, and he was pointing ahead, at the largest tree I had ever seen. It appeared to be some sort of willow, with thick strands of leaves hanging down, almost obscuring the trunk from view.

"You tracked it?" I asked. "But none of the police could."

"They're officers of the law, not trackers," he responded. Harney didn't seem like the tracking type to me, either, but I didn't bring that up.

We waited in silence for a few moments. "So... it lives in there, does it?" This was all rather anticlimactic.

Harney nodded. "I believe so – I'm not sure of it myself."

"So then... what do we do now? How does this help us?"

"Well, you can show the police now!" Harney said brightly.

"And why couldn't you do it yourself?"

"You really think they'd believe me?" He had a point. "You're at least respectable." He paused for a moment. "Do you want to take a look inside?"

I really didn't, and I said as much. Harney shrugged. "Suit yourself." He walked in between the drooping leaves of the willow, vanishing from sight.

As eerie as Harney was, I didn't particularly relish being left alone in the woods. "Wait!" I called out, and followed him.

It was dark inside the willow's embrace, and whatever beams of sunlight came through seemed to be almost ethereal. Harney was making his way toward the trunk, which was split almost in two, a massive crack running from the base up until where the branches began to come out. The interior of the tree was pitch black.

I hurried forward, hardly noticing the dead grass and leaves I was trampling underfoot. "Where are we going?"

He just pointed straight ahead, at the trunk. I swallowed. "Are you sure that's a good idea? Shouldn't we be avoiding this thing?"

He stopped as I slowed down. Turning around, he grabbed my wrist in a vise-like grip. He smiled rather disturbingly back at me. "I don't think it's home." He began to walk forward again. I tried to dig my feet in and walk backwards, but he dragged me on relentlessly forward.

Inside the tree itself, there were a series of roughly hewn stone steps headed downwards. Harney began to drag me down them. I fought to pull backwards as hard as I could, but the old man was much stronger than I would have ever guessed. The stairs were far larger than any human would ever use, and I was forced to walk forward just to keep from falling over.

When we reached the bottom, we found a pool of water. It looked very deep. Harney thrust me forward, still holding my arm tightly. A moment later, he released it, and I nursed my sore arm. I turned to look at him. "Why would the monster have a pool of water if it was afraid of it?" I began to relax – Harney's story was utterly ridiculous! When had I begun taking it so seriously? I looked around the underground cavern now with interest rather than fear. I was surrounded on all sides by stone, and into the stone were carved what looked like intricate runes of no civilization I knew. "What are those?" I whispered.

I saw Harney shrug behind me. "Who knows?"

I knelt down at the waterside. The pool was very, very deep; I couldn't even begin to see the bottom. "I wonder how this got here..." I thought out loud, and then stood up. I turned around to ask Harney another question. "Do you think it's a-"

He struck me. His leg shot out first, tripping me, causing me to fall down flat on my back. A few well placed stomps ensured that I wouldn't be getting up again anytime soon. I coughed up blood.

"So you're the killer!" I hissed at him. "Somehow... you killed even when... you were locked up!" He just laughed at me.

"No – no human has the power to drain every ounce of blood out of another human's body." His grin became wider. "I told you the truth about the beast – it does exist, exactly as I told you." He kicked me while I was down, and I rolled into the water. I lay in the shallow end, my head above the surface and my back resting on the steep incline of the pool's edge.

It was my turn to laugh, weakly, through the terrible pain. "And you said... water... it doesn't... like. Well, I found water!"

Harney nodded agreeably. "So you did. Sorry. I lied."

"About what?" I asked, my breaths becoming shorter.

"Telling you that the beast was exactly as I described it. It actually doesn't care about the water."

I felt like a rock suddenly appeared in my stomach. Harney laughed again. "And then I suppose you wonder how it was I survived? It certainly wasn't by jumping in the water. No, it wasn't. It chose me, son – it chose me to help it perform its work, so that it may become stronger and recover from its wounds, finally leaving this world and returning to its own, where it shall reign supreme!

"And it chose you, as well – for you will be the last victim it consumes on this world before shooting back up into the stars, with me in tow, destroying this world with a mere blink of its eye." His grin was now deranged. "We can't have any loose ends hanging around, now can we?"

I couldn't speak any longer; I was in too much pain. I was becoming dizzy, and couldn't see straight.

And then the monologue ended. "Come, my Lord – feast upon the life-force of this strong man! He waits for you even now. Consume and devour, master – he is yours!" He kicked me – gently, this time – out into the center of the pool, where I floated helplessly, paralyzed with pain.

Blackness began to take over my vision, and in a few moments, I could no longer see, but I could still feel – I felt its countless slimy tentacles coming from the water below me, slithering all over my body, their tiny teeth digging into me...

And then I screamed. It had begun to feed.

VIII

When I awoke, everything was dark and everything hurt. I didn't stay awake for long, and soon returned to the realm of silence.

When I woke again, faint light filtered in through the trees. I groaned and tried to sit up, but my entire body gave way under me, and I collapsed to the ground, blacking out for what I thought were a few moments. I had no memory of anything after I had felt the thing start feeding on me.

That memory caused me to lose consciousness yet again.

I stumbled through the dark forest, my throat parched and cracking, my eyes raw and sore. My skin was ghostly pale and my clothing was in tatters. Raw, red marks scored my entire body, punctuated by literal holes in my skin, many of them scabbed over.

By all rights I should not have been alive, yet I was still somehow bleeding, leaving a damp red trail in the dust as I tottered forward. My pale skin told me that I had almost no blood, and yet I still bled and I still walked. It seemed as if everything I had learned in my biology classes had been turned on its head, academics perverted by reality.

I told myself again and again that it was all just a dream, that it couldn't possibly have happened. I confronted the memory again, recalling the slippery tentacles as they wrapped around my body, the feeling of the barbed hooks as they dug into me, siphoning out the blood from my body.

It had killed everyone else it had attacked. Why not me? Why had I survived? The memory made me feel faint, yet I stayed upright, pausing only for a moment to lean against a sapling. The sapling bent under my weight, and the creaking sound it made prompted me to hurry on.

I don't know how long I walked through the woods, stumbling from tree to tree, stopping every few dozen steps to rest and calm the dizzy sensations in my head, but I was able to stay awake and on my feet using the techniques I had learned in my psychiatric studies. I compartmentalized my mind, just as I had learned to advise my patients to do, and ignored the troubling thought of the tentacled horror in the lake. I eventually reached the edge of the forest and saw the houses of my own small town within sight. I half-walked and half-crawled down the street to my house, glad that darkness had once again descended upon the earth, my path lit only by the moon. I crawled up the stairs to my door, gently pushed it open, and somehow made my way to the kitchen. I pulled myself to my feet using the counter and poured myself a glass of water.

The liquid tasted so good going down my throat that I ignored my better judgment and poured myself another and another, until I had downed at least a dozen glasses. My body was unable to handle all of that water, and I vomited most of it back up again, falling into my own mess and shaking on the floor.

I got to my feet again when the sun crept over the horizon, and I allowed myself a little more water. I was feeling a little bit better, and my mind was clearing up. I walked over to my bed and lay down, trying to determine how much time had passed. It had been at least a day, maybe more. My troubling reaction to the water I had consumed the night before told me that it had probably been several days.

It was another few hours before I could eat anything, and by that point I was feeling only very sick, no longer on the verge of death. No one had come to visit me, which I found odd; not even my employer had come to check up on me. God knew how many shifts I had missed.

It was only after I had finished my pathetic and tiny meal that I thought to check my computer for the date. That showed how well my mind was working. I staggered to my computer and tried to turn it on, but found that it wouldn't. Puzzled, I checked the power cables and discovered that everything was in working order.

The power wasn't out, I knew, because I had used the lights to see in the kitchen when I had returned late the night before - hadn't I?

I flicked on the light switch to my makeshift computer room, but there was no effect. The only light in the room came through the window above the computer.

I made my way slowly to the kitchen, where I was greeted by the smell of rancid meat. My refrigerator and freezer had stopped working, it seemed, and I had been gone long enough for everything in it to go bad. Gagging, I retreated to the living room, and again found that I had no power.

I collapsed back onto my bed after returning to my bedroom, and tried to make sense of what had happened. I had visited an old man - it hurt to recall his name, as thinking about him caused my head to feel as if it was splitting open - and he had taken me to the woods, to an old willow tree. Beneath the willow tree there had been steps leading to a pool, and the old man had pushed me in, and then...

I forced my mind to decompartmentalize in order to come to terms with what had happened, and almost lost it. Once the dizzy spell had faded, I skimmed over that part of my memory. I had woken up in darkness, and then again in light. I had been outside. I had been moved. But to where, by whom, and for what reason?

I thought back to my memories of that place, and I recalled now the faint outlines of buildings I had not noticed with my conscious mind. I dove into my subconscious, remembering things that my active mind had not.

The buildings seemed somehow familiar. I took a deep breath and focused on them, using techniques I had learned so long ago in college classes to drudge up my subconscious memories. I had never thought I would have to use those techniques on myself.

The shapes slowly came back to me, and I recognized them, silhouetted against the deep blue sky of twilight. The ruins. I woke up in the ruins.

Glimpses of pale and bloodless flesh flashed through my mind, and I remembered wading through the lifeless, alabaster limbs of the dead as I staggered out of the forest, my mind refusing to acknowledge the horror surrounding me. I saw dead people.

But when I had been to the ruins the first time, as part of the volunteer effort, the bodies had been confined to a cave beneath the roots of a tree. My memory showed bodies all around me, surrounding me... there were more of them. Twice as many, thrice as many, I don't know how many more - all drained of blood, pockmarked from the feeding tentacles of that horrible thing in the water, that horror in the woods.

The memories caused me to lose my hold on reality once more, and I slipped into darkness.

I woke up again on the ground. Bright sunlight shown in through the trees, and I slowly got to my feet. The staggering illness, the severe dehydration, the terrible traumas - all were gone, replaced instead by a mild headache. I walked forward slowly, and found myself able to walk steadily and without problems.

It didn't take me long to realize where I was: the ruins. I was back at those cursed ruins. I stood a few meters away from the half-crumbled stone archway that marked the entrance to the ancient town. The wind blew gently through the trees, causing them to rustle as I stood where I was for a few minutes, before turning myself around and walking back into the ruins. I had brought myself to the ruins for a reason. But what had made me black out again?

I had no memory of making the journey to the ruins. I tried for a few minutes to open my subconscious, but I remembered nothing. As I stepped through the arch I noticed that the ground was remarkably lacking in bloodless flesh. I blinked and the ground was suddenly muddy. I knelt down and saw deep marks in the mud, as if things had been dragged across it in the recent past. I followed the drag marks to their end, and found that they lead to a large tree at the far end of the town. It was an old maple, twisted and gnarled in its age, with a small opening between two raised roots leading to a cavern beneath the ground.

I knew what lay down there. Death. All of the drag marks across the town led to the base of that old tree. I turned to look behind me, and saw that the marks ended - or rather, began - at the stone archway.

The thing lived beneath a willow tree, set up just like the maple before me. The old man had led me there. I wondered what had happened to him. I wondered if this tree, where the thing stored the dismembered parts of its victims, was linked somehow to the willow.

I turned away from the tree, unwilling to face the death I knew lurked there, looking again at the ground. I saw bootmarks in the mud, next to the dragmarks. My face paled as I realized that a human had dragged the bodies there. My mind immediately leapt to the old man - Harney was his name. He had been working with the thing. That must have been why the marks only began at the village entrance: because the thing, whatever it was, had taken the bodies there, and then Harney had dragged them. Or whatever remained of them after the thing was done feeding.

I idly stepped onto the bootmark, and marveled at how closely my foot-size matched his.

I remember what happened next. I turned around and felt the voice call to me, resonating within my subconscious, only briefly surfacing into my conscious thoughts, in the form of a single word: feed.

IX

The next thing I remember is this hospital, where I even now am writing down what I am sure will be my last words. I found myself in a white bed, covered with linens and filled with down, hooked up to all manner of odd machinery. I immediately sat up in my bed, causing all of the readings to go haywire, and was quickly swamped by a swarm of nurses and doctors. Once I was feeling well enough to understand their words, I realized that five years had passed since the last date in my memory, if the doctors were to be believed.

Five years of memory, all lost.

I remembered everything when silence descended upon my world again, at night when the nurses left, and I was left to myself again. I discovered that I had compartmentalized my mind in order to cope with the stress, and as I reached into my memory, I saw what my mind was hiding from me.

The corpse of Harney Rogers.

The tentacles surrounding me and letting me go.

The voice in my mind, compelling me to lure and kill.

The daily drudgery of my day job at the store.

The terror of my nightly activities, luring the innocent to their dooms in the woods.

The dragging of the dismembered bodies to its shrine in the woods, to the ancient village where it had first descended.

The town of Arkheim slowly dwindling in population over the years as the terror that had descended from the sky ruled my mind, absorbing their life energies.

The memories running through my head fleeing from my conscious mind to protect my precious sanity.

The moments of clarity, interspersed throughout five years, when I remembered who I was and what had happened.

The death of the last human being in Arkheim.

But no matter how hard I tried, I could not see the thing itself.

I was no longer human. It controlled me, somehow, just as it had controlled Harney and compelled him to serve its will. I had lured so many to their deaths, my conscious mind numb and blind to what was going on, save in those brief moments when I woke up, disoriented, sick, and unsure of what was happening. The townsfolk had hardly noticed, hardly cared, as I drew further and further away from them. No one had cared enough to help, to free me from the horror in the woods, whose tentacles had sunk deep into my mind, until it moved me like a marionette of flesh and blood. Like Harney said, it grows stronger every day. It had never controlled Harney as much as it controls me. The day isn't far off now, when it consumes the earth and moves on to greener pastures, to reclaim its rightful place in the galaxy.

I won't last much longer. I have served it well, and I can already feel it tugging, prodding, caressing my mind, sending its

The Loneliness of the Spheres

They sing their songs of sorrow

But I cannot hear

They sing their songs of pain

And still I cannot hear

I add my own voice to the song

But no one can ever hear

I am alone

Eternal solitude is my being

I am afraid

Eternal fear is my being

I am unoccupied

Eternal sloth is my being

Around me there is darkness

Darkness is my life

Around me I feel nothing

Deadened is my life

Around me there is nothing

Nothing is my life

Eternity is my name

Loneliness is my being

The song of emptiness goes undiscovered

The song of loss is never heard

The song of pain is never wept

The spheres float endlessly through the empty infinite

Never touching, never seeing

Each protecting a life-soul-essence

From the hungering dark outside

But do the spheres seek ever to consider

The thought-processes of their wards?

For though the spheres have banished their solitude

Have their wards so banished theirs?

And if the wards have then banished their isolation

Why is it then that they do sing?

Why do their songs of pain and loss

Echo in the vastness between

Never heard by their own

And listened to by only those who cannot hear?

Station Fourteen

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[To whomever may receive this. I am Sergeant Jacqueline de Moray, current ranking and only officer of Station 14-A7-B2-3C in the Quatradi System. In fact, I'm the only human survivor left on Station Fourteen. The rest are either dead or faceless.

This is the last working transmitter on the station – the main ones are all torn to pieces, and only the backup's backup is working at all. Power is running out fast, and the things could find me at any moment...

I won't survive this, and I can only hope that the right person reads this. If any Terran Government Officials are hearing this, fuck you. Go rot in hell. How long did you think you could cover this up?

If you are hearing this and are not a shit-headed loyalist puppydog of the goddamn Governing Council, then get this message out there. The people need to know, they need to stop this atrocity from happening...

Okay. Calm down. Right. To the point. Until ten hours ago, UTS 1100, everything here was normal. Station Fourteen is a classified station in the Quadrati System, orbiting the classified planet X-J5-2C, commonly called "Koatl." Not being a member of the scientific staff, I can't say much on what we did here, but I can see now how horrible they were. None of us military staff ever thought to question the Class 14 cargo-ships that came in periodically, their arrival always announced by the stench of rotting flesh and burning alcohol.

We never saw what was carried in from those ships – the expendable dregs were used for that, and now I believe the rumors that they were executed after they performed their duties. I never did before.

It was about ten hours ago that the first alarm klaxons began to sound. In accordance with protocol, all of us donned our protective gear; space-suit, pistol, rifle, and laser-edged knives. I was in the lounge with two subordinates when the klaxons went off, and was ready in less than thirty seconds. I called my unit together using the standard-issue radio transmitting devices, and the seven of us – six and myself – met in the main docking bay, where most of the Class 14 cargo vessels had been unloaded.

We saw no threat there, so I radioed in to my superior, Lieutenant Glackow, asking him was the matter. The response I got was curt and to the point, but useless – he told me to report to Lab 13-1 for containment purposes. My security clearance didn't normally extend to the Lab 13 complex.

We followed the signs to the appropriate complex, seeing no signs of anyone else as we went. The security doors all opened for us and closed behind us – it felt like we were being trapped in a rat's maze.

We reached Lab Complex 13 after about half an hour, emerging into a stainless steel/titanium alloy hallway outside of Lab 13-0. Lab 13-1 was fifty meters down the hall on the opposite side, and we ran rapidly down the corridor, turning right at the door to Lab 13-1 and hurrying inside.

The door had not been completely closed, and moved aside with ease, letting us into the lab unquestioned. It was only my military training that kept me from turning and fleeing the lab right there, but I held firm, and my unit did the same behind me.

The bodies of what were presumably five scientists lay on the floor, scattered about the laboratory – that was what caught our eyes first. We noticed the stainless steel laboratory benches, covered in broken glassware oozing smoking liquids, a few moments later later. The machinery lining the walls was smoking and sparking. I ordered my unit to fan out and search the laboratory, which was only about twelve square meters. Pierre and Jean found two more bodies behind the lab benches lining the fringes of the room. Due to our station's odd obsession with the number seven, we concluded that we found everyone, and a further sweep confirmed it.

The scientists had all been killed in the same way: a stab through the heart. There were four women and three men, but they were impossible to identify. They had no nameplates, nor was there any mention of their names anywhere else about the lab. But the worst part... was their faces.

Or what had once been their faces. They no longer had them; there was nothing there at all but a blank, flat, fleshy slate, no eyes, no nose, no mouth, not even any ears. The hair was still there, which only made it worse.

As unnatural as it appeared, though, it didn't look as if anything had melted away – it looked like that was how their faces had always been. I summoned up the nerve to touch one and I pressed down to try to feel for any hollowness beneath, but it was all hard, as if the skull was completely solid beneath it.

None of us could figure out what was wrong, but it looked like there had been a struggle of some kind, a testament to the broken equipment everywhere. I radioed back to Glackow, informing him that we had arrived too late and that the contaminant had escaped, but there was no response. I tried again twice, but got nothing. I assumed the worst: that the contaminant, whatever it was, had escaped, and had reached Glackow.

We exited the lab quickly, made uneasy by the faceless bodies and fearing some kind of virus. The klaxons were still sounding, and the lights at the top of the walls still blinked madly at us. Away from the terrifying sight of those bodies our heads were clearer, and we decided to check the other labs. We went back to lab 13-0 first, closing the door to Lab 13-1 and pulling the containment switch remotely as we did so, sealing off Lab 13-1 from the rest of the station.

The door to Lab 13-0 was locked, and we banged on the door and pressed buttons on the keypad outside, but there was no answer. We tried for about three minutes and then split up, Levine and Jean staying at the door in case someone answered, and the rest of us following me down the hallway, past where it curved to the right beyond Lab 13-1, to 13-2. The door to 13-2 was open as well, and upon walking in, we found things in much the same state as in 13-1 – seven scientists, four female and three male, killed via pierced heart – all without faces.

We remotely contained that lab, and went quickly down the zigzagging corridor, checking every lab we could, which was every one save two, whose doors were both locked like that of 13-0. In every lab we found was the same situation – seven faceless stabbed scientists on the floor. As we got further away from the earlier labs, the signs of struggle decreased, until at lab 13-12 – the last we could enter, as 13-13 was sealed shut – we found the scientists all lying on their backs, hands clasped, their bodies looking almost at peace. They still didn't have faces.

We had known all along that something terrible had happened, but now it was clear that whatever it was that had escaped containment was no force that we could deal with. We rushed back down the corridor, and as we passed Lab 13-7 I received a radio transmission from Levine, saying that the door to 13-0 was opening. I relayed the news to my comrades and we hurried forward, turning the final corner, expecting to see living scientists who could explain what the hell was going on.

But that was not to be our luck. What we found were two more bodies – Levine and Jean's – lying face-up on the floor, stabbed through the heart, their faces gone. After a moment of shock and horror, I rallied the remainder of my unit and we leapt into Lab 13-0, ready to shoot at the first thing that moved.

But nothing did. There were only seven faceless scientists in the room, and signs of a long, protracted struggle. We left hurriedly headed back down the corridor until we arrived at 13-8, the first of the two sealed ones. I shot the door's keypad with my rifle, causing the lab door's wiring to short out. The door slid open. We all rushed in, guns raised, expecting to find seven dead scientists before us.

But that wasn't what we found.

There were six dead scientists, but one was still alive. There were signs of a very long struggle, and the living scientist, a balding old man, was leaning against one of the laboratory benches, purple and green liquids falling down on either side of him. He hardly seemed to notice that, let alone the wound through his heart.

We rushed over to him and asked him what was going on, and he tried to speak to us... but damn, he couldn't, he tried so hard...

His mouth was changing, I swear it, and closing up right before our eyes. He cried as his mouth muscles twitched and shuddered as he tried to form words, but his mouth wouldn't let him. His lips vanished into his face, and there was soon no way to tell where his mouth had been. Then he closed his eyes then... it was probably just a blink... but it didn't matter, because his eyelashes and eyebrows were sucked into his head as well. His eyes fleshed over, vanishing in a matter of seconds.

I heard someone behind me vomit, and I felt the urge myself. The scientist's nose sank into his face, nostrils merging with and vanishing into the formless, flat front of his face. His ears were sucked into his head with a sickening squelch, and the skin on his face began to tighten and smooth out until it looked just like the rest of the bodies we'd found.

I lost it then. I ran out of the room with only a curt order to follow, and sprinted down to the last Lab, 13-13, where I was sure there would be answers. I shot at the keypad with my rifle, trying in vain to keep my hysterics under control, but it didn't work. Damn it, it didn't work... if only it had, things might have been different...

I turned around to get my team, who I thought had followed me, to help, but they weren't there. Fear took me over, and I pressed myself against the door of Lab 13-13, not wanting to see what had become of my unit. I held my rifle in shaking hands, pointed back down the corridor, and fired the instant I saw something move around the corner.

My beam had no effect on the thing, that horrible thing, that damn motherfucking face destroyer... it was easily one and a half times my height, and would have appeared human at a distance... but its two terrible arms... one was a blade, like a scythe of flesh and bone, doubtless the thing that had impaled the scientists... and the other arm had, instead of a hand, a needle, from the tip of which dripped a red liquid, like glowing blood. And then behind that thing came another one, identical to the first... they were naked, the damn things, and had no genitalia, or breasts, or nipples – they were completely devoid of any form of identification – including faces, of course. I lost control completely, and blasted away at them with all I had... but then the alarm klaxons stopped sounding, and they paused, ignoring me, and turned away, vanishing down the hallways.

Once I stopped blasting, it took all of my self-control to make myself leave the lab, all the while terrified that one of those things would get me the instant my attention wavered. I tried in vain to contact a superior, to contact anyone, but I couldn't.

I staggered out of Lab Complex 13 and made my way to the transmission terminals, but they were all destroyed. On my way around the station I passed countless faceless bodies – it seemed as if the things had gotten everywhere...

But I passed an open terminal on the way to the backup transmitters. It had a faceless colonel lying in front of it. I kicked him away and read what he had been reading... about Project Erasure, and how to defeat the "Erasers"... but he was doomed. There was no way – any contamination breach would result in the deaths of everyone on board. I just hope that Station Twelve in the Hera System gets this message, as they seem to be working on the same project... the government's first step towards identity control. They're developing beings with the power to inject a virus that changes your very genetic structure, and takes away your face, and will let them mould new ones onto the blank slate... fashioning their very own fucking master race. Too bad for you the experiments seem to have gotten out of control, and don't know how to control their own urges... the cost of making such goddamned fucking good tools. Learn a lesson from history, motherfuckers. Don't play God – he'll only get right back at you.

They're coming now... I hear their footsteps. I don't know why they spared me the first time – maybe something in those damn klaxons, some kind of secret code – the terminal mentioned sonic encoding as a way to control them – but I doubt they'll spare me a second time. Damn, the klaxons have started up again... is someone higher up still alive? Are they controlling the beasts, commanding them to hunt me down?

I don't have much time... I need to kill myself before they take me away from myself... I don't want everything to go dark and silent! Help me please, God... I made it this far... don't let me die now, please... no, dammit Jacqui, don't cry... this isn't the time...

My god, they're here! Help me oh Lord, they've found me... no... AAAAAAGHHH... help me... I'm bleeding... dammit, my heart... no... my face... its moving... help... no... not my mouth... God, don't let thism... mmm... mm! Mmmmmm mmm mmmm!]

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The Man in Amber

It is the ultimate nightmare, though few even can imagine its possibility. I am eternally surrounded by this terrible substance of amber, that which lets me breathe without breathing, lets me see with eyes eternally open, and lets me live without living. I have not had any nutritional sustenance for the longest time, yet I still linger on. I have lost many things in my imprisonment: I can no longer hear, nor taste, nor smell, nor feel. Only my sight remains, and even that is limited to what I can see directly before me, for I can no longer move any part of my body. I have not felt my heart beat, nor my lungs swell, nor my flesh tremble since I woke in my prison of amber. My eyes can no longer flit back and forth, nor follow the movement of a pendulum, nor even fill with tears without the greatest of pain.

My immobility pains me the most. I am not capable of moving any part of my body even the smallest amount; I have been completely immobilized, frozen in this rigid pose. Yet despite my immobility, energy still flows through my body, and I have a desire to move, to run, to jog, to walk, to stretch – yet I can do none of these things. Nor can I make my state of life known to any who see me – and a fair few have.

The amber substance that surrounds me is also inside of me, extending down my throat and mouth, preventing even my tongue from moving. It is the strangest, most uncomfortable feeling, made especially noticeable when I became aware that my lungs were no longer functioning nor my heart beating – anything that had even hinted at life in me was gone, yet I was still there, and still am. Even if I had managed to communicate some message to those beyond, I don't know if they could even break through this substance that coats and infiltrates me, or if I would live if they could. Even death, though, is infinitely preferable to this cursed state of half-life. It is impossible to adequately describe the state of boredom that accompanies eternal stasis. There is literally nothing to do but watch, and I certainly am not always put in the most interesting of places.

I still do not know, nor do I ever think I will know, how I came to be in this state. I was a lecturer at a prestigious university, having obtained a doctorate and completing post-doctoral studies many years previously – I can no longer remember how long ago it was – but never having been able to land a job as even an assistant professor. My specialty was in anthropology – an ironic twist, for I have since become the subject of anthropological study many times.

I remember the moments of my previous life – before the damned amber set in – with the utmost clarity. I am aware of everything that I have lost. On my last day as a free man, I went to sleep, my eyes closed, and the next thing I knew I was somewhere below the earth, completely surrounded by darkness. It took me several minutes at least to fully realize the state I was in, and my terror and despair knew no bounds for countless hours, until I finally resigned myself to my fate.

The blackness surrounded me for what must have been decades. I had no wife or children, nor any real family left, so I doubt my disappearance left much of a stir – assuming, of course, that I was the only one who had vanished – other than perhaps a brief article in the local paper. I did not worry overly much, then, about my affairs back home, but more on the how, what, and why of my current situation. I was to receive nothing even remotely close to answers until my unearthing, and even then, those answers were limited.

When I was dug up out of the ground, I could see the amber around me coloring everything in my field of vision for the first time, and discovered that my eyes were open, and indeed must have been for the entire time I was down there. During that time I had nothing to do but think and ponder upon existence, and though many conclusions were reached and discarded, no discernible philosophical progress was made.

I had solved in my initial period of stasis many of the anthropological problems I had been working on at the university, and found a way to enter a state of daydreaming. I spent most of my time lost in the fields and valleys of my imaginations, dreaming the years away. I also developed a method of meditation, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never truly sleep. At the same time, I do not ever feel tired. Whatever it is that imprisons me somehow supplies me with energy, food, drink, oxygen, and everything else required to preserve me for an eternity.

After being taken from the ground in what could only be described as a desert area utterly unfamiliar to me, my amber cell was poked and prodded with various tools, but nothing that the humans who unearthed me possessed could break into my prison. They quickly gave up, and sent me to a museum, where my boredom was alleviated somewhat. I was able to people-watch, examining those who examined me, able to finally have something of interest go on before my eyes. After a few months, I was not ashamed of being naked, and I began to play games with myself. I mentally narrated the conversations I saw mouthed around me, and created life stories for those who ogled at me.

Humans had changed while I had been away. Our skin had become darker, and our bodies taller. The average woman tended to be more attractive, and the same could be said about the men. I saw cats on leashes and fish tanks on wheels being carted about everywhere. I was horrified that any museum – for I had no doubt that I was in one – would allow pets in it, but eventually I become accustomed to this.

I was eventually deemed uninteresting, and cast away into an archive of some kind. My first shift on the surface lasted, in my estimation, a decade or so, and then I was moved down into the dusty basement of some old building, where I was surrounded by a plethora of fascinating exhibits that occupied me for most of my time down there. I spent the next century or so of my existence alternating between the storage area and the upper museum, and then was transferred elsewhere and put on exhibit in a different building.

I was in an archive, down beneath the Earth, when the cataclysm came to man. I felt a terrible rumbling and shaking, and saw the supports of my underground cell began to crumble and fall. The ceiling eventually collapsed under some great and terrible force, and I was again cast into the complete and utter darkness of the inner earth.

And so I remained beneath the earth for many years, wondering what it had been that had caused the destruction of my archive. Perhaps it was some terrible earthquake or act of terrorism – though why a museum would be targeted was beyond my understanding. Things had certainly changed.

After centuries of my loathsome half-existence, I found myself back upon the surface of the world. It was an earthquake that caused the earth to heave and tumble and throw me back into the sunlight of the world above, freeing me from my period of darkness and gloom.

I almost would have preferred the darkness and gloom to what came after, and I would have wept had I been able to without pain. There were no buildings anymore; what little remained had been eroded by the steady hand of the wind or been destroyed by the ultimate folly of man. Metal and stone still burned and melted, even after all this time. Scorch marks covered the earth, and I realized then what had happened to us: we had destroyed ourselves, just as the doomsayers had always said we would – and only I was there to witness it, ages after it had occurred. I was in the center of a massive crater, the walls of which I could see in the distance. The explosion or impact that had caused it had to have been immense.

It did not take long – relatively speaking - for the blowing sand to unearth hideous mummies – perfectly preserved specimens of humankind, lying dead upon the ground. A cruel, sadistic and vengeful part of me hoped that they, too, somehow maintained their consciousness, but I could tell that they hadn't. They were as inert as I was, and their decaying eyes hinted only at death.

Time passed, and countless dark aeons rolled past me as I floated in my prison of amber, unable to move or react to the outside world – not that anything was going on. Even the mummies themselves decayed as the millennia went by. The wind carried on its dreary work, and soon even the smoking and burning buildings finally withered away into nothingness. Sand blew in from all over, and I was slowly buried again. I almost hoped for darkness this time; anything was preferable to looking out upon the lifeless plain before me.

The darkness did come again, and it lasted for the longest time. But I did not forget; I remembered the folly of humanity, and cursed my memory for its edges having not been dulled by the millennia that passed me by. Not even the rats or cockroaches had survived the calamity. There was only me.

I railed and howled in mental anguish at my foul prison, but never did it respond or act. It remained as inanimate and inert as it had always been. It could not hear or understand, let alone obey, my gloomy and wrathful thoughts.

Yet my sanity stayed with me somehow – likely a damned byproduct of the hellish amber that still surrounded me. Every moment of my immortal existence remained perfectly clear, and my memory was flawless – dare I say better than it had ever been before. I wondered what kind of sin I had committed to earn this endless torment, but I was helpless against it. There was nothing I could do.

The sands eventually were blown away again, all at once in a great force that surprised me with its speed. For one who lives by the passage of millennia, great cataclysms that occur in mere minutes or seconds are terrible surprises.

But something from the space outside struck my beloved planet, the force of it sending the sand that surrounded that which surrounded me flying away. I was again exposed to the surface, and the light hurt my eyes – but I could not close them. In the distance was a plume of fire and ash. Volcanoes heaved up their molten loads all around me. From the nearest massive plume was an onrushing tide of darkness that enveloped me within minutes, my moments of vision again obscured.

For many decades the cloud surrounded me, and eventually it subsided, but my amber allowed me to see as clearly as always. My Earth was no longer recognizable; it was now a hideous atrocity that no being should ever live upon. And yet there I was, witnessing it all, immune to all its dangers.

I cursed again my immortal existence and wished for death, but death would not come. I feared it never would. I had attained that which men had killed for – and I would have killed to lose it.

As the aeons passed, I noticed that the star, our great Sol, our sun, the giver of life – had expanded and changed its colour. It was a dark red now, and I watched over uncountable years as it grew in size, swelling to fill the horizon and then the entire sky. The rocks and stone themselves that were all around me begin to burn and twist and melt, but my prison remained as it was, both it and myself unchanged.

I wished desperately that the ever-swelling star would swallow me, but my prayers were never answered. I was swallowed instead by the melting planet, my amber cell sinking into the molten ground, the star, my last hope of salvation, passing out of sight. Yet never did I feel any heat. My prison still protected me, despite my fervent wishes and prayers that it would do otherwise. I could only hope that the swelling star would finally melt the thrice-cursed amber and free me from this hell – but I harbor no such delusions.

I alone have witnessed the fall of man. I alone will endure. I alone have seen.

I alone will remain.

Sally

Sally Whitehouse was not a witch. She may have looked like one, dressed like one, and acted like one, but she was most certainly not one. It had wounded her deeply when the accusations had first been thrown about the town, and she had vehemently denied the validity of the rumours whenever they were put in front of her. Her subsequent haughty dismissal of both rumours and rumourmongers did nothing but fan the flames of the libel making its way around the small town.

In her last days on this earth, Sally became more and more isolated from those around her, spending all the day in her run-down house at the corner of Beck Street and Rhodes Way. She scarcely ever emerged, and those few who dared pass by her abode swore that they heard her wailing and chanting foul words, whilst an evil presence encircled the house.

On the fourth of May, the people of the town decided that they had tolerated her presence for long enough. Five children had vanished in the three months prior, and all fingers pointed to Sally. She was prone to night-time walks, dressed all in black, and was frequently spotted bringing magical herbs into her home. Most incriminating of all was the wart upon the left side of her slightly hooked nose; none but a witch was marked by the Lord in such a way.

What was more, her husband had vanished under mysterious circumstances five years past, on Midsummer's Eve. On that dark night, terrible screams had been heard coming from the Whitehouse dwelling, and an evil cackling had filled the entire town. Edgar Whitehouse had not been seen since. When the official inquiry into the incident was made, the newly-made widow claimed that the screams had come from her, as her husband had hit her badly. Indeed, for months afterward, her face was badly swollen and bruised. With regards to the cackling, she pleaded ignorance.

Where then had her husband gone? Sally said that he had stormed out of the house and had not returned. He had quickly been declared missing, and searches for him or his body in the surrounding woods continued for three weeks before he was finally declared dead. Whatever reasons he had possessed to quarrel with Sally remained a secret, for she never spoke of the incident again.

It was these events, as well as the strange, indescribable sounds emanating from her house that caused the townsfolk to be inspired and swayed to action. On that fateful day, the entire population turned out in large numbers, spurred forward by the fiery rhetoric of Daniel Thayer, the village cobbler. He went from door to door, skipping the Whitehouse home with its boarded windows and overgrown garden, and gathered the townspeople in the Old North Church. His impassioned speech aroused great cheers from the populace, and everyone gathered what weapons they could find, lighting branches and makeshift torches as they strode purposefully towards the Whitehouse dwelling. The rag-tag mob, armed with spades, shovels, pitchforks, and the occasional musket, quickly approached their destination, arriving almost at the crack of noon, when the witch's power would be at its weakest.

Daniel Thayer walked at the head of the militia. He strode boldly through the property's iron gates, up the house's sagging steps, and onto the porch. As much of the crowd as could fit into the tiny yard followed him, cheering him on and disparaging the witch they assumed to be inside. Thayer used the butt of his pitchfork to knock in the door, slamming his weapon into it several times.

As the door splintered and fell to the ground, Daniel and four others – farmer Jeremiah Nuben, brewer Andrew Calliston, carpenter Patrick O'Flanagan, and judge John Thornley – went through the open door and into the house itself. The rest of the populace remained outside, their shouts quieted by the somber air that now permeated the atmosphere.

The room that the five entered was nothing one would not expect to find in a home such as the Whitehouse's. There was a small coatroom to the left of the door that opened up into a relatively spacious living room. It would have been graced with large windows had not boards been nailed over them. A dusty oriental rug was laid out in the center of the room, and several stuffed armchairs, as well as a large sofa, were placed on the perimeter. The focus of the room was a low coffee table made of a shining mahogany; surprisingly expensive for one of Edgar's income.

The room itself was empty. Only Sally lived in the house now; she had borne no children, as she was supposedly infertile. The five men advanced through the living room into another area that one reached via a doorway to the right. They found themselves in a small dining room containing no more than a round oaken table with a chair on either side of it. A kitchen could be entered through another doorway on the right. Thayer stepped carefully into the smaller room and looked around, noting the layers of dust covering everything. Slightly unnerved, he turned back and walked out of the dining room, motioning for the others to follow.

At the far end of the living room was a staircase, next to the back door. He began to carefully ascend it, then motioned for the others to remain where they stood. He continued to the bedrooms upstairs by himself. He vanished from sight, and the four men below waited with bated breath for his return.

Two or three minutes later, a loud thud shook the entire house, sending dust raining down from the ceiling. The four exchanged a momentary glance, and they all set up the stairs at the same time, brandishing shovels and pitchforks. The stairs took a turn halfway up, and in a matter of seconds the group was on the upper floor. The dust was thick, save for where Daniel had stepped, and they hurried to the room at the end of the corridor, into which the footprints led. Judge Thornley was the first to round the corner of the door, and he immediately clutched his chest with fright and fainted backwards.

Startled, the other men stepped backwards, and then stepped over his fallen body, all leaping into the room.

Sally Whitehouse, clad in a thin white shift, sat in front of a grand piano, her delicate fingers playing a silent melody. Behind her was a bed whose sheets were once probably white, but were now almost completely stained brown with dried blood. Upon the bed was the naked body of Edgar Whitehouse, arms and legs spread wide. His erect member throbbed and pulsed with an inner force while the rest of him remained completely still.

Yet more horrifying was the corpse lying on the floor between Sally and her dead husband. Daniel Thayer, stripped naked, was splayed out in much the same manner, his extremely erect phallus spewing forth a fountain of blood. His face was frozen in a mask of utter terror, and his entire body rippled as if something was moving under his flesh.

The three men stood motionless, and Sally stopped playing and smiled at them. "Welcome, gentlemen," she whispered seductively. Despite her large wart and slightly crooked nose, Sally had always been an attractive woman, well-endowed in those areas most associated with the feminine. The three living men in the room with her all felt a stirring in their groins, and to their horror found themselves wanting to do the unspeakable to the graceful figure before them.

As one, the three rushed forward at Sally, but tripped over one another, and ended up sprawled on the floor, beside and on top of their friend Thayer. A force seized them all, and they were lifted into the air and moved to separate corners of the room. Their arms and legs were spread out, and their members all became painfully erect. They gasped for want of sex, and Sally smiled at them as she stood up and stepped away from her piano bench. Her shift fell away from her body, and she stood over the prone form of Andrew Calliston. His clothes melted away to nothingness under him, and he lay naked upon the floor. She lowered herself down slowly, her soft hands moving his member until he was inside her. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, and then suddenly began to writhe in pain. Sally smiled at him and stood as his phallus began to shoot out gouts of blood. She repeated the procedure on the other two men, then walked outside of the room and did the same to the unconscious judge.

Content with her work, Sally Whitehouse donned again her white shift and sat back down at the piano. She continued playing her silent melody as naked male bodies writhed on the floor around her, spewing forth blood.

"Come to me, my children," she whispered as she played, and her husband's corpse began to twitch violently. She turned to look behind her, and saw the corpses of the four men begin to still as her eggs took hold of their flesh, wriggling beneath the surface of their skin. Edgar Whitehouse's corpse began to turn to purple, and then to red. The silent melody of Sally Whitehouse grew stronger and more powerful, and at the climax, her husband's corpse exploded in a blast of rotting flesh and drying blood. Where his body had been now were thirteen things, with snapping maws and writhing tentacles. They slithered forward and off of the bed as they scuttled towards their mother, who halted her playing and knelt down upon the floor, beckoning them to her.

Sally Whitehouse smiled and gathered her offspring in her arms. She opened her mouth wide, revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp fangs, and four writhing tongues deep within her throat. Her skin split open as tentacles replaced her arms and sprouted out of her back. More maws emerged along the length of her once beautiful body, and her soothing voice changed to a low growl.

The thing that had been Sally Whitehouse deposited her young in a pouch below her largest mouth, and then gathered up the corpses of the four men she had impregnated in her many tentacles. With a maniacal tittering, the thing began to glow with a sickly green light. The light grew brighter and brighter as the tittering grew louder and louder. The townspeople outside clutched their weapons in fright, and then dropped them in surprise as a loud crack, like that which thunder makes, filled the air around them.

The people were then unable to wait any longer, and they stormed the Whitehouse home, tearing it asunder in search for their missing companions and what they thought was a witch. All that they found was a bloodstained bed and bloody floor in the room at the end of the upstairs corridor.

The mayor declared that Sally Whitehouse had in fact been a witch, and had fled using her magic after slaying the five men who had so bravely gone in to face her. But he was wrong.

Sally Whitehouse was not a witch.

The Parasite

This is an affliction of the Body – It will destroy your Flesh.

It will weaken your Mind and tear open your Head.

This is an affliction of the Mind – It will destroy your thoughts.

It will weaken your Spirit and tear open your Self.

This is an affliction of the Spirit – It will destroy your Will.

It will weaken your Life and tear open your Existence.

That which is an affliction of the Body, Mind, and Spirit

Is that of the Soul – And it will destroy your Being.

An affliction of the body is better than an affliction of the mind. An affliction of the mind is better than an affliction of the spirit. That affliction that is of the body, mind, and spirit is an affliction of the soul, and an affliction of the soul will destroy you.

It came to me first as an affliction of the body. It was not separate from its symptoms, yet lived inside me as surely as any other physical being. Its feeding was a constant tug at my reserves of energy; they slipped away slowly but surely as the weeks passed. It remained unidentifiable and unknown to even the best of physicians; as far as they could see, it did not exist. It was merely an abstract parasite with no form in the physical, that could yet still surely make me sweat and shiver in the bitterest of cold and the most fiery of heat. It never gave me respite and relentlessly drained the vitality from my body. Each day, each hour, each minute, I could exert myself less and less.

It had come from nowhere, yet must have existed somewhere. It descended out of the blue, transforming what had been a healthy young girl, her body developing strongly and filling itself with the vibrant energy and joy of youth into a coughing, exhausted woman who felt aged a century. Her friends came to her aid, but it had control of her flesh, and she was powerless to stop it.

No drugs could harm it, no treatment cure it. Never lacking in funds, my guardians were confident that it would be defeated given proper payment, but money means nothing without brilliance, and the mass hallucination of coinage is meaningless to a parasite. The best and brightest of the medical industry stood no chance against it, and friends and family watched helplessly as I descended into a terrible sickness.

The worst was the clarity of mind that accompanied these stages; the hazy god of insanity eluded me, and every excruciating inflammation, every painful swelling, and every terrible itch was felt with the clarity of a cold gush of water. I could not retreat from my plight, for it had trapped me and I was powerless to resist. It was not even a week before I could no longer walk, and the powerful, striding young woman of Monday was eternally bedridden by Sunday.

My stomach churned like a herd of buffalo across the plains, but nothing could feed it. The parasite cared not for material sustenance; that was not what it craved. Whatever I was forced to consume emerged again from my mouth within moments. My ailing body had given up and surrendered. It had lost the fight long ago, and it was well aware of it. The parasite would triumph.

Not even the machines that they thrust into my flesh were enough to drive it back. The best of physicians were at a loss when even the intravenous sustenance was rejected by my body, yet I did not starve nor did I thirst. It kept me alive, somehow, so that I would not cease to feed it. It is in the interests of the parasite to leave its host alive.

Yet I could feel my body begin to turn on itself, taking its own life before the parasite could stop it. I screamed at my treacherous flesh to stop its madness, but it could no longer hear – my body and mind were at a disconnect, having feuded without hope of repair. My stomach began to feed on itself, and my liver diluted my blood. The physicians saw all of this and were helpless. Surgery would kill me, they said, and her own organs fight her. How can we help?

They couldn't. No one can.

The rashes began to appear then, on my breasts and knees first, and then quickly spreading across my body. My friends and family feared the Pox, and so I was left in the care only of the physicians and nurses, who took pains to wear masks at all times. I was abandoned and left alone with my rebellious body and the terrible parasite that sucked out my life-force.

It was then that it became an affliction of the mind.

The long-awaited insanity finally dropped over me, and the pain of my body faded away as my mind came to the fore. The relief that I felt at the prospect of surrendering my sanity was fleeting, for my mind began to despair of its own accord.

What little control I had left of my body vanished, and I became a prisoner in my own head. I could watch my surroundings, much like an old woman watches an ancient television set, but never could I interact with them. The loneliness tore at me, and it was company that I wanted, but I could not have company. I could ask for no one, and no one would see me; they did not wish for this terrible thing to descend upon them as well. I watched in horror as my body shrank and withered beneath me, and as physicians and nurses tried to feed me, but they never failed to fail in their goals.

The strangers surrounded me day and night, and they began to take on hideous forms, especially in the night, half-formed fiends lurking at the corners of my vision, and I could feel them approaching, but was helpless to act. I would become stiff with fear, yet know all the while that I had not moved a muscle nor ever would, for they had atrophied to an abhorrent point. The things would approach me and taunt me, and I would want to cry, but I could not. Nothing was scarier than the parasite that had taken hold of me, but it would not let me realize that. It filled me with an unholy fear and terror of the things that tread softly in the darkness.

I could never trust a stranger, and especially not a stranger whose fangs gleamed blood-red in the cold blue sunlight, nor whose eyes flashed green. The tentacular tongues and groping fingers confirmed the validity of my nightmare, and I was aware that I had descended into Hell – but I was not free. Hell should have been a relief, but it was not. The flames burned my flesh day and night, and I was roasted slowly over a cold dark fire, turning endlessly on the eternal spit of damnation. No one could hear the cries I could not utter, and the daemons and devils around me did naught but leer and laugh. The tears that would not come could not extinguish the fire, and the writhing that I could not do would not dislodge the spit.

The grey haze of ultimate madness fell like a curtain, and the leering Fallen Ones were gone, replaced by the empty coldness. I spent eternities alone with my thoughts, with no choice but to wander endlessly the featureless planes. But I could not even do that – I was immobile on the Plains of Asphodel, without even the flowers for company. Tartarus was hidden and Elysium invisible; I was trapped in a terrible purgatory, a dreaded state of limbo, caught between endless worlds.

The eternal state of nothingness with consciousness is not what we were made to bear – I could contemplate whatever I wished, but it would torment me with thoughts of others and how they had gone. Snakes slithered around my ankles and through my orifices, dragging me down beneath the flowering blossoms and into the heart of the worm, whose gullet blazed with ice.

I plunged into the fire and bounced off the solid stone that awaited me at the top, slithering up the elephant's trunk and flying into his gaping maw. Clowns with hammers and clowns with saws pried loose my legs and had their way as they stabbed me and crushed me, taking their knives to heal me only to use their handkerchiefs to slice me open again.

And then the fuzzies came, flying down from below me, their bodies blazing cold and filled with a chilly heat that deadened even the dead. They crawled all over me, gnawing at me with their little ears and ripping off tiny hunks of my flesh, devouring the massive pieces before my eyes, and I wept rivers of grass, filling the landscape about me with a withered splendor and spoilt wonder. The mammoths came then, bleeding upon the Earth and Sky and filling them with a rage that knocked the stars up from the heavens, causing them to rise up to me and make me swell and freeze.

I could have accomplished much with my life, but it had all been ruined. An author, an athlete, a scholar, or a president – I could have done it all. That woman of my past, she could have been anything. But where had that woman gone? She wished she could say she had gone to Hell and back, but she had not come back. People only came back from Hell in fairy tales.

The potential of a wasted life – she could have been great, a prime minister or a musician or a-

-astronaut or an engineer or-

-a zookeeper or a beekeeper or a squidkeeper-

-an actress or a porn star o-

-or a ringmaster or a bodybuilder or a governor-

-he could have been the hegemon or a general-

-she could have explored the depths of-

-psychologist or teache-

-gravedigge-

The people all flowed into her and she lost herself in them, and it became then an affliction of the spirit. For her individuality was now gone, her personality vanished, lost in the endless recesses of her own mind, if it could indeed be called hers any longer. The memories and personas of those who had fallen before merged with her, and though she was not alone, she was hopelessly lonely, though she could not tell; if one is with others but has no self, then they are not truly with others, as there is no self to differentiate from them. She became one of the mob, the mass, the endless rolling tide that dwells in the deep unconscious of the psychotic. She was not special, she was not unique; nothing would have come of her. Her spirit began to ebb away, flowing into the terrible parasite that sat upon its crude throne of Essence. She slumped over in what humans like to think of as the waking world and her life left her, as her will had been broken; that which does not exist has no will with which to fight. And in this universe, what does not fight loses, and what loses dies. Without the indomitable will of the spirit, nothing lives and everything dies – the undoing of the spirit, then, is the undoing of the self.

And when one has stripped away the defenses of the body, mind and spirit, what is left to them but the soul, the source of being for all that lives in the waking world? It is the soul that the parasite wants, and the soul that the parasite needs to survive – the mind and body and spirit are merely the paper wrapped around its sustenance, that it must unravel and tear through to reach the meat inside. Her soul was nothing special; it consumed hundreds of them each moment, for time had no meaning to it, that terrible, eternal parasite. It had not selected her from among billions, carefully picking his delicacy; it merely devoured whatever it could find that was closest to it, for without constant nourishment it indeed would die. She was another pea on the plate, insignificant and worthless, yet feeding the abhorrent abomination that slowly devoured all life and destroyed all being – for what else is the soul but the source of the being and of existence itself?

Even the parasite itself was not unique, and was only one of many millions upon millions of brothers and sisters; its race feasts upon the souls of the living, who so willingly reproduce for the benefit of feeding its insatiable appetite. For what are you but its cattle, its livestock, its fowl? Who was it you think that created you? Did you think it created us to be yourselves? No, the parasites created you and your kind, and all others who dwell in what you believe to be the waking world, to ensure that they can live on in their debauchery and infinite gluttony. They care not for you, for you are merely morsels to them, and they will take every last one of your kind and strip away their defenses, leaving only their innermost soul to consume, for what are you but cattle to our being?

The Playground

The sky was overcast, and the smell of rain hung waiting in the air. A grey pall had settled over the city, leeching all the colour from the world. A solitary figure walked slowly down an empty street, moving silently through the still air, his footsteps making hardly a sound. His hands were stuffed into his large overcoat and a hat was pulled down over his face, as he shivered in a cold breeze that he alone could feel.

The street turned, and the man turned with it, a city park coming into view around the corner, surrounded on all sides by towers of cement, scraping the bottom of the heavens. The man's glossy black shoes padded across the silent street, and he slipped through a gate in a wrought-iron fence around an oasis of green in a sea of grey. He wandered down a curving cobblestone path, weaving beneath the canopy of leaves. His path led him to the center of the park, by the side of a small pond. The surface of the water was as still as the air above it, and the fish that normally swam just below the surface were nowhere to be seen. On the far shore of the lake lay the walker's destination: a shining playground of plastic and wood, waiting in silence for someone to approach.

And approach someone did. His footsteps took on a peculiar quality of sound as he moved over the bounds of the playground, and colour seeped again into the world beneath his feet. The sound of tinkling laughter filled his ears, and he smiled as children appeared from the air all around him to play.

A young boy and girl, dressed in their Sunday finest, each took an end of a seesaw and began to teeter and totter. A trio of mischievous rascals climbed a set of green plastic stairs to a curving slide of yellow and red, shrieking and giggling as they slid down its spiraling length, pushing each other and starting a chase as they reached its bottom. A row of monolithic swingsets swayed gently as young boys and girls swung merrily upon them, their happiness and joy exuding from their shining eyes. The walker had no choice but to smile as the festive air of the playground surrounded him.

He stepped forward and took off his hat, holding it over his slowing heart. Several adventurous boys soared past him on a firmly rooted zipline, eagles for a moment. A large gaggle of children began playing tag, and it quickly devolved into a cootie-fest, the girls quickly gaining an advantage over the boys. The wanderer's feet crunched over the mulched yard as he watched more children race down long metal slides, gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight. Gymnasts swung from monkey bars, while would-be ninjas climbed complex jungle gyms. Their adversaries, fierce pirates, crewed wooden ships suspended above a mulchy sea by chains, while brave young souls did their best to remain balanced upon a narrow beam.

Firemen and firewomen slid down poles, both straight and spiraled, and other children climbed ladders, manned towers, and leapt upon small trampolines. A small group of young boys and girls spun a victim round and round on a swing made from an old tire, whilst others clambered over whole structures made of unwanted materials.

One of the tallest of the play-spires was host to a young girl with golden hair, who laughed and smiled at a freckled boy far below her. She turned and sat down at the top of the silvery slide and began her descent, but some errant wind caused her to lose her place and tumble off the edge of the narrow chute, towards her doom many meters below.

The wanderer gave a short cry and stepped forward as the young girl tumbled silently through the air, hitting the ground with only the dullest of thuds. The walker began to run up to her, but she calmly got to her feet, brushed herself off, and resumed her play with the freckled boy.

The intruder upon the playground slowed his pace and then was still for a moment, the memories washing over him. He had forgotten so much about this place of magic, with its light...

...and its dark. A small child's merry-go-round, coloured in all the colours of the rainbow and many more besides, remained untouched at the center of the playground. Every child who played gave the merry-go-round wide berth, refusing to even think to come near it. For the most part, they ignored it.

Beneath the still merry-go-round was a dark place of silence. One's vision into that place was greatly limited, and it was impossible to see even the base of the device. The wanderer slowly approached the carousel, and knew in his heart and mind that he was followed by a child. A young boy who looked much like a young wanderer himself passed through the body of the watcher, sending a shudder down his spine. The child cautiously approached the merry-go-round, getting closer to it than any child had ever before. Only this child, of all the dozens populating the playground, dared to question it, for the structure exuded a palpable aura of menace that even now slowed the steps of both young and old.

The world went grey again and the children all vanished, a light mist beginning to form in the air. The wandering man knelt down before an old merry-go-round, the colour long since faded and the handlebars rusted and tarnished. He drew forth from one voluminous pocket an electric torch and held it firmly in shaking hands, ready to illuminate the darkness before him.

Colour seeped back into the wanderer's vision, and he saw the small child standing before him, mere steps away from the darkness beneath. The child hesitated a moment, and then pushed upon one of the gleaming bars. The merry-go-round began to move, squeakily at first, but quickly it picked up speed and soon spun in silence.

The child ran then along with the device, laughing and smiling, his fears all forgotten. All the other denizens of the playground had halted their play, staring at the brave young boy in equal parts fear and revulsion. Those nearest to the merry-go-round began to back away, and several deigned to hide behind fences and walls.

The spinning wheel traveled faster and faster, its colours all blurring into a kaleidoscopic mess, and then melting into brown. The child jumped upon the device, his laughter the only sound piercing the silent air. He spun with the merry-go-round, heedless of his surroundings and the stares of his compatriots.

Yet no ill seemed to come to him. The wanderer himself, invisible and yet so near to the carousel, took several steps backwards. In the midnight beneath the merry-go-round, a pair of malevolent eyes began to manifest, glowing a deep and unhealthy red.

As the ride slowed to a halt, the boy leapt off and invited his friends to join him in play. In response the children all shied away, hiding themselves further from the spinning menace. The boy shook his head and moved to turn around and ride again. The wanderer reached out his hands in vain, imploring the child to stop, to rethink his actions before it was too late.

But nothing could be done. A tentacle of green slime snaked out from the darkness, delicately wrapping itself around the leg of the brave child. The boy had only a moment to look down and realize his folly before he was brought to the ground and dragged through the mulch, his laughs and smiles turned to screams and tears. He pounded at the ground and clawed at the dirt, but the tentacle's strength was insurmountable, and inexorably he was dragged into the darkness beneath the carousel. Not a single farewell sounded as he vanished into the black, his shrieks and implorations cut off as with a knife. Nothing remained of the child in the world of the playground save scuffmarks and memories. A light wind disturbed the air, thoughts were blown out of the airy heads of young boys and girls, and mulch swirled and flew until its surface was smooth once again, the last vestiges of a child gone from the world. The wanderer stood, alone now more than ever, and watched as the eyes malevolent faded from view, the carousel silent and still once more.

And then the man was again kneeling in his world of grey, his greatcoat damp with the fog from the lake. He closed his eyes and uttered a short prayer before flicking on his torch to illumine the lair.

To his relief and great disappointment, beneath the old merry-go-round was not a trace of darkness, either of light or of form. Nothing lived under that old carousel, save spiders and mice and the litter of children.

The man turned off his light and sat heavily upon what remained of a once-lush carpet of mulch. He put his head in his hands and sobbed as the rain started to fall, wishing he could have back what once he called his.

He prayed and he begged that he be allowed to return to that land of fancy where he had not a care in the world, but no god would answer or acknowledge his cries. He asked only for a chance to see once more that which he had lost so long, long ago; to see again the carnivals, and the slides and the swings, to climb upon towers and dance with his friends.

He had cried and had whimpered for near on half an hour before something saw fit to answer his pleas. A light tap on the shoulder caused the man to turn around, revealing to him a dripping tentacle of slime. The man exhaled in relief and made his case once again, speaking to the snaking limb from the dark. After a moment's careful consideration, the tentacle lovingly wrapped itself about the wanderer, and slowly and carefully dragged him beneath the merry-go-round, until not even a shoe could be seen. A glimmer of fang and a flashing of tongues, and the man who had wandered was suddenly gone.

The rain came down more, drenching the city, and a sallow sort of colour began to make itself known. Police tape lined the boundaries of an old playground in the city park, and a trio of officers made their rounds once again, checking beneath every slide, above every tower, and in each and every tunnel that made up the place. The senior inspector had knelt down near a merry-go-round, its gay splendour having long since faded to grey. At the man's feet lay a corpse, torn and mangled, his face all in tatters and his bones all to dust, his life-blood mingling with the rain from the sky, seeping slowly into the ground. Fang marks raked down the man's stomach and side, and what organs remained were half-eaten and wretched.

The inspector looked up for a moment, for he thought he heard song, and the laughter of children as they played in oblivion. The sounds soon faded and he was left all alone, and he shook his head and turned his attention back to the job at his hand, failing to notice the carousel's spinning, slowly and gently in a still breeze.

Parallax
Chapter One

"Spontaneous human combustion. Ghost sightings. Sudden death syndrome. Random nausea. Unexplainable terror. Vivid hallucinations. Sudden madness. Unidentified flying objects. Monster sightings. Stigmata. Undefinable substances. Bursting blood vessels. Deadly chills. Random disappearances. All of these things, gentlemen, have an explanation, if we so choose to accept it."

The speaker was an older man, complete with large horn-rimmed spectacles, tweed coat, wild white hair and unkempt beard. He spoke with his hands, gesticulating wildly as he talked, his manic motions helping to illustrate what his articulate words already conveyed rather clearly.

Most of his audience was none too distant in age from the speaker himself, the youngest of them easily in his fifties. There was, of course, one exception: a young man standing near the back who scarcely could have been more than thirty, neatly dressed in a navy blue suit with a crimson tie. His thin spectacles sat below his eyes, balanced on the tip of his nose, and he peered over them directly at the speaker.

"It is not an easy explanation to accept, I will be the first to admit – it took me many years before I could accept it myself." The speaker was now pacing slowly back and forth across the platform, hands no longer flailing wildly, instead clasped behind his back. "Professor Sebastian Korig, as I am sure you all know, passed away tomorrow, last year, due to one of the phenomena of which I speak." A few quiet murmurs rippled through the crowd, but they were quickly silenced. "It was he who initially proposed the theory to me, but it was only in our last year or so together that I came to fully accept it.

"But on account of his death, I am sure you that you all can see that it is of the utmost importance that we learn to understand these phenomena, discover what causes them, and – most importantly – learn how we can prevent them from happening." The speaker cleared his throat. "And I believe that there are ways to do this, if you will hear my piece." He paused for a moment and took a deep breath.

"But before I can explain to you how I propose to stop these... occurrences, it must first be explained to you how – or more accurately, why – these things occur." The man in blue raised an eyebrow at the speaker's last sentence.

"The explanation is, in fact, far more simple than most of us would imagine – which is why we do not imagine it, and why it does not even present itself as a possibility. Gentlemen, esteemed faculty of the honorable Malacky University, I propose to you today a theory – nay, it is more than a theory – I bring to you an explanation, a light with which to shed illumination on some of the unexplained mysteries of this world."

There was a dramatic pause, and the speaker eyed the crowd, taking in their response. No man there seemed particularly moved, or expressed more than a passing interest in the contents of the old man's speech. Save, of course, for the man in the back dressed in blue.

"This explanation, which has eluded humanity for so very long, has been before our eyes the entire time – only we have failed to see it. We have caught glimpses at it, sometimes with our eyes, and sometimes with our myriad other senses. More often than not, it is the results that we see, not the cause, and those who do see the cause are not for much longer in this dimension." The speaker smiled, but it had an unsettling effect, rather than the reassuring one he had hoped for.

"Yes, gentlemen, what I am saying is that there are, indeed, multiple dimensions. I am not speaking here of the dimensions we know; length, width, depth, time, and so on. No, what I am referencing is an older concept of dimension: a different, separate reality that coexists with our own, yet is for the most part invisible to us, just as our dimension is invisible to those who dwell in our sister, parallel dimension."

To the speaker's credit, he had the attention of his audience now – even if it was the amused attention one gave to a rambling madman. "And yes, I am also saying here that there are inhabitants of this parallel dimension, living beings that move and walk and talk and breathe as we do." He lowered his voice conspiratorially. "I have seen them."

The speaker unclasped his hands and began again to gesture. "But what, you ask, does this have to do with the unexplained phenomena I listed earlier? Spontaneous human combustion? Sudden death syndrome? Bursting blood vessels? Why, the answer is one word: everything.

"Each and every one of these 'unexplained' phenomena can, I argue, be explained in terms of interactions between our two dimensions. When one of these things happens to a member of our dimension, it is the direct result of something from our sister reality making a brief appearance in our world, completely unintentionally, and accidentally inflicting harm.

"The exact circumstances surrounding each of these types of 'paranormal' phenomena vary wildly, and the circumstances within each type of occurrence vary just as wildly, which makes it nearly impossible to typify or determine what event, exactly, will trigger one of the listed phenomena. Let us take possibly the most well-known of these occurrences, for instance: spontaneous human combustion. Someone in this other dimension may be carrying a torch, and if they walk too close to a region where the boundaries between our two planes of existence wear thin, for an instant the torch may exist in two planes at once, or perhaps temporarily – or permanently – become a part of our dimension.

"Most of the time, these intrusions upon our reality are completely – or mostly – harmless. In some rare cases, however, they can become fatal. Let us return to the torchbearer. Say there is a human standing at that point in our dimension where the torchbearer's torch is as well. As our dimensions share the same space, when that torch shifts dimensions, it will appear in the same place in our dimension. Does anyone here know what happens when a torch suddenly manifests itself in one's head? Or below one's arm? Or neck?"

The speaker was rewarded with a few chuckles. The blue suited man was one of those who did not chuckle, or even smile. He was focused intently on the speaker and his speech.

"That's right – they tend to catch on fire. And that, I say, is one probable cause of spontaneous human combustion. It doesn't have to be just fire, though. Explosions at certain key weak points in their dimension could have the same effect. Heat as well, or melting metal. Lava flows, magma, molten substances. Stars. Plasma. Lightning. If present at the right place at the time, these perfectly natural phenomena could become unnatural and unexplained phenomena in another dimension. Of course, assuming that this is the case, then the phenomena are, in fact, perfectly natural."

He took a deep breath before continuing. "Other phenomena can be explained in much the same way. Burst blood vessels could be caused by a small surgical device slipping into our realm. Badly placed knives could cause random cuts – stigmata – in innocent passerby. Vehicles in this other dimension could be unidentified flying objects." The speaker smiled. "Or maybe it's just an extradimensional football we're seeing. And unidentified substances – rocks that appear not of this universe, or metals that cannot be destroyed – may be no more than objects that passed through the dimensions and failed to return from whence they came." The speaker paused.

"Ghosts can be just momentary glimpses of these otherworldly beings, or perhaps beings only partially entered into our dimension. Or your brother playing a prank on you." More chuckles greeted his joke, and even the blue-suited man smiled ever so slightly.

"I am sure by this time that you all understand. You all get the picture. Many – not all, but I believe most – paranormal and unexplained phenomena can, in fact, be explained by objects from a sister dimension passing through to our own.

"But how do you know this? What evidence, what proof do you have to back up these outrageous claims? Quite a bit, I am pleased to say, thanks to the work of the esteemed professor Korig. You see, he had been working on a device that would allow one to peel back the thin curtain separating our two planes of existence and allow us to actually glimpse our sister dimension!" The speaker's arms were thrown out wide, but the audience made no visible reaction.

The speaker lowered his arms and continued talking. "And I finished the device for him, two months after he passed away. It resembles, to the uneducated eye, a pair of goggles hooked up to a mechanical apparatus. I suppose, at its most basic, that is what it is. But once you slip those glasses on over your eyes, you will be able to see the contours and beings of our sister dimension superimposed over our own!

"Of course, the device itself duplicates a previously known condition, naturally occurring among a few select humans: extra-sensory perception. Those human beings born near weak spots in the dimensional fabric are often 'touched,' for lack of a better world, by this alternate reality, and are sensitive to it. That is why these people can see ghosts and phantasms, as they are merely spectral images of those living beside us, but in a separate realm of existence.

"And these people can be used to help us. Armed with the ability to sense the transgressions of alternate dimensions into our own, they can be a warning signal. We can employ them as guardians, to prevent many of these things from happening and get people out of harm's way; sort of an extra-sensory police force, if you will.

"If you, honorable faculty of Malacky University, choose to grant me this... well, grant – then I can streamline the device so that it can be carried by one person, and make it ten times more effective. In addition to helping to prevent these terrible, previously unexplained accidents, these devices will open up a whole new avenue of research and exploration, and perhaps lead to even more innovative technologies!

"Are there any questions?"

Two or three hands went up. The speaker called upon the closest man.

"Yes, Doctor Fortworth?"

"Did you bring the device with you?"

The speaker wrung his hands. "Ah... no. It is too bulky at the moment to transport. That is why I need the grant – so that the thing can be transported."

"So we are supposed to take, completely on faith, this... frankly, this utterly ridiculous theory you have of alternate dimensions and weak points that cause strange accidents that, in all honesty, no one particularly cares about?"

"The theory is not ridiculous, professor. It is backed up by evidence!" The speaker walked over to his desk and pulled a sheaf of papers off of it. Waving them in the air, he continued. "I have written reports here! Lab records, illustrations, everything!"

Another man in the audience stood. "I am sorry, doctor Reinhouer, but we shall need more than that." He cleared his throat. "And if you will excuse us, it is getting rather late, and many of us have classes to teach tomorrow – not excluding yourself. The board shall review all of the applicants for the grant, and will announce its decision within the week. Good night to you all."

As the speaker stood dejected upon his platform, the faculty all stood and walked out one of the exits, talking cheerfully among themselves. As the audience trickled out, professor Siegfried Reinhouer slowly collected his things from off the platform and walked out of the auditorium as well, looking down at the ground.

Following closely behind him was the man in blue.

Chapter Two

It was approaching seven o'clock in the evening when the Connolly Grant meeting broke up, and the university's distinguished faculty members exited Donelan Auditorium, hurrying to their cars, protecting their balding heads from the dreary rain with various briefcases and books.

Night was beginning to make itself known, and the sky was growing ever dimmer as the hours progressed. A few twinkling spheres in the heavens shown down upon the empty paved lot across which the well-dressed men hurried, and an eerie wind was picking up.

Siegfried Reinhouer, a professor of physics at the esteemed Malacky University, was one of the last to leave. His speech had done little to rouse the hearts and minds of his colleagues, and his gaze remained directed downward as he walked forlornly out across the lot toward his faded black Buick, paying no heed to the tears of the sky as they fell all around him.

Behind the mourning professor, a man followed with a much lighter step, a short-brimmed hat atop his head barely keeping the water from reaching his youthful face. Doctor Reinhouer was a mere three meters distant from his vehicle when the young man, clad in a blue jacket and crimson tie, placed a hand on the professor's shoulder. Old Reinhouer started suddenly, whirling around to face he who had dared touch him, a look of petrified terror in his eyes. Upon the sight of the culprit's face, the man visibly relaxed and turned to face the youth. "My apologies, monsieur – you startled me rather greatly."

The man in blue smiled warmly. "It is I who owes the apology, professor; my touch was out of line."

Reinhoeur nodded shortly. "But I take it your touch was meant to gain my attention?" A nod from the youth. "Well, consider my attention gained, young sir. What is it you wish of me?"

"Very little, professor. I seek to arrange, with you, an exchange of favors – that is to say, I do something for you, and you do something for me."

Reinhoeur sighed heavily. "I am sorry, my boy, but I will not withdraw my entry for the Connolly Grant – my work is far too important for that."

The young man shook his head. "No, that is not the favor I would have of you."

"Then speak your piece, lad."

Taking a breath, the youth continued. "My name is Henry – Henry R. Devalier. I am a doctoral student at the university, in your department, working under professor Thomasen."

"And what relevance does this have, if I may ask?"

"Little, unless you happen to recognize my name." Reinhouer responded that he did not. "Then you should know that I am, in fact, the recent recipient of two vast fortunes, passed unto me by my aunt and my great-grandfather, who both passed away three weeks ago, under rather... bizarre circumstances. These fortunes exceed the sum of three million dollars, and when added onto my own already large monetary worth, makes me out to be quite a sum."

"And what relevance, then, does this have? Are you planning on giving all of it to me?"

Henry Devalier smiled. "Close. You see, I am a man of science and learning. I attended the grant presentations because I was genuinely interested in what was being shewn, not because of any prodding by my mentor. I had made the decision, scarcely a week ago, to grant half of my newly acquired fortune upon he whose project seemed to be the most engaging and unique. Your presentation convinced me that your project is that which I came seeking."

"Oh? And you don't think it's all a load of codswallop, like the rest of my professional, open-minded colleagues?" There was a bitterness in Reinhouer's voice, tempered and shaped by years of experience.

"That I am not sure of, to be perfectly honest, professor Reinhouer, but I believe that there is at least a chance you are correct." Reinhouer huffed and began to turn around. "If you would permit it, sir, I should like to see the apparatus of which you spoke, and then give you the million and a half dollars I have promised."

The professor paused, his back now to the student. "Very well, then. You know my address?" The student nodded, and then replied in the affirmative. "Then come to there tomorrow evening, at eight o'clock." Reinhouer turned around, a slightly manic glint in his eye. "And I will give you the demonstration of a lifetime."

Chapter Three

At precisely eight o'clock the next day, on the Christian Sabbath, Henry Devalier arrived at the residence of one Siegfried Reinhouer. Set amidst the suburbs of the great city, nothing would cause the professor's house to stand out overly much. It was painted the same dull white that the surrounding abodes were, and had the same peeling picket fence around the property. The grass was too long and the yard needed weeding, but this in itself was not unusual.

Dark had nearly descended upon the neighborhood, and its imminent arrival made Devalier quite uncomfortable. He hesitantly made his way down a narrow, overgrown cobblestone path leading straight to a series of three steps that terminated in a small porch. A rocking chair and a shattered stool inhabited the deck, on either side of the brown door, which in turn was set into the white wall.

The door's only adornments were the customary knob and an ancient brass knocker in the shape of a lion. Hesitantly, Devalier grasped the knocker and pulled it back. After a further moment's hesitation, he knocked three times. Upon hearing no response from within, he repeated the cadence twice more, until he finally heard movement from the second storey.

There was a clunking down the stairs, and then the sound of footsteps approaching the door. Devalier heard a padlock being moved and slid aside, and the door opened a crack. "Who's there?"

"Henry. Devalier – we had an appointment?"

The man on the other side of the door grunted. "You're late – it's a minute past."

Devalier glanced at his watch; it still read eight o'clock. The youth decided not to bring it up to the old man, lest he become upset. "My apologies, professor."

"'salright. Come in, then." The door opened the rest of the way, and Henry slipped inside. Reinhouer, for the man behind the door was indeed him, closed it behind him immediately.

Directly inside the door, as is typical in most houses of this day and age, was a small coat room. As his host moved deeper inside, Devalier took the opportunity to remove his coat and boots, setting them aside. He kept his hat with him, but removed it from his head.

"Come on, then; I thought you wanted to see my device!" Reinhouer's voice held an air of gleeful anticipation and impatience; any reluctance he may have had about shewing his device to another had vanished. As he followed the aged scholar, Henry noted that the man still wore his mud-encrusted boots, and wondered idly if he had removed them since returning here yesterday.

He passed through the living room rather quickly, but saw in there nothing of note, merely a broken television, an old, moth-eaten carpet, and a rapidly aging sofa missing half of its cushions. Devalier caught a brief glimpse of a kitchen and dining room on his right as he entered a corridor that took a sharp turn ahead. Around the corner was a staircase and a lavatory. Siegfried climbed the stairs rather quickly for a man of his age. Devalier continued at a similar pace, openly curious about what he was about to see.

At the top of the stairs was a short hallway, with a door on either side about halfway down it. Reinhouer turned into the left one, and Henry followed suit. As he turned to step into the room, his hand slipped into the pocket of his trousers, where there was a cheque for one million and a half dollars. Satisfied that it was, indeed, still there, he turned his attention to the room in front of him.

The room itself was fairly large, but it was not this feature of the place that drew one's attention, nor any other feature. It was the contents of the room that drew the eye, for at least two-thirds of the considerable space was inhabited by a monstrous conglomeration of pipes, dials, wires, and gauges.

Devalier was thus caused to stop in his tracks at the sight of the vast apparatus. His mind temporarily out of sorts as he struggled to comprehend the device in front of him, his first absurd thought was to wonder how the device did not fall through the old wooden floor to the storey below.

"Impressive sight, isn't it, young sir?" There was a liberal dousing of pride evident in the professor's weary voice.

All Henry Devalier could do was nod. Siegfried grinned at his astonishment. "Of course, I am certain that many of these parts are unnecessary, but I need to determine which ones are so."

Devalier finally regained control of his senses. "I see... may I ask a question?"

Reinhouer nodded. "Fire away."

"If all you need to do to streamline it is take off the unnecessary parts, then why do you feel that you need the Connolly Grant money?"

The professor sighed, evidently disappointed in the nature of the question. "I had thought you would ask as much. I need time to do all of this, as I am sure you could guess. Time spent not working. I may be a tad obsessed, but I am not yet ready to give up my livelihood for this device. If the device is to be completed in any reasonable amount of time – in other words, before I pass away – I will need to take at least a semester of leave, and with my performance as of late, I have doubts as to whether or not this absence would be paid.

"Other than time, it must be noted that the parts frequently need replacing, and the materials are not cheap; particularly the diamond and gold elements I need. The device could, in theory, be made with substitutes for those two ingredients, but its efficiency level would plummet significantly, and I would prefer to keep it at least at its current level.

"The device is also imperfect. That is to say, it does not shew a perfect image of our sister dimension, and still needs refinement. For that, I will need funds to purchase new supplies." He sighed. "With my current budget and free time, I will be long dead before any visible progress is made on the machine. I can no longer go on like I have. Without more time and monies, the project will have to be halted."

Devalier smiled. "Your financial troubles are over, professor." The man removed from his pocket the cheque, and handed it to the professor. Reinhouer peered through his thick glasses at the paper, and his eyes widened ever so slightly in astonishment as he read the number.

"You were not in jest when you claimed that you were giving away your fortune, I can see."

"Half my fortune," Henry corrected, still smiling. "I do expect to see results from this, professor. All I ask is that you do not disappoint me."

Reinhouer nodded and pocketed the cheque. He gazed then for the first time into the eyes of Henry Devalier. "Why is it that you have chosen to give this funding to me?"

"I told you that yesterday, professor: your presentation offered the most creative and engaging ideas."

"I ask you this politely and with the greatest gratitude, Henry Devalier: please do not lie to me. There is another reason that you have chosen me for this honor. You lie badly."

Devalier smiled sadly. "I am fully aware, sir. And yes, I have another motive for donating my fortune to you. I never had planned on giving it to any of the others. I had heard of your project through rumour and hearsay, and came to the grant presentations to confirm what I had heard of your experiments. I have a vested interest in your results."

Siegfried raised a single bushy white eyebrow. "And what, pray tell, is this interest?"

Henry sighed. "It is no less than a curse which has haunted my family's bloodline for ten generations."

"A curse? What does a curse have to do with my research?"

"Please let me finish, sir," asked Devalier. Reinhouer nodded shortly in response and remained silent. "Ever since my very great grandfather took a walk in the twisted woods of Gorey's Hollow, this curse has laid itself upon my family. He never would speak of what happened in there, but rumour tells that the very next day he was found dead in the fields, of no apparent cause: not even poison. Over the years since, at least three-quarters of my family have met their end in exceedingly mysterious and disturbing circumstances. Spontaneous human combustion seems to follow us like a hound-dog, and at least three in every generation have perished from a burst blood vessel. Sudden death syndrome plagues us, and at least five have vanished without a trace in their own homes... with others present in the room. All of my uncles were slain by extreme manifestations of stigmata, and I myself have had experiences that almost amounted to a deadly chill. Perhaps these events would have gone without notice had they occurred further apart, but they did not. Our family had actually grown to enormous proportions as a result of these sudden and inexplicable deaths; it is difficult to continue on the family line when most of one's children die without warning.

"I am sure that now you can see why your research intrigues me so; for me, it could be a matter of life and death. If something can be done to predict or prevent these occurrences, perhaps I can cheat the curse without having to rely on being one of the lucky few who escape."

Henry waited in silence for Reinhouer's reception of his speech. In time, the old man nodded. "I see. The obvious explanation for your situation is that your old however many times great grandfather somehow upset an entity in our sister dimension, who has since been wreaking revenge upon his bloodline."

Devalier nodded, then hesitated. "But, in your presentation, did you not mention that these occurrences occur accidentally and with no intention of inflicting harm?"

It was Reinhouer's turn to hesitate. "I must confess that I... sugarcoated my presentation for our audience, so as to avoid a panic. Not that that would have ended up being necessary, but what is done is done." He took a deep breath. "The truth, my son, is that while some of these phenomena are, in fact, accidental, an equal number of them are not, and are meant to inflict harm upon us." Devalier paled visibly. "Those who inhabit our sister dimension – which I have deemed 'the Parallax,' for reasons I can later explain – are much more advanced and, frankly, much more intelligent than we are. They know of our dimension's existence, and have for a long while. Some may be friendly... but as far as I have been able to tell, most are not. Many of the 'accidents' that these beings cause are the result of mischievous or openly hostile behavior on their part. From what I have seen of them, this curse you describe does not seem to be beyond them."

Reinhouer pursed his lips. "So then, I take it, the price that you ask of me is success in my attempt to find a way to foresee and prevent these inexplicable phenomena, so that you may use it yourself and circumvent this... 'curse?'"

Devalier nodded. "Precisely, professor. Is it too much to ask of you?"

Siegfried broke out into a smile. "Of course not, Henry. I would be delighted to do what you ask of me."

Henry smiled lightly himself. "I am glad. Can you start immediately?"

Siegfried shook his head immediately. "I am sorry, but I still have three more weeks to teach at the university, and need to then request to be dropped from the summer session. At the very least, it will be three weeks before I can begin to make significant headway."

Devalier was shaking his head. "I may not have that long – in fact, I may have less."

"Oh?" Siegfried asked.

"I am the last of my line." Henry leaned against the wall, suddenly looking unsure of himself. "My aunt and great-grandfather were my last two living relatives. The rest of my rather extensive family has succumbed to the curse. If what you say about this 'Parallax' dimension is true, then these beings that have been attacking my family now only have one target: me."

The professor brought his arm up to his chin and stroked his blazing white beard. "Then we have a conundrum. I hardly know you, sir Henry, and as such am not quite reconciled to the idea of throwing out my entire career for you."

Henry stood up straight. "That won't be necessary, professor – I would not ask that of anyone. It shall be taken care of – I will make a considerable donation to the school on the morrow, on the stipulation that you be put on indefinite, paid leave to work on something for me, and when all is said and done, another handsome donation shall be made." He smiled. "One can't put a price on one's own life."

Siegfried stared at the young man in his room, astonished. "Paid leave? How large will your donation be?" Henry merely shrugged in response.

Reinhouer took the hint. "Then I suppose I can start as soon as I cash the cheque. I'll do so first thing tomorrow." A thought suddenly struck the older man.

"If my suspicions are correct, and your 'curse' is in fact the work of vengeful extra-dimensional beings, then it might not be safe for you to travel extensively until we have mapped out the locale in terms of its connection to the Parallax.

"Of course, to do that, we first need a more portable device. As of now, it only lets me map the areas directly surrounding my home." He pursed his lips as yet another thought struck him. "And then we run into another problem – from what I have been able to tell, the weak points in our reality – the bridges between our dimension and that of the Parallax – move. Not rapidly, but there is a definite, sometimes even visible, movement. I have been tracing these movements from the window, and have been working on a formula that will predict the actions of this dimensional drift. I haven't, I'm afraid, made much headway in that department; the movement seems to be completely random." Seeing the ever-paling face of Henry Devalier, Reinhouer relented. "But I'm sure with the extra time and monies you have granted me, I shall soon be able to predict the movement."

Devalier looked terrified – it had not occurred to him that in order to stay alive, his movements might have to be restricted. "But... I have to go to university..."

Reinhouer took a step forward. "I can vouch for you if you call in with a deathly illness. Surely that, combined with your seemingly impressive donation, can get you out of the last three weeks of the semester."

Devalier still looked unsure, and Siegfried continued. "It is, of course, in the end up to you... but keep this in mind: if you are dead, a doctorate will do you little good." After a few moments, Henry nodded slowly. Reinhouer smiled warmly. "Don't look so scared, son. You've made it this far. You can make it a little longer. With the time you have given me to devote to the project, I am sure that by summer's end I will have tangible results for you." Henry began to speak, but the professor raised his hand to silence him. "And I will first concentrate my efforts on finding where you can be safe. You can place your trust in me, Henry Devalier." Siegfried looked directly into the eyes of the young man before him, sending through them a message to young Henry: he would be safe.

Gradually, Henry nodded again, and Reinhouer smiled. "You really don't need to be so scared – if anything, you should be less afraid. Before you met me, you knew not when or where the curse would strike, and lived in constant fear of it. But I can explain your curse to you, and help you prevent its deadly touch. I know where you can stay to become safe from those who hunt you. Your curse is not longer a mystery – I can reduce it into scientific theories for you, and teach you to protect yourself from it." Henry did not look particularly cheered.

"Was there anything from your home that you wished to have? That you need?" Henry nodded. "Then I shall retrieve them for you on the morrow – you are not to leave this household unless you absolutely must. The weak points have not approached this place for many weeks, and none have ever entered my home." Henry agreed that it seemed to be a good and sound plan. The next few minutes were spent in a mostly one-sided discussion of living arrangements, such as where Henry would lodge for the duration – namely, in the spare room downstairs, which came off from the kitchen – and also what items he needed from his home.

Upon the conclusion of affairs, professor Reinhouer was awakened to the original reason for Henry's visit. "Ah... would you like your demonstration?"

Devalier brightened up a bit. "I believe I would."

Reinhouer nodded and walked to the machine. He fiddled with several knobs and buttons, and the machine began to hum. He bent down and picked a helmet up off the ground. It appeared to be a modified old German war helmet, with a large pair of goggles set into the front. The professor handed the headgear to his companion, who spent several minutes donning the apparatus. When the chinstrap was finally clipped shut and firmly in place, Henry nodded.

"And here we go," murmured the professor. He pulled a large lever with a red rubber cap, and the humming grew louder for several moments. A gasp of astonishment came from Henry, who staggered backwards.

"It's... so strange..."

Siegfried nodded in understanding. "Yes – it's not what one would expect-"

Without warning, the humming ceased abruptly, and the dials and gauges all moved to their resting positions. Reinhouer turned back to his controls and attempted to remedy the problem, but to no avail.

"What happened?" cried out Henry, wrenching the helmet from his head. The student had enough scientific decorum to not throw the visualizing device onto the floor. "Can it be fixed?"

"Calm yourself," said Reinhouer. "This has happened before – or something similar has, at any rate. This will be just a minor setback – I should have the machine up and running in a day or two."

"A day or two could be the difference between life and death!" Henry's voice was becoming agitated again.

The professor nodded solemnly. "I am aware, but there is naught that I can do. The bridges should still be far distant, and they will not move fast enough to arrive here before I have again fixed the machine. Do not trouble yourself." He laid a calming hand upon the young man's shoulder, and with his other took the helmet. "Here, let us descend to the kitchen and I shall brew you a batch of tea." He steered the petrified Henry down the stairs and into the kitchen, seating him down at a small table. The professor put a pot of water on to boil, and sat down next to the trembling man. He laid his hand upon young Devalier's. "It will all be alright. Do not worry." Henry smiled half-heartedly in response, and Reinhouer patted his hand. "I'll tell you what – after the tea is done, I will drive straight to your residence to pick up your things and bring them here. I'll fetch pen and paper."

He did so, and upon his return he had his new charge write upon it that which he needed and wished to have with him, as well as their precise locations within the house. By the time he was done, he was no longer shaking, had calmed down considerably, and the tea was made. Reinhouer departed immediately from his house, taking Henry's keys and car and making the journey across the city to the Devalier residence.

Chapter Four

The Devalier residence was a large affair, four or five storeys tall with a marble front. As professor Siegfried Reinhouer pulled past the wrought-iron gate, drove down the perfectly smooth and lamp-lit driveway, and parked directly in front of the intimidating mahogany front doors, he saw four towers rising up from each corner of the house. He passed several extensive well-groomed gardens on his drive as well, and surmised that there was a regular gardener among the young master's staff.

Using the key Henry had gifted unto him, he unlocked the large doors and slipped inside, carefully shutting them behind him. Fumbling for a light switch in the dark, he soon found one, and the massive foyer burst into brilliant illumination. Reinhouer felt a touch of envy for the life that Monsieur Devalier lived, as well as a touch of pity for what the young man would be giving up. Two staircases ascended to the left and right just inside the entrance, and at the far end of the room were what appeared to be two coat rooms and a locked set of double-doors, likely leading to a private study or wing of some sort. Reinhouer did not waste time in investigating, and instead set right to work, ascending both sets of stairs in turn, gathering the needed materials and collecting them in front of the main doors. His task completed, he set down a note that Henry had written for the servants, giving them instructions detailing what they were to do in his absence of indeterminate length.

Upon finishing his task, Reinhouer began to move the materials out of the house and into Henry's large black sedan. It was a struggle for him to fit everything inside, and when all was done the professor saw that he would not have use of his rearview window for the drive back.

Returning to lock the house doors, Reinhouer hesitated an instant, and then slipped inside again. He walked across the foyer to the large wooden doors set between the two coat rooms, and tried Henry's key there. To his surprise, there was a click and the doors slid smoothly outward. Siegfried walked in and found a light switch. Flicking it on, he saw what appeared to be much more than a private study. In front of him was a large desk, covered in all manner of papers. Upon approaching it, he saw that they were all in various states of decay and age; some were printed on spotless white paper, and others were written on what appeared to be ancient crumbling parchment. With a start, Reinhouer realized that one of the "papers" was in fact written on a material eerily familiar to the professor, and the ink on it was an unusual, but similarly familiar, colour. He visibly paled upon reading the words enscribed upon that disturbing medium, and he forced himself to touch the document and slip it into one of his voluminous coat pockets.

The item safely hidden away, Reinhouer moved quickly towards six doorways at the far end and sides of the room. He peered into each of them, and found in each one two long bookshelves, extending at least five meters back. Upon the bookshelves were, unsurprisingly, books and papers. Reinhouer stepped into the second room and saw that the books on the left were categorized by date, while those on the right were sorted by type of book. The types of books he found there made his skin crawl, and Reinhouer did not advance far down the musty corridor. He quickly checked and saw that the other rooms were all set up in similar manners, and determined that what he had stumbled upon was a private family archive. Perhaps, the professor thought, if he returned here and perused the extensive library, he might find the reason behind the curse, and better be able to help his new tenant.

His thoughts flickered for an instant to the document that he felt weighing down his coat pocket, and he shuddered. He wasted no time in rushing out of the archive room, turning off the lights, and closing the door behind him. He raised the key to the keyhole, but hesitated at the last moment. He set his mouth firmly and pocketed the keys again, without them touching the keyhole. Turning off the lights on his way out, professor Reinhouer hurried back out to his car and locked the great manor-house behind him. As he drove away down the long driveway, the lamps behind him all went dim as the bulbs shattered within them.

Chapter Five

Upon Reinhouer's return to his residence, Henry helped the professor unload his belongings, not questioning the length of time that the professor had spent at his estate. Once everything was moved into the room and set up to young Devalier's liking, the two men had a serious discussion on what should be done to best preserve the soul and body of the cursed man. The professor insisted that the young student stay indoors most of the time, for he claimed that the house was protected well against the prying eyes of those in the Parallax, and it would be safest if he did not move into those avenues through which they can see. After much argument and persuasion, Devalier forced the professor into relenting slightly, but had to still promise to remain out of doors for no longer than ten minutes every six hours.

The professor also moved from one of the rooms upstairs several wooden boards which he claimed had been touched by the Parallax, and would thus help keep Henry protected. He boarded up the young man's windows with these boards, explaining that the entire house had been rebuilt with similarly touched boards. When Henry enquired as to how these unique materials had been acquired, Reinhouer proved surprisingly reluctant, saying little on the matter.

Once the room was suitably protected, the pair set forth rules that they both would abide by, so that they would not grow weary of the other's company. Both of their rooms - Reinhouer's being upstairs opposite the device room - were off-limits to the other body, and both men would have full use of the kitchen and any food stored therein, unless such food was labeled clearly with the signature of the other. Reinhouer also kindly offered to have the television set in the main room repaired and the cushions on the sofa replaced; offers which Henry accepted gratefully, though only after mentioning that many of the books that Reinhouer had brought him would keep him suitably entertained for much of the time.

The next morning, it was planned that they would phone the university and have Reinhouer's leave and Henry's "illness" taken care of, after which the professor would immediately depart to cash his cheque and search for replacement parts. This thus settled, the two of them settled down to sleep. Neither of them slept well.

Chapter Six

Professor Reinhouer was awake at seven o'clock the next morning, and his younger companion was about half an hour later. After a meager breakfast of oatmeal and tea, Henry politely asked if Reinhouer could perhaps go shopping, and get some "real" food. After a moment of indignation, the professor agreed. At eight o'clock, when the grocers opened, Reinhouer drove out to the market and purchased the items on a list of foodstuffs provided by Henry. Upon returning, he and Devalier called Malacky University and arranged their respective excuses of absence. As Henry retired to his room on the pretense of study, Reinhouer set out to acquire the necessary parts, a process that he claimed would take about three hours.

In reality, the process took a mere fraction of that time, which left the professor with two and a half hours with which to peruse the Devalier archives. Upon his arrival at the estate, he realized that the main doors were locked. Cursing himself silently, he wandered around the well-trimmed hedges that grew against the walls of the house, looking for some way in.

After several minutes of searching, the professor found a thick patch of ivy leading up to a second-storey window, which appeared to be open. Reinhouer, after a moment of mental preparation, clambered up onto the hedge and grasped the ivy. Testing its strength, he deemed it strong enough to hold his weight, and slowly and laboriously climbed to the top, praying to the gods that he would not be spotted.

He made it without mishap, and collapsed to the floor of a room that he recognized as one he had visited the previous day. He hurriedly made his way through the house, stealthily so as to not awake any servants who might be about, and let himself into the still-unlocked archive room. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and began his search, looking first for documents from the time that Henry's many-times great-grandfather probably had lived. It took him nearly the rest of his spare time to locate the year, a feat that he only accomplished through knowledge of the name of Devalier's ancestor, that he had previously obtained through casual questioning. Reinhouer noted the section that he needed to return to and hurriedly left the house the way he had come in, arriving back at his home precisely when he had said he would. Henry was still in his room studying, and so Reinhouer immediately travelled up to the device room and began his repair work.

Reinhouer's obsession began to take him over then, and the professor forgot all about his suspicions regarding Devalier's family and the dread document that even now still weighed down his coat pocket.

A significant length of time passed before Henry entered the room, inquiring as to whether or not the professor was hungry. Reinhouer responded in the affirmative, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that young Henry was an able cook, him having prepared a hearty meal of beans and ham.

As the pair ate, they began to talk of mundane things, such as events in the newspaper and other local occurrences. Over the course of a few minutes, the discussion turned to more serious and personally relevant matters. Devalier, as he finished the last of his baked beans, turned his attention to Reinhouer's research, and began to inquire as to how he had set upon that path. What had led him to discover the Parallax?

It was, Reinhouer explained, not his discovery, but rather that of his colleague, professor Sebastian Korig. Korig had from a young age been interested in the physics of the paranormal, and had also been blessed – or cursed – with extra-sensory perception. He claimed to have been able to see ghosts, and could accurately predict occurrences of other similar events. The late professor had, of course, also been gifted with a singular extraordinary intelligence and a burning curiosity, and had by his young adulthood begun investigating the underlying causes behind his self-described "gifted condition." He had had various surgeons work on and examine his body for any peculiar anatomical features or anomalies, and gradually developed a map of his body. He believed firmly that those born with extra-sensory perception had bodies that were physically distinct from those born without.

After comparing his bodily map to the general layout of the normal homo sapiens, he did indeed find some physical differences, mostly in terms of the structure of neurons and nerves controlling the senses. He then began his life's work: the creation of the inter-dimensional visualiser, which would allow the wearer to see the world as he did.

The machine was based around the structure of Korig's own body, with the twisting cables, wires, and pipes mimicking the layout of Korig's nervous system. By this time, the professor was talking animatedly and excitedly, so much that Devalier began to share in the man's enthusiasm. The two left their dishes upon the table and journeyed upstairs, where the older man pointed out how the machine was constructed, explaining how it worked. The machine was partitioned into four sections, each one representing one of the so-called "essential" senses. The auditory partition consisted of two large confused masses of tubes on either side of the machine. They were constructed primarily out of gold, a material which Korig had found particularly receptive to the vibrations of the Parallax. This division allowed for the user to faintly hear the sounds coming from it. Henry commented that he had heard nothing, to which Reinhouer responded that one had to listen very carefully to hear.

Between the auditory partitions, on the left side, was the tactile division. It consisted of a large plate of aluminum, with a complex web of thin gold filaments woven over the back. It was, the professor claimed, a representation of Korig's epidermis and the neural network behind it. Combined with what doctor Korig had learned of acupuncture in the Orient, it allowed he who wore the helmet to experience the physical sensations of the Parallax with more clarity, without being near one of the bridges between the two realities.

On the right side of the central partitions was the olfactory division, responsible for smell. As far as Korig or Reinhouer had been able to tell, this partition had in fact accomplished very little, if anything, as there did not appear to be anything that clearly had a smell in the Parallax. Its appearance was that of a pair of hollow, topless cylinders made from gold piping, embedded periodically with diamonds. The diamonds, in this case, Reinhouer said, were there to channel any scents that might exist.

In the very center of the device was the most important sensory division for humans: the ocular partition. It was, in physical appearance, a golden sphere, with various tubes, coils, cables, and wires coming out of the back end of it, all of which fed into a moderately-sized platinum cube. The front of the ocular device, according to the professor, consisted of a large lens in the form of a smoothed diamond, which in turn blocked off a passage made completely of the same material, which then turned into the thickest of the golden tubes coming out of the eye. The platinum box the wires fed into was, in fact, the central processing unit of the whole apparatus, and each of the partitions fed into one face of the cube – the ocular to the top, the olfactory to the front, the tactile to the bottom, and the auditory to the left and right. The wires emerging from the back of the cube fed straight into the helmet, and sent to it all of the processed sensory information, which used electrical impulses to help the user experience the Parallax more fully.

Devalier, impressed, asked how the device received the signals from the Parallax. The professor promptly launched into an explanation, which focused mainly again on how the wires and such mirrored Korig's neural network, which allowed for the signal flow to function as it did in his body, and that the device had the added effect of being constructed from elements especially conducive to receiving signals from the Parallax. When questioned on how Korig had known to make the device out of said materials, Reinhouer could only shrug and say that he knew naught, for he had only worked with the professor for four years before his untimely death. By that time the machine had almost been completed, it having taken nearly all of Sebastian's life and accumulated funds to do so. He similarly dodged any questions regarding how the pair had discovered that the cause of paranormal phenomena was a separate dimension interacting with our own.

Leaning against the wall, Devalier asked how Korig had died, and Reinhouer's answer was very tight-lipped. A single word was spoken: "Unknown."

Devalier did not pursue this line of questioning any further, and instead broached a new topic, asking why the professor called the sister dimension "the Parallax."

"Ah, but you see, it is simple. Do you know what parallax means, in the colloquial sense?"

"It refers to the apparent distance one object is displaced when viewed from two separate viewpoints, yes?"

"That works, yes. Korig and I made a discovery about this alternate dimension in the last two years of his life: one can sometimes catch glimpses into it by viewing the parallax of our vision."

The young man blinked. "How does one view an abstract object?"

Reinhouer chuckled. "The same way one would view a physical one: with one's eyes." Henry begged for an explanation, and the professor supplied him with one. By rapidly changing the eye one viewed the world through, the illusion of one object being in two places at once could be created, and the distance between them made visible. Reinhouer, long practiced at this, could do so merely by winking each eye rapidly in alternation, while the inexperienced Henry was forced to cover and uncover each eye in rapid motions mimicking Reinhouer's eyelids. Occasionally, Reinhouer explained, one could catch a glimpse of objects in the Parallax by doing this and focusing on the area centrally in one's altered field of vision. Of course, it helped greatly when one was at a bridge, but it was not at all necessary.

Upon the completion of their conversation, Henry asked about the repairs, and the professor responded that they were going very well, and that the device should be back up by the next evening. Well pleased, Henry then asked if it was possible for the professor to, in the morning, go forth and have the television put in the shop, and if he would be so kind as to replace the moth-eaten cushions on the sofa. Reinhouer responded in the affirmative on both counts, and went back to work as Henry descended to his room to continue his studies.

Chapter Seven

Early the next morning, the instant the repairshops were opened, Siegfried Reinhouer drove from his home to the nearest shop, The People's Electronic Engineer. His business there was taken care of and his television set dropped off by the time the clock had reached nine and thirty. As the aging professor drove across town, he stopped by the used furniture lot and picked up several good cushions, as well as a rather nice plush armchair that he rather fancied. Young Darien had still been deep in the depths of slumber when Reinhouer had departed, and the professor suspected he would remain asleep for much longer; a common effect of sleeping aids slipped unknowingly into one's evening tea.

Reinhouer estimated that he had another four hours before young Devalier would awaken in the afternoon, groggy and disoriented, and the professor wanted some answers before then. He drove quickly in the direction of the Devalier estate, speeding by his own residence in the process. He arrived there in record time, but rapidly slowed when he saw a car parked at the door. A servant was currently indoors, the professor surmised, and so it would be best for him to enter the house stealthily. Parking his car out on the street, Reinhouer made his way to the house as quickly as he could, hiding amongst the trees and bushes lining the driveway. He soon arrived at the ivy he had climbed the previous day, and hurriedly scrambled up the side of the house, praying that the room would be empty upon his arrival.

His prayers were answered, for no one inhabited the room when he rolled through the still-open window. Listening intently for the sound of any footsteps, Reinhouer darted from room to room, and finally sprinted across the foyer and into the archive. Locking the door behind him, the professor immediately began his search again, starting at the date that he knew contained records pertaining to the originator of the curse.

It took him a mere fifteen or so minutes to find what he was looking for, hidden under a false shelf in the second room, beneath a row of books dedicated to the more mundane aspects of the life of Charles Henry Devalier, the ancestor of the young Henry Devalier who had brought the curse down upon the family.

In the secret compartment were a series of ancient and yellowed sheets of parchment, many of which crumbled at his touch. The professor carefully moved the antiques to the reading desk in the central room, and laid out his discoveries before him. He began to skim through them, searching for anything that might reveal some hint as to what Charles Devalier had done so long ago to draw the wrath and ire of the beings from the Parallax.

The documents were a log or diary of sorts, written by Charles himself. Reinhouer discovered the object of his search on the third page: a mention of Gorey's Hollow, the spot young Henry had said his ancestor had probably picked up the curse.

I have returned from my third meeting with the Daemon of Gorey's Hollow on this day, and now he wisheth for myself to obtain for him the seconde ingredient for his elixir of lyfe eternal, a certain brush by the name of locust's teeth. I shall obtaine for him said brush, and am to present it to him in the normal fashion upon the eve of the next waxing crescent. One wonders only how many more ingredients he shall aske of me afore he has all that which he doth needeth for the elixir of lyfe eternal. So far he has obtainedeth from me the moonrot root and soon the brush of locust's teeth. He also requests from me, in returne for his services unto me for the elixir, now a boon of his own: not less than five pounds of golde, which he says is necessary for his return into this world. As per our original bargaine, I am to rule at his side once he arises to take the throne of ye Worlde from the incapable handes of Man, but now he hath made clear details of the position I am to holde in what one hopes will be the neare Future. He did telleth me shortly afore he walked distant that I was to sit as his Grand Vizier, the Eternale Human, and would therefore rule the continents of Orient, Afryka, and Azerya. I tremble with anticipation to think of the day when he shall descend down from his prison and take what is rightfully his owne, and grant unto me that which he has promised, namely the position that I seeke as his Grand Vizier, and the elixir that shall grant me lyfe eternal, so that I may forever sit at his side.

The document then moved onto more mundane matters, such as the harvest and his hatred of Corgley the smith, without so much as a pause. Reinhouer leafed his way through two more pages of trivial ramblings until he found another relevant passage:

The blacksmith whom I despiseth so, the man who calls himself by the name of Corgley, hath finally been taken from this life and into another, far more foul. I asked ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow scarce a fortnight ago, at the waxing crescent, when he is most strongest, if he could be taken from this place and cast into the Daemon's own prison, so that he would trouble me no longer. Ye mighty and powerful Daemon acquiesced most graciously to my request after I did explaineth to him that the smith was preventing my acquisition of the golde he did requesteth, as well as the seed of the black moonshade. Ye Daemon did accepte my lies as truths, and has now done away with my hated foe. It seemes to be as if I am indeed his sole source of information regarding the worlde that he hath loste, ande that I can therefore manipulate him as I so choose. I must be careful, as he is no fool, and it would be disastrous for if he was to find what I hath done to him. But I digresseth, for it was the manner of Corgley's death which did draw suche greate attention from ye populace, for he was walking as normale down the center streete, when suddenly a gashe of large proportiones did appear upon his neck and arms, and he did vanish in a fountain of bloode, from which his bodie could not be founde. The terrible power of ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow has become apparent, and it seems as if his power doth extend beyond the Hollow itselfe.

Reinhouer flipped ahead three more pages, to the next entry:

Three more have met their endes at my request at the handes of ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow. The fisherman Otto, who did solde me rotted fish, fell off from his vessel into the frigidde waters of Thatcher's Layke, and then was set ablaze by some terrible force, and he did burneth to his doom beneath the surface of the Layke. Young Miss Sallington, she whose son did taketh from me several gold coines which I doth needeth, also has perished, and hers was moste mysterious, for she did vanish into the thin air before the eyes of half of the townshyppe. The thirde victim of the Daemon was none other than the miller's daughter Dianne of the rosy cheeks, who once again did refuse my proper advances. She was strucketh in the temple by a falling star, whose metal none can identify. I was given the responsibility of identifying the substance, but doth knoweth that it comes not from this world, but from the worlde of ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow.

A sense of growing horror began to fill the professor's mind as he read on, skipping only one more page forward.

Ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow did telleth me that his power waxed full as the crescent of the lunar moon did waxeth, but as of yet I have seen not this power, but am more than impressed with that which he has demonstrated at other times of ye Monthe. Two have fallen to him this time, the son of the late Miss Sallington, who did suffocate of no cause in the center street, and the butcher Samwise, who did choose to take a day offe frome his worke and fishe out on ye Layke of Thatcher's, where he did perish by freezing to death on this warm day. Ye Daemon nowe doth begin to worry even me, for I did not request for ye butcher Samwise to meet his ende, for he always was good to me. I fear that ye Daemon is growing now more powerful, and I feele now a sense of dread of the day when he comes to his full realization that I did not feele before. I fear now that he doth not need me, and will turn back on the bargaine we had made. I am now the weaker, I am afraide to admit, and thus must still keep to my side of our deale. He hath toldeth me that it wille not be much longer before he will be able to brew my potion of lyfe eternal.

Only a few paragraphs later, Siegfried read still more:

A massacre did occur today, under the influence of the waxing crescent, and nigh on halfe of the population did pass forth unto their next lives. I did notice afore that the Daemon only took victims in certain particular areas, but todaye he did venture forth from those areas whiche he was accustomed to, and wandered the towne entire, slaying all in strange and indescribable fashions. Ye Mayore, Johnathan of Browsley, did declareth in the aftermathe that the Lorde had judged us badly, and that we need repent. Ye preacher, who also did survive ye slaughtere, did agree, and declared that the Lord demanded a sacrifice, as our current behaviore merited a return to the lord of flame and brimstone. A meeting was helde, and a sacrifice selected by the priest, who claimed that the Lord spoke through him then. The young Ethan Gregory was thus slain that instant, and his mother's piteous wails did almost cause my heart to quaketh. I had not asked ye Daemon for this slaughter, and he had become more reluctant to slay those whom I said needed to be removede. The priest ordered that all memories and written records of this incident be blotted out, and he shall soon searche ye houses of all citizens. This will be my last document regarding ye Daemon for a time of great length, as I must now cleverly conceal ye parchment.

As Charles had said, that was the last entry regarding the "Daemon of Gorey's Hollow". Reinhouer sat there silently for a moment, processing all that he had learned. His hand shakily travelled down to his pocket, and he drew forth the blasphemous document that he had taken with him, and read over its contents once again. The bargain had been made, and had two signatures upon it.

Siegfried stood and replaced the documents, and then proceeded to rapidly search the area for any documents pertaining to Charles Henry Devalier. He found birth certificates for five children, all born well after the incidents described in the hidden documents. Shortly after these certificates, he found certificates of death for the eldest and youngest two, leaving only one to carry on the bloodline. All had died of mysterious causes, like those described by young Henry – strange occurrences caused by an intervention from the Parallax.

There was no doubt in Reinhouer's mind that the Daemon of Gorey's Hollow was a being from the Parallax; it was just Charles Henry's primitive ways and superstitious mind that had cast the being as a daemon. Charles' mention of it taking victims only in particular places and of its only appearing in Gorey's Hollow indicated that the being primarily acted through the bridges between realities: the weak points that Reinhouer had studied so extensively.

Another portion of the ancient man's tale disturbed the professor greatly; the being's power apparently reached its peak during the waxing crescent, something which Reinhouer had not observed during his extensive studies of the Parallax. If what Charles had said was true, and the "daemon" was representative of the inhabitants of the Parallax, then beings from the Parallax would have influence everywhere, or at least over a much wider area, than was normal. The professor prayed to whatever gods were out there that this was not so, and he continued his perusal of the archives.

He spent his time then confirming the existence of the curse, going through birth and death records, and he saw that what young Henry Devalier had said was true: a curse of strange and unexpected deaths did indeed plague his family, starting with Charles Henry Devalier, and carrying right on through Charles' father. A chill went down Reinhouer's spine as he read the name Jonathan Lance Devalier, Henry's father, and the two names that came immediately after: Emmeline Bertha Devalier, Jonathan's sister, and Daniel Forthwryghte Devalier, Jonathan's grandfather. Their deaths were dated in the current year, scarcely three weeks past, just as Henry had said.

It had become clear that Henry had been hiding things from the professor; there was no way that it could be that the young Devalier had failed to enter this room. Indeed, none other than him could have entered the death certificates of his recently deceased relatives, and returning to the central desk, Reinhouer made out several documents in Henry's hand. Upon inspection, they revealed that Henry had been dabbling in the mystic arts. That would explain why so many of the titles he had requested Reinhouer retrieve had seemed rather strange. Yet Reinhouer wondered why the young man had not sought to ask for any of the books contained herein, inside this chamber. Perhaps it was out of fear that Reinhouer would discover the chamber, and the secrets that he had kept from his protector.

Reinhouer shook his head in disgust at the pages of archaic magical formulae that had been written in Henry's own hand, and then happened to check the time. With a start, he realized that he had been in the archives room for more than four and a half hours, and was overdue to return. He hurriedly packed the documents away and checked again that the terrible item was in his coat pocket. Then he ran out of the room and out of the house, scrambling down the ivy and rushing back to his car. He may have been spotted by a servant out in the gardens, but did not care in the least as he leapt into his vehicle, started it, and sped off in the direction of his home.

Chapter Eight

As the professor had expected, Henry Devalier was awake when he returned home, and was none too happy. Reinhouer was beset the instant he stepped inside the door. "You slipped something in my drink last night! What were you trying to accomplish?" The professor waited until after he shut and locked the door before turning to face the furious young man.

"I wanted to find something for myself before coming here, and did not want you to wake before I returned."

"And what, pray tell, was it that you were researching?"

Reinhouer smiled coldly in response. "Your family history. You have some explaining to do, young man."

"I told you all that I know about my family history, professor." Henry spat the last word.

"Do not lie to me, Henry." Reinhouer walked forward, only to find the way blocked by Devalier, who now looked lost and confused, as well as angry.

The professor pushed Henry forward, surprising the young man with his considerable strength. Devalier fell upon the floor, and Siegfried put his boot upon the younger man's chest. As Henry struggled to get up, the professor put pressure on Henry, who was forced to surrender his efforts, gasping for breath. Reinhouer removed the boot. "I do not believe you so far gone as to be irredeemable – but you owe me an explanation." He offered his hand to the downed and shaken young man, who hesitantly accepted it and got to his feet. The professor escorted Henry to the sofa, where he sat him down upon one of the few remaining cushions. Reinhouer remained standing, asserting his superiority over Henry, and making sure that the young man knew who was in charge.

"There is a room in your house, Henry R. Devalier, that I know you have entered – on the far side of your foyer, hidden behind two large mahogany doors." Siegfried obtained a small amount of satisfaction from watching the man's face pale. The professor waited a second longer for the anger to come.

And it did, indeed, come. "What were you doing sneaking around my house? What gave you the right? I trusted you!"

"And I did not trust you," Reinhouer responded softly. "You came to me completely out of the blue, Henry Devalier. I had never heard your name before, and an instant after you introduced yourself you were offering me one and a half million dollars – a gesture which I do appreciate much still. And then you were in my house. I am a cautious man, Devalier, and you did gain more trust from me than I would normally give, as you seemed a respectable man of standing. But I cannot act on first impressions alone, and when I saw those doors, a terrible curiosity compelled me to open them. I recognized your handwriting upon the central desk, copying down mystical formulae. Did you believe that magic would save you?"

"It very well might," said Henry indignantly. "I need to keep all of my avenues open!"

"Then it would have been better for you to take some of the titles from the archival room instead of those silly bits of nonsense you requested from me. But, it seems, you did not trust me enough to reveal to me what was in that room." Reinhouer smiled cynically down at Henry. "Perhaps you should look into getting a separate key for that room – one that is not the same as that of the front door." Henry glowered at the professor.

"But it is the results of my investigation that you have to explain." Reinhouer leaned forward, staring intently at the young man before him. "Did you know what Charles Henry Devalier was?"

"He was a simple farmer, like most of the men in the village in which he lived," responded Henry instantly.

"What," Reinhouer enunciated carefully, "did I tell you about lying to me?"

Henry's face displayed such a unique mix of emotions; fear, anger, paranoia, sadness, regret, and... relief. "He was an alchemist. A very well-regarded one, and a man high in standing in the village from which he came."

Reinhouer nodded and relented slightly, giving the man more space. "That is much better. Do you know what he did?" Henry began to shake his head, but stopped himself and instead nodded shortly. "And how much do you know of what he did?"

Devalier took a breath. "He worked primarily as a healer in his village, creating medicines and healing draughts, though he also created weaponry for the citizenry to use – muskets, gunpowder, and other explosive devices... things as would help them keep the Indians out and away. He carried out his own research as well, which you might have found when you went rifling through my family's private documents." There was only a hint of accusation in the young man's voice now.

"But you are not, I think, referring to that. As I am sure you have discovered, he made some kind of deal with a Daemon, which after talking to you, I suspect was in truth a being from the Parallax." Reinhouer nodded, and Henry continued. "It seems as if there was a one of these 'bridges' at Gorey's Hollow – one of the places that you speak about where 'supernatural' events occur – and he saw there his 'Daemon.' Some sort of conversation must have ensued – though how the thing knew English is beyond me – and he made a deal with the thing. It was written down and signed on a piece of material that closely resembles-"

"Human flesh," Reinhouer continued quietly, and drew forth from his pocket the document that he had carried for the past two days. He dropped it onto Henry's lap, and the young man recoiled from it. "And written in human blood. I take it you found this document yourself, hidden in the archive?"

Henry nodded, eyeing the thing fearfully. "It was in a concealed drawer under the desk. In my great-grandfather's last written statement, he sent me a message in a family code, telling me to look there for the source of our curse. I found it, though how this deal was the source of our curse I do not understand..."

"I think I do well enough," Reinhouer said softly. "Answer me honestly, young Devalier; did you ever search the rest of the archives for hidden documents?"

Henry shook his head slowly. "I did not think to... shall I take it that you then did?"

"That I did. And I found, hidden under a false shelf containing a secret compartment, a series of logs written by your ancestor, Charles Henry Devalier." Henry's eyes widened, and he immediately enquired as to their contents.

"It was incomplete, and I fear that pages were missing, but what I read was enough for me. The man did not die the die after visiting the Daemon; that part of your inherited family knowledge is false. He lived for much longer after his first meeting with it, using the being from the Parallax to his own selfish ends. He would give the being targets - people he disliked or were being troublesome - and when said target ventured too near a bridge between our worlds, Charles' daemon would take their life." Henry grew even more pale.

Reinhouer continued speaking, though now set off in a different direction. "I am sure that you learned the basic nature of the bargain from the document: Charles was to obtain an elixir of eternal life from the being, provided he supplied said being with the materials himself, and gifted him with several other things, primarily gold, diamonds, and platinum."

Devalier's face became ashen. "Diamonds and gold... but that means..."

Reinhouer finished the young man's sentence. "That your great ancestor provided the being from the Parallax with the materials necessary to influence our dimension. Gold and diamonds are, in addition to being rather valuable items of luxury, the two materials in the world, in addition to platinum, which have the greatest resonance in both realities; they are the items most attuned to the vibrations and stimuli from the Parallax, as I explained before. They also are best able to provide the beings from the Parallax with the power to step more freely into our reality, and do what they will."

"My god..." Henry sank back into the sofa, no longer heeding the cursed document in front of him.

"If there is one, we will need all of his help."

"Why is that?"

"Two reasons, the first being related to an event detailed in the last pages of your ancestor's log. There was a time when the being was able to massacre almost half of the town's populace, and roamed free wreaking havoc, unbound by the location of the bridges."

Henry sat up straight, causing the document on his lap to fall to the floor. "What?" he asked, pure panic in his eyes.

"There is," Reinhouer continued, "another material which resonates greatly in the Parallax, though not here. Human blood." Henry was staring now at Reinhouer, paying him the utmost attention. "If what was described truly happened, then the being obtained a large quantity of human blood that day, and with that blood, may have become strong enough to break through the walls between our dimensions at any time.

"The second reason is that in three days time the waxing crescent will be upon us."

Chapter Nine

"The waxing crescent? Of the lunar cycle?" Henry now sounded as confused he was worried. "Do not most supernatural things happen upon the full moon?"

"Only in storybooks and songs. The massacre that I mentioned earlier took place during that point during the lunar cycle, which leads me to believe that some phenomenon occurs during the waxing crescent that I have not previously observed. If what happened those ages ago is typical, then during the lunar crescent, the beings of the Parallax experience a surge in power, and perhaps the bridges expand or extend all over – though the latter is unlikely, as if it was true, then humanity would long past have ceased to be. But nevertheless, if they are to strike a final blow against you, it will be then."

Henry leaned back. "But what can we do?"

Reinhouer stepped forward and placed a hand on Devalier's shoulder. "Not panic. We can pull through this. The first thing that needs to be done is repair of the device – it is absolutely essential for our continued existence that I complete that today. In fact, let us continue our discussion up there. And if you wish, you may step outside for a few minutes and bring in the cushions and armchair I purchased." Devalier, not surprisingly, fearfully declined the professor's offer, and they both walked up the staircase and into the room containing the apparatus. Reinhouer immediately set to work, but Henry remained silent for several minutes.

When at length he did speak, it was with a question. "Professor?" Reinhouer looked up from his work. "I think you've been hiding things from me, as well. You have not shared all that you know about the Parallax, I can tell, and you are very definitely not being truthful with regards to what happened to Sebastian Korig. What really happened when he died?"

Reinhouer sighed deeply and continued working. After a pause of several moments, he spoke, softly. "He died of unknown causes, like I said – that I did not lie about. He was attempting to do something neither of us had attempted ever before."

"And what was that?" asked Henry.

"Entering the Parallax. This machine has other capabilities beyond that which I have told you of. One of the first things Sebastian did with it upon its completion, scarcely a year before I joined him, was attach a small device to the bottom of the apparatus." Siegfried reached beneath the apparatus and pulled forth what looked like a gold and platinum knife embedded with spherical diamonds. Wires flowed from the bottom of the hilt to somewhere within the device. "This blade, when turned on, has the ability to slice a temporary hole in the walls between us and the Parallax. It lasts only for a few seconds. One can then step through the hole into the Parallax itself, but they cannot bring the blade with them, and so must have a companion to slice the air on the opposite side periodically, to give the explorer a chance to return to our reality.

"The night that he died, we tried it for the first time – before we had been too scared to attempt it. Spurred on by alcohol and friendly competition, Sebastian decided to attempt it, and rather than dissuade him like I should have, I agreed to be his companion in the process.

"At first, it seemed to work just as we had planned – the air opened up, and revealed to our own very eyes the images we had before seen through the device. Korig gave me a confident smile and stepped through the crack in the air, and it closed behind him a second later. Then I had nothing to do but wait... after half a minute or so, I realized that I could don the device itself and watch the Parallax with my own eyes, and therefore be ready when Korig returned.

"And he did return eventually... I don't know how far he wandered off, but when I put the helmet on, I found that I could not see him anywhere in my field of vision. I was still confident in Korig's abilities to return on his own, and so was not overly worried. I should have been.

"It was getting to be nigh on an hour before he stumbled back into my field of view. You saw how the Parallax looks around here – it's a vast open plain, with miles and miles of grey dust everywhere. So when I saw him clearly, you can imagine how far away he could have been. He was walking oddly, too, like he was hurt in the leg... I tried to run over to him, but my physical body was still in our world, and in the Parallax, my physical location was slightly above the ground. As I ran forward, still under the influence off what I had consumed earlier, I found myself hitting an obstacle I could not see with the helmet on: the wall of the house. It hit me pretty hard, even through the helmet, and I collapsed to the ground. I found then that the cords were strangling me, and I began to choke. Then I passed out, and I'm still not entirely sure how the cords and I became disentangled. I woke up an hour and a half later, and it took me a few moments to realize what had happened." Reinhouer looked thoroughly distraught and had stopped his work, choosing to instead sit idly on the floor, staring out into space with a sad look in his eyes.

After a few moments, he continued. "The helmet had fallen off when I hit the wall, so I put it back on, and saw Korig lying on the ground before me. Thank god my location in this dimension was only a foot or so above the ground of the Parallax, otherwise I might not have been able to get him..." After a brief pause, he continued. "As it was, after a few tries, I was able to drag Korig through the hole before it closed up again, after cutting open much of the floor of this room."

Siegfried took a deep breath. "He was dead by that time... his left leg was cut, but not badly. He had, from what I could see, no signs of any fatal injury. It looked like he had just died.

"The coroner found nothing wrong with him; the cut on his leg was not infected, he hadn't died of thirst or hunger, or a heart attack, there was no expression of fright, there wasn't anything... he was just dead."

There was silence between the two of them for several minutes before Reinhouer got back to work. "But that's the past, and it's hardly relevant now."

"Hardly relevant?" Henry's voice was low and shaking slightly. "Why didn't you mention this before? We could have used the blade! We could have stepped into the Parallax and hunted down the monster cursing my family!"

Reinhouer stared up at Devalier as if he was mad. "Listen to yourself – do you even understand what you are saying?"

"I understand perfectly well, old man – all this time we've had the chance to bring the fight to the daemons of the Parallax, and you've kept it hidden from me! What possessed you to ever do that?"

"The spirit of wisdom, child!" The professor stood angrily. "Think about what you're suggesting! We would be fighting these beings, who have shown themselves to be significantly more powerful than us humans, on their own territory, where they have a clear advantage! Tell me, how much do you know of the Parallax? Could you make use of its terrain to help you combat these beings? And with what weapons? I certainly have nothing of use in this house!"

"We would both go – we can rig something up, maybe with this magic wood you claim to have built this house from, and we'll use your knowledge and my strength to beat whatever it is that's hunting me!"

"You're letting stress speak for you," Reinhouer stated calmly. "Take a few deep breaths and think over what you've said; it is madness. Were you listening to me? Only one of us could go, so we would have to choose between my knowledge and your strength – and my knowledge is not so vast as you think it to be. Besides, do you have any idea as to what this daemon of Gorey's Hollow even looks like?"

Henry opened his mouth to speak, but wisely shut it before another sound came out. He shook his head slowly, mute. The professor walked forward and hesitantly placed an arm upon the young man's shoulder. "I know how stressful this must be," he said kindly, his voice gentle and free of wrath. "That is why I did not reveal the existence of the blade to you before – I feared that it would cause you to think troubled thoughts like those that just passed through your head. You are young, Henry Devalier, and full of intelligence – but not yet of wisdom. You have been put in a very bad situation, and though I admit that there could be a better savior, I am currently the best you have."

His change of mood now complete, Henry nodded glumly, shame filling his features. "I'm sorry, professor..."

"No need for apologies." Reinhouer smiled grimly. "No time, either. We have three days to prepare for the coming of the waxing crescent. The most important thing for us to do is obtain knowledge – knowledge, in the right hands, is more powerful than any blade or cannon. May I suggest, with your permission this time, that we inspect your family archives once again?"

Henry nodded again, then paused, cocking his head. "We? It is a bad thing for me to exit the house for too long, remember?"

Reinhouer shook his head slowly. "That was before we had knowledge of the waxing crescent. Now, we both need to work together as quickly as possible if we are to have the necessary time to prepare." An unspoken, silent thought hung between the two of them: If anything can be done at all.

"Let us depart immediately, then," suggested Henry. Reinhouer shook his head a second time. "Let me finish repairing the device first – it should take me not much longer. Meanwhile, why don't you get the furniture out of the car? You won't fit if it stays there." Henry nodded and rushed down the stairs, while the professor sat back down and continued his work on the device.

Chapter Ten

This time around, the professor did not need to sneak in through the window. The rightful owner of the estate exited through the passenger-side door of the car and unlocked the great front entrance. Reinhouer hurried in after him, noticing that no servants seemed to be about.

The pair walked across the foyer and through the twin doors leading to the archives room, Devalier refraining from commenting on the unlocked door.

Immediately upon entering, Siegfried showed Henry where he had found Charles' papers, and gave the young man some time to read them, while the professor himself searched for more hidden chambers. He found none before Henry had finished reading, and had come to where the professor was standing, his face now near-white. Reinhouer suggested that the youth search the other rooms for any hidden compartments, and he obeyed without a word.

Several hours passed, neither of them even thinking about resting or of nourishment, until they had both finished, having found nothing. They returned to the central room at about the same time, sadly reporting their failure to find anything. Reinhouer asked then if any of the magical formulae Henry had been studying showed any promise, and the young man shook his head no, confirming the professor's suspicion that it was all a load of nonsense.

Having failed, the pair prepared to exit when a thought suddenly struck the professor. Without saying anything to his companion, he turned back and rushed back into the second room branching off of the study. Curious and mystified, Henry followed as Reinhouer began rapidly shuffling through the ancient documents. "What are you doing?" Devalier sounded worried.

"The best place to hide anything... is in plain sight, my friend." The rapid shuffling of centuries-old parchment made it difficult for young Henry to hear the older man. "He hid those documents in a secret compartment, perhaps then hoping that if they were found that no one would search for any more among the ordinary documents. But he still needed to keep them organized so that he himself could find... aha!" A gleam entered Reinhouer's eye as he pulled forth a sheet of parchment of the same make as the other hidden documents. A rather unnerving smile broke out on his face as he scanned the page, causing Devalier to take a step back. "I've found it, Henry – one last entry!" He began to read aloud what was written on the parchment.

I have done the deed. My other logs referring to my unholie deales with ye Daemon of Gorey's Hollow were safely hidden and remained unfounde, but I fear another purge may come if ye Daemon has many friends, so I dare not hide this entrie with the others. It shall remain here for those whom may come aftere me, so that they may too defeat the Daemon if they should encounter another, though I pray to the Lord whom I have forsaken that they do not. May the Lord in heaven bless those who come after me, and may they not share in my sins and curse, for I have nowe seen the lighte before me, though I know now that for me there is no hope. I pass this secret now unto my ancestors, so that they may holde the key to victorie. The Daemon had become out of controle after the massacre, and the whole towne now lies under its curse – a curse which I have broughte upon them. It doth feed upon the life-force of those humans that it slays, and with each deathe has become more powerful. I feare that perhaps my time doth run loweth. A powder I made, with three-fourthe of the ingredients being a strange mixture of powdered gold and diamond, pure and free of any earthly filthe. The remaining fourthe was equal parts charcoal, black powder, ground wyrdroot, powdered cinnamon, and the ground leaf of the sycamore. Take ye ingredients and mix them precisely so that ye said ingredients are mixed evenly throughout. If this procedure is done properly, it shoulde glow a dark pulsing red, and give off a feele of both hot and chille. Take then ye mixture and pour an equal volume of water mixed with half as much needles of ye evergreene, and take then a cane of sugar and extract all that you may frome it and stir it all in together, making sure not to miss one droppe or graine. Once it has been done, waste ye no time in chanting the words I have scribed below three times over the powder.

Vorkari iette tekkilo iaten potenti affus faliel horvanus est tore mananum.

Once completed, the powder will shine with ye colour indescribable, that which I can put not to words but which thou shalt know when it appears before thee. Take then ye powder and holde it before the lighte of the brilliant moone – the waning crescent is the time that is beste for this, but any time should do as welle. Upon this, then ye powder is done. When thrown upon the Daemon, it shall cause said being to crumble and decay at a rate moste fearful, and it shall then vanish into the depths of eternity, never to return. I have thus banished the Daemon of Gorey's Hollow, having thrown upon it ye powder that I hath designed, and watching it disintegrate to nothing before mine own visione. The curse shall hopefully now cease to persiste upon this humble village, and all memory of my blackest sin shall be erased from the earthe, so that I may die in a semblance of respect, if not in honor to myself. I am sure that his daemonic companions will come for me shortly. The beste of lucke to those who may follow after me.

Reinhouer raised his head. "When was it that Charles Henry Devalier met his end?" Henry repeated to him the date, and the professor carefully pocketed the paper. "This entry... it is dated the day before. The visit to Gorey's Hollow that your family history told of must have been his last, when he slew the being that dwelt there.

"But the curse didn't end, and assuming that your ancestor was correct in the idea that he did defeat and slay the being, that means that there is another force at work here – another being from the Parallax, probably seeking revenge upon your great ancestor for slaying its companion. Perhaps it is the thing's mate that haunts you so." The professor stroked his beard thoughtfully. "But how does it know who descended from Charles? Perhaps their tools of vision are more sophisticated than ours, and they can see things that we cannot, their vision unbiased by living in our dimension... or..." the older man visibly paled. "Perhaps they can naturally see into our dimension, which is how they are capable of wreaking such havoc, and of knowing so much. Yes... the more I think about, the more likely this seems."

He turned to face the terrified Henry. "The first thing we must do is prepare as much of this powder as we can – I wish that old Charles had mentioned how much of the powder was needed to dispel one of these beings." The professor chewed his lip and pulled out the parchment again, noting with alarm its rapid state of decay. "First, I think, we should copy down the recipe – word for word – onto a separate, more durable sheet of paper. Can you acquire some?" Henry nodded and rushed out of the room, returning a minute later. Reinhouer laid down the paper and Henry began to write. "Second, I think we need to purchase a large cauldron – or perhaps several – so that we may mix large quantities of the powder that we need." He peered over the young man's shoulder. " I know most of these ingredients, and can acquire them all... all save wyrdroot. I have never heard of the stuff."

Henry looked up from his writing. "It's a drug – common among students at the university."

The professor looked down at his companion eagerly. "Can you then acquire some? As much as possible?"

Henry nodded. "Not without throwing my reputation all to hell – not to mention my excuse of debilitating illness." He smiled crookedly, and spoke the words that Reinhouer was thinking before he could speak. "But my reputation doesn't mean a thing if I'm dead." The professor nodded approvingly as Devalier finished copying it all down. "I'll get started right away then."

Reinhouer thought a moment. "No... first, we return back to my home. You'll need your car anyway... but before you leave again, let me supply you with a map of the bridges. No sense in losing you before the battle has even begun." Henry smiled almost warmly at the professor, who smiled back. Without another word, the two of them departed the Devalier estate, the professor pocketing the older copy of the recipe, while Henry carried the newer one in his hands.

Chapter Eleven

Immediately upon their return home, the two of them rushed up the stairs and into the device room. Siegfried donned the device first after powering it up, then asked for paper and pen. Henry quickly acquired these for him, and the professor began to sketch madly. After half an hour, he finished and handed the finished map to Henry. "The circles with x's in their centers indicate the general location of a bridge, and the arrows indicate probable direction – three lines is the most likely route, and no lines is the least likely of the paths it may take." Henry nodded, impressed at the man's quick hand; the map was easily recognizable as the local area, as far as the eye could see, and Reinhouer's eye was very good, as far as he could tell. Five bridges were drawn on the paper, and Reinhouer explained each of them.

"These two here," he pointed, "you likely do not need to worry about, as the western one is miles high in the sky, and the eastern is far beneath the earth. The central bridge is, by my estimations, the most dangerous, as it has been here the longest, and is also the largest. It is right on ground level, and about thirty feet high and wide. The northerly one – which is farther north than I believe you will need to go – is fairly small, ten feet wide by fifteen tall at my last estimate. The fifth one..." Reinhouer swallowed. "I have never seen before, and on the horizon it appeared as if two or three more were approaching town, and quickly. For today you should be safe, but I believe a new map will be in order tomorrow. I have never seen the bridges move so rapidly, nor with such purpose. I fear that perhaps the beings have some measure of control over said bridges..." The professor's face clouded for an instant, as if lost in thought. "If they can control the bridges, then perhaps we can exert our will over them as well..." He mused a moment longer, then shook his head. "I will work on that once what is before us is complete. Go now – I will acquire the gold and diamonds, then following that everything else save the wyrdroot and sycamore. The university campus has many sycamore trees – take a bag and collect as many leaves as you can." Reinhouer hesitated. "Is this.... wyrdroot... illegal?"

Henry smiled wickedly, and Reinhouer was glad for the display of an emotion other than terror from the boy. "Very much so; it's a terrible hallucinogen. Expensive, too. This powder won't be cheap." The mirth vanished from his face. "If it works..."

Reinhouer slapped the boy's back. "No time for doubts, Henry – we have nothing else to go on." He nodded and started to walk out. "Don't get caught," he called at the boy's retreating back. "That would put a rather large dent in our plans." Henry called something back, and then was out of the house.

Reinhouer waited until the boy had driven off in his vehicle before setting down the stairs himself. He entered the kitchen and dining room, moved the dining room table to the side and rolled back the carpet, revealing a trapdoor. He unlocked it with a large key hanging around his neck, completely covered by his shirt, and lifted up the door. A ladder disappeared into the depths, and he quickly descended. Moments later, he was back in the dining room, with him a large bag. He descended several more times and came up again as many. Once he had brought forth thirty or so bags, he closed and hid the door again. "I'm sorry, Sebastian... but it's for a good cause," the man muttered as he opened the first bag and dumped its contents onto the table. Countless trinkets of gold and diamond, among other things, poured forth onto the wooden platform, and Reinhouer set to work, carefully removing all that was not gold from each antique, and throwing out all but the diamonds. He worked for two hours like this, rapidly going through each bag with hammer, screwdriver, and knife, until before him he had a colossal pile of pure, untarnished and flawlessly pure gold, and beside it a smaller pile of similar-quality diamond. He then proceeded to grind the gold up with a special tool he had for doing so, and then did the same to the diamonds, until both piles were mounds of dust.

This completed, Reinhouer then filled his bathtub completely with water, and following that set out in his car, first picking up as much powdered cinnamon as the market had in stock, earning him many curious looks, and then he headed off to the gunsmith and antique stores, getting as much black powder as he possibly could. When he realized that he had not nearly enough to make the proper amount of powder, he separately purchased the ingredients of powder – primarily saltpetre – from various pharmacists and chemists, and upon his return to his abode and after the purchase of three large cauldrons, he made the single largest batch of black powder that had ever been made in a private residence.

Henry had not returned by the time Reinhouer finished the powder, and he began to become worried that perhaps the young man had strayed into one of the bridges. He slowly made his way up to the device room and slid the helmet over his eyes, then powered it up.

His vision was then filled with the Parallax, its terrible colour shadowing everything with its terrible unearthliness. The shadows are long in the Parallax, and the light dark, for the twin suns that rule there are of a strange make that no astronomer of this world would be able to recognize or classify.

The vast plain before Reinhouer held from him no secrets, for he had gazed upon it many times in his past. The distant craggy mountains in the north and the pit in the ground to the east were the only topographical forms in sight, aside from what might be hills to the far south. Of plant life Reinhouer had seen none, but it was very likely that something similar to flora existed somewhere in his world's vast sister dimension.

The bridges burned brightly in Reinhouer's vision, for the pure light of his world filtered through them into the Parallax, bringing a vague sense of reality to the alien landscape before him – though whether this was good or bad the professor could not say, for the earthly light made the decidedly unearthly Parallax seem more real and thus more dreadful.

Those bridges that the professor had seen on the edges of the horizon were now visibly closer, Reinhouer decided, and there were in truth four of them. He noted too with a growing sense of horror that the five currently near were moving at nearly impossible speeds, and all towards a single point. The only redeeming grace of this vision was that none of the dreadful beings were making their presence known to him, and so young Henry was safe at the present moment.

A decidedly earthly sound entered then into Reinhouer's ears, and he hurriedly took off the helmet as the telephone's ring continued on. No one had seen fit to call the professor in many months, and a vague sense of evil seemed to cling to the dreadful ringing noise. Reinhouer hurried down the stairs and lifted the phone. "Professor Siegfried Reinhouer of Malacky University, may I help you?"

"Professor! They got me and took all of the root and leaves! I'm in the jail at the station – this is my one call! Help me out of here!" After silently cursing the boy's stupidity for implicating his rescuer in the crime the boy had been committing to any listening cops, Reinhouer promised that he would help, then hung up the phone. He sincerely hoped that he could withdraw enough cash for the boy's bail on the way, for he had a dreadful suspicion that he knew what point the bridges were all headed towards.

Chapter Twelve

Professor Siegfried Reinhouer drove through the streets like a man struck with mania, his mind racing with terrible possibilities. He flew through the doors of the police station like a hurricane, earning him many a gaze of astonishment. The professor walked up to the front desk of the office, slammed his hand on the table, and demanded to know what the bail for Henry Devalier was. The officer on duty responded that the bail was equal to the sum of one thousand dollars. Reinhouer slowly and carefully removed a wad of newly-acquired bills from his coat pocket, and counted out one thousand dollars from them exactly. The officer looked surprised, but said not a word, and after a few signatures, Henry Devalier was brought out to the front, given an explanation of his release, and then finally escorted out of the station by the professor.

As soon as the pair was out of the door and the sight of those inside, Reinhouer stole away to the left, dragging the boy after him. Sneaking away around a corner, the two turned to face each other. "What did I say about getting caught?" Reinhouer demanded angrily.

"I didn't mean to!" whispered Henry. "The officer was hiding in the bushes! There was no way I could have seen him!"

Reinhouer took a deep breath to calm his nerves, and then shook his head. "No matter... we can still do this. We'll just have to try again."

"Are you mad?" Henry asked. "They'll be watching me like hawks now, and no one else is going to come near me if they have any wyrdroot!"

"We have to try," Reinhouer stated calmly, struggling to keep his voice level. "This is not a game. This is your life we're talking about." And quite possibly mine, Siegfried thought.

Henry leaned against the wall and slid to the ground. "It's useless – I can try to get more, but it won't work... the dealers will avoid me like the plague. I can't possibly get enough of the stuff."

Reinhouer furrowed his brow as he thought. Slowly, an idea came to him. "Henry... did you see where they put the root they confiscated?"

The student looked up. "They probably distributed it among them-"

"No jokes!" interrupted the professor. "Do you know where they put it?"

"There's a safe in the back of the station where they put everything they confiscate." Devalier looked up at the light growing in Reinhouer's eyes. "Surely you can't be... it's guarded, you know. There's no way we'd make it in there."

"Says you," muttered the professor, hoisting young Devalier to his feet. "Come on... let's hope they have it in there."

Henry reluctantly let himself be led around the side of the building, the pair of them crawling under windows and hiding in the bushes near the side of the building. Devalier thought that this whole idea was utterly ridiculous, and muttered thus to himself the whole time, hoping meanwhile that those who dwelt in the neighboring homes would not chance to look at the station and see the two sneaking figures.

As far as either could tell, they made it safely to the back of the station. Peering in through each window along the back wall, the pair made their way across said wall, until Devalier said that they had reached the place. Fortunately, no officers had been looking out any of the rear windows, and it was the same with the window opening into the saferoom. Devalier gestured to the guard inside, whose blue-clad back was facing away from them, and told the professor that the box he stood in front of was the safe, which was anchored to the floor and could not be moved.

"All right then," whispered Reinhouer. "Stay here, Henry." The old man rubbed his hands together. Henry gasped as the professor stood up and began dancing and flailing wildly, banging on the glass. The officer on duty turned and ran to the window, handgun raised, as well as eyebrow.

After a few moments, he used his free hand to undo the window latch and lift the window. "Sir, what seems-" The officer staggered back as Reinhouer's fist connected with his skull, and the professor's left hand snaked out and grabbed the firearm from the wounded officer. With a strength and agility that belied his old age, Reinhouer flowed in through the window, gun aimed at the officer, who clutched at his nose and stared at the professor with terror in his eyes. From the other side of the large safe – it stretched two-thirds of the way to the ceiling – came the sound of footsteps. A second police officer rounded the corner and came into sight, then froze at the sight of Reinhouer leveling the pistol at his companion's head.

"Now, you'll do as I say," Siegfried Reinhouer intoned quietly. "Open that safe." The officer in back hesitated, and began to inch towards the room's exit. "Do you think I'm bluffing?" Reinhouer asked, smiling maniacally as he did so. "I can assure you, I'm not." He switched the pistol's aim to the other officer, and the one in front of him took the chance to leap forward. Reinhouer sidestepped neatly and brought the butt of the pistol down upon the man's head, knocking him out cold. An instant later the gun's barrel was again pointed at the further policeman. "Do it. Now. And while we're at it, drop the gun."

The slightly overweight officer dropped the gun onto the floor with a loud clatter, and slowly sidled over to the safe. Reinhouer walked forward, his gun trained on the policeman, and locked the windowless door to the rest of the station. The policeman opened the safe a few moments later, and held open the door. Reinhouer looked at its contents and smiled. "Good, good. Now, I have a question for you... do you know who I am?"

The man gulped. "N-no sir, I'm sor-"

"Oh good." Reinhouer took three steps forward and sent the young officer sprawling onto the floor, blood coming down from the top of his skull. That done, Reinhouer returned to the window and whispered for Henry to come in. The young man did so, and the two walked around to the front of the safe.

"I didn't know you could do that," Henry said in awe.

"One does what one must when lives are on the line," the professor said, his face set grimly. "They'll be fine. In pain, but fine. I just hope that the man by the window didn't know who I was. Hopefully the blows I gave them will befuddle their minds enough that they won't be able to accurately describe me. Now, look inside – is that the wyrdroot?"

Devalier turned his attention to the contents of the safe and his jaw dropped. "I would say so... and far more than they took from me."

Reinhouer grinned. "Then all is as it should be... and I see our sycamore leaves are in there as well." The professor began stuffing the plant matter into the voluminous pockets of his pants and coat. "Come on, we need to get all of this back home!" Sighing resignedly, Devalier began to help him, until all of the illicit matter – in addition to a healthy supply of sycamore leaves – were either stowed away in various pockets or being grasped firmly in the men's hands.

"And now, out we go!" The professor had attained an almost childish demeanour, and it unnerved young Henry a fair bit. The two crawled out of the window, stepping over the sprawled-out officer, and ran into the woods behind the station, closing the window behind them.

"Now how do we get to the car?" Henry asked. "We can't just saunter out in front of the police station with this contraband."

"Your sarcasm is not helping, young man," Reinhouer said, finally beginning to calm down. "I suppose we'll have to sneak around... I parked relatively near to the forest's edge, so if we continue to the left and go around, we should be able to steal across the lot to my automobile." Henry sighed, but did not have a better idea, so the pair of them scurried through the undergrowth, taking about five minutes to reach the forest's edge near the lot. The pair quickly spied Reinhouer's vehicle, and after a quick scan of the nearby windows of the station, raced across to the car when no one was looking. Reinhouer opened the driver's door quickly, and Henry dove inside, sidling over to the passenger's seat. Reinhouer closed the door as he climbed behind the wheel and started the vehicle. "Now, we drive slowly..."

And slowly the professor did drive – almost lethargically so, so that Henry had to point out that driving too slowly was almost as suspicious as driving too quickly, and Reinhouer picked up the pace.

The pair made it eventually back to their home, and discreetly entered the house, dumping their payload on the floor of the living room. "This will do nicely..." the professor said, going over the recipe in his head.

"I hope so," muttered Henry.

Chapter Thirteen

And then began the long days of brewing and mixing. The professor set Henry to work making the mixture of powdered gold and diamond, assuming the proportions to be half and half, as no fractions were mentioned with regards to said mixture. As the young man did so, Reinhouer prepared the second mixture, that of charcoal, black powder, wyrdroot, cinnamon, and sycamore leaf. Henry's mixture, being more easily made, naturally was completed first, and young Devalier moved then to assist the professor.

His workload eased, Reinhouer went again over the recipe in his head, and realized with a start that he had forgotten to get sugarcane and evergreen needles. He left Henry to his work and drove to the market, picking up pure sugarcane there, and stopping by every fir tree on the way and stripping them of their needles. He hurriedly then drove back to his home, to find Henry had finished the second mixture and had mixed the two together – three-fourths of it being powdered gold and diamond, and the remaining fourth the more complex mixture. He had divided the large sum of materials between the three cauldrons, and like the instructions had mentioned, it glowed a dark pulsing red. Reinhouer was both pleasantly surprised and slightly disturbed that the mixture did as was advertised. As he approached it, he saw too that it gave off a feeling of "both hot and chille," and the professor indeed felt slightly uneasy, yet grateful that it had worked. Though his work investigating the nature of the Parallax had shown him a great many strange and unnatural things, something clearly of an almost unexplainable nature functioning in his own dimension did not sit well with the logical man.

"So, it worked, I see," Reinhouer said. Henry, grinning unabashedly, nodded. "So then onto the next part..." Reinhouer looked at each of the cauldrons, and sighed. "Henry... you do realize that the recipe calls for an equal amount of water to be added to each of the batches?"

"And... oh. That won't fit, will it?" Reinhouer shook his head, and Henry sighed. "Well then, I guess we'll have to scoop half of it out."

"Maybe more," said the professor. "We need to add half as much evergreen needles into it as well," Reinhouer gestured to the bags of needles lying on the floor, "and then canes of sugar." He smiled crookedly. "I just hope that you just add one sugarcane to each batch... that instruction made little sense..."

As Reinhouer mused to himself, Henry took all of the buckets, pots and pans into the kitchen and surrounding rooms, and slowly and painstakingly began to measure out slightly more than half of the mixture from each cauldron, scattering it among various containers all over the room. Upon completion, he used what few items remained to pour carefully measured amounts of water, mixed with half the volume of pine needles. Once that was done, the pair mixed that with the previous mixture in the cauldrons, and were both startled to see that the water was instantly soaked up by the powder, and that the evergreen needles sank out of sight and were not then to be found again.

The next step was, of course, to extract all that they could from a cane of sugar and mix that in with the rest of it – being careful, of course, not to spill "one droppe or graine." Reinhouer did the extraction, and Henry waited to his left with bated breath. The professor wrung out every last bit of sugar from the first cane, letting it fall into the powdery mixture. Henry mixed the mixture for the last time, and both were disappointed to see no discernible change.

"Do you think it worked?" whispered Henry, not quite sure why his voice was so low.

Reinhouer shrugged. "I cannot tell; the instructions regarding the sugarcane were at best imprecise. We can only hope. But we still have two more steps." He handed Henry a piece of paper. "Now we chant." After a few practice runs, the pair intoned the chant together over the mixture. "Vorkari iette tekkilo iaten potenti affus faliel horvanus est tore mananum."

The two men jumped back in surprise as the glow of the powder began to change, from a dull throbbing red to that of a colour that neither of them could ever hope to put into words.

"Well," swallowed Henry. "I think that worked."

"I would say so," whispered Reinhouer breathlessly. "Let us prepare the rest."

He and his young companion finished preparing the rest of the mixtures, and then tried to find a place to make more batches. They failed in their mission, and deemed it necessary to go forth and purchase three more cauldrons the next day (as now the shops were closed). Neither was able to sleep well, and so they both sat up into the wee hours of the morning, laying out plans for what they thought was to come. In the middle of their discussion, they took a break to drag the cauldrons outside and hold them before the light of the moon – it wasn't the waning crescent, but it was still moonlight. Both men were disappointed to see no other change, and dragged the cauldrons back inside and resumed their discussion.

"But there have been other waxing crescents in my life, professor," the young man eventually brought up, "why would they – or it – choose this one to act?"

Reinhouer leaned back. "That is a question I do not know the answer to. Perhaps they will not act this time. It's just... I have a bad feeling about this one. Maybe it's because you just recently came to me, or maybe I just have some extrasensory perception of my own, from my many dealings with the Parallax." He sighed. "I did mention before that things can be 'touched' by the Parallax, yes?" Devalier nodded. "People are no exception – it is why those born near bridges demonstrate extrasensory perception, and why the wood in this house will help keep out the beings of the Parallax."

"That I never understood," interjected Henry. "How does the wood protect us?"

Reinhouer grimaced. "Sebastian and I... we used the machine a few times before he himself went through, placing various pieces of wood in the Parallax, exposing it to the air there, and then drawing them back in. Somehow, the air of the Parallax fundamentally changes something about the object... as far as we can tell, the wood gives off some kind of interdimensional radioactive signal that repels the beings of the Parallax. We both observed these beings stay far, far away from here after we rebuilt the house from these touched planks."

Henry sat up straight. "You've seen these beings?"

Reinhouer smiled cynically and nodded. "Aye, that I have, but only at a great distance."

"Good god, man, why did you not mention this before?" Devalier was sitting at the edge of his seat, all of his attention fixed upon professor Reinhouer. "What do they look like?"

"I have mentioned it before – I even told the grant committee once. It's hard to say what they look like, Henry; like I said, I saw them only far away. It is also worth noting that more than one species inhabits this dimension, with different forms; it is undoubtedly as difficult to classify all of the beings in their dimension as it is to classify all of the beings in ours."

"Fine, fine – but what did those you saw look like?"

The professor sighed. "I don't really remember. I'm old, and my memory isn't as good as it used to be. Korig and I never saw enough of them to make any observations about their appearance; they were merely large blurs in the distance. The distance combined with my poor eyesight made them hard to make out." Reinhouer smiled slightly. "I was old then, too."

"You're still spry enough to take down two cops," muttered Henry.

Reinhouer chose to ignore the youth, and they moved on to other topics. After a time, the need for sleep finally overtook them both, and they each bid the other a good night and departed to their own bedchambers for a night's sleep.

Chapter Fourteen

The next day, both of them slept in, and upon awakening, Reinhouer went out to obtain three more cauldrons and a large pot for the small bit of extra powder. When he returned, Henry was awake and waiting for him. He helped his older companion carry in the cauldrons and pot, and then spent a half hour or so making three more cauldron's worth, saving the moonlight step to be undertaken that very same night. The two then began to move their completed creations up the stairs – a difficult and strenuous task that took well over an hour, but rewarded the two men with immense satisfaction once completed. The plan was to hole up in the room with the device, using the dagger and powder to keep any attackers at bay until the moon waxed enough that it was no longer a crescent, and the danger had passed.

Following the move of the cauldrons of powder, the two transported a supply of food up the stairs. The waxing crescent – or what could be classified as a waxing crescent – would last about three days, possibly a little more, and nourishment would be required for that time. Water came after the food, contained in the pots and pans used previously to hold the powder.

As the pair rested for a few minutes downstairs, they noticed a police cruiser go slowly down the road by the window. Reinhouer cursed. "I really hope they didn't identify me or track you to here... ending up in police custody could be fatal." Fortunately, the police did not inspect the house.

That night, the pair exposed the remainder of the cauldrons to the moonlight and dragged them up the stairs. Before sleeping that night, Reinhouer reported to his young friend a disturbing trend; all of the bridges were moving towards the house with a terrifying speed. The professor permitted Henry to don the viewing device so that the young man could see what was coming. "It looks like they'll be here on the morrow," the professor remarked worriedly. "Hopefully that will not make the beings coming tomorrow night more powerful..."

Neither of them slept well that night, and upon awakening both were groggy and cranky. They argued over every small detail, any sense of camaraderie vanishing until the early afternoon, when they both came to their senses. They double-checked then all of their preparations, ensuring that enough food and water had been stored, that the powder was within easy reach, and that the walls and windows had been reinforced with Parallax-touched wood from downstairs. As night approached, the two took turns watching the Parallax through the device.

Reinhouer was wearing the device as darkness fell and the crescent finally became truly visible in the night sky. In the Parallax, it appeared as if the moon's size had increased fivefold, and it was shining a disturbing light down upon the plains below. A chill went down Reinhouer's spine as he watched the moon grow larger, and then on the ground below he saw an army appear on the horizon. His skin grew pale, and Henry shook him, asking him what was the matter. He took off the helmet and stared at his young charge with frightened eyes. "The crescent is here."

There was a knock on the door, and a shout. "Police!"

Chapter Fifteen

ASSOCIATED PRESS - The small college town of Gorey, home of the esteemed Malacky University, was destroyed today in a freak catastrophic event that no officials have been able to explain. Much of the matter in the town appears simply to have vanished, and what little remains is disfigured and damaged in horrible ways. Bodies are lying in the streets with burns all over their bodies in what many would describe as "otherworldly runes," and pieces of wood are twisted and bent as only metal can be. The current consensus among experts is that a freak storm destroyed the town. The "runes" remain unexplained. Nothing substantial was found in the town save for one item that sheds some light on the matter, penned by a man who undoubtedly had gone mad under the stress of whatever real catastrophe hit the town of Gorey. Attached is a copy of the document, the pages found scattered throughout the town, surprisingly intact.

"It was the alignment of the stars – I should have seen it. Fomalhaut and Sirius, lined directly with our own dear Sol and dreaded Yugoth, caused whatever power that granted strength to the Parallax to be increased a hundredfold. The bridges... they were controlled by the beings, the daemons, who inhabit the damned Parallax. They were directing their paths, and they caused them all to converge upon my home at the moment of the crescent, moving with a speed that I had never before seen, nor indeed even believed possible.

"And then they all merged, and then they expanded, covering the whole town it seemed. Henry was watching through the goggles then, not I, and he dictated with horror what was occurring, but soon I could see it too as the dimensions merged into a hideous combination of both our reality and theirs.

"And then armies came, descending down from the skies and coming from all over. Our house was gone, yes, but the radiation from the boards should have been enough to keep them at bay... but they did not work as we had planned, and the beasts were upon us in moments, trying to take us. Devalier and I hurled up our powder at the terrifying beasts, the likes of which I hope none shall ever see again on this earth – scorpion and bat, spider and shark, mantis and serpent, flying and diving down from the heavens at us. We took them face on, and we won against their first wave, the powder causing them to disintegrate rapidly on contact.

"Then came the ground forces, more terrible than those that flew – the snapping jaws and scythed limbs, my god – they were more terrible than anything I have ever seen, and yet we tossed forth the powder still, blindly at times, and kept the next wave at bay as well.

"Then they came from under the ground, massive centipedes with too many legs and eyes and tongues, and tried to drag us beneath with them – they got my leg several times, and only the quick action of young Devalier saved me time and time again, and we stayed strong against the dread beings of the Parallax... but I fear it was all for naught from the start, for their power was far greater than ours, and our resources limited... we had no chance of lasting more than a few hours. Would that we had known and been spared all of this effort and terror-"

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"-then bearing torches and fire, and strange weapons of war. Our powder supplies were then necessarily low, down to a mere cauldron and a half; we tried to conserve all that we had, but there were so many of them, and even one getting through to us would have been deadly... we were so tired and thirsty, but could not stop our defense, for their offense was great and their strength greater... The rest of the town has been slaughtered, I fear, and their blood only makes our terrible attackers stronger. We could see as we fought many of our fellow humans captured and bound, then carried away screaming for unspeakable purposes out of sight. God, it was terrible... there is no hope for our kind, not when the damned Daemons are lurking everywhere, with the power to slowly whittle away our race, as I fear they have been doing for many thousands of years...

"And then we ran out of powder, and the nightmare began... we resorted to the dagger, for the device, the thing that had gotten me into this damn trouble in the first place, was transported with us. The dagger was useless compared to the dust, and only a dozen or so were kept at bay before one of the dread flyers swooped down from the sky and grabbed Henry. He screamed in utter fear and terror as the loathsome creature flew away into the sky, towards the terrible waxing crescent of the moon, and a hideous cry of exultation came forth from all of the beasts that surrounded us, and I was left alone on that hill, the last living resident of the good town of Gorey. It is on what scattered papers I have found that I have composed this document, and I hope that they do not take it from me when I have died, or that the wind that howls through this place does not carry them far. I am old, and the horrors of this world have become too much for my bleeding heart. I will join my dear Sebastian now, something I should have done long ago, before these damned experiments went too far – there is no hope for us, none at all, but for those of you who still insist on clinging to it, I offer you this, so that perhaps you can give some of those bastards what they deserve.

"Make a powder, three-quarters of which is a mixture of equal parts powdered gold and diamond, completely pure. The remaining fourth should be equal parts charcoal, black powder, ground wyrdroot, powdered cinnamon, and ground sycamore leaf. Mix the ingredients evenly. If you have done this correctly, the powder will glow red and be both hot and cold. Mix this powder then with an equal volume of water and half as many evergreen needles, and then extract one cane's worth of sugarcane sugar into the mixture. Then chant these words over the powder:

"Vorkari iette tekkilo iaten potenti affus faliel horvanus est tore mananum.

"Once this is done, the powder will take on an otherworldly, indescribable glow. Let the mixture then sit under the light of the moon, preferably during the waning crescent. This will complete the powder. Throw it upon the Daemons of the Parallax and they shall disintegrate.

"This is then the end of Siegfried Reinhouer, and I wish humanity and the Earth all the best. May God be with you."

The Vessel

I

Lucius Varius Magnus first saw the great black sailing vessel when he was a child, standing upon the inner docks of the great port of Ostia. His parents – or rather, his father, for his mother was confined to her room in Roma due to a terrible fit of consumption – stood beside him, explaining to the young heir of the river-shipping business how to run the thing. He pointed out all of the family-owned ships carrying their goods – mostly salt and stone from the nearby mines and quarries – up the river Tiber to great Roma herself, giving each one a name and a history.

Young Lucius was the eldest son of Gaius Varius Verus, a second-generation member of the Roman equestrian class: families of wealthy plebeians who had made their fortune in some lucrative business. In the case of Verus' father, this business was shipping.

Their shipping business stretched from Ostia to Roma – not a particularly long stretch of river, but an important one. The family's vessels carried salt and stone up from Ostia and its nearby mines and quarries to Roma herself, where the materials were used for victuals and construction. Verus did not yet own the quarries and salt mines himself, but it was well-known among those in the trade that he had an eye on acquiring them once he had had attained more disposable wealth.

The Varian fleet, at this time, numbered seven working vessels, two ships in drydock, and two more under construction. Verus hoped that he could soon attain a near-monopoly in the shipping business, and then use that wealth and status to vault himself up into the upper echelons of society – becoming perhaps a tribune, or even a senator! But Verus hid his ambitions from his son as he showed him the proud Mars, flagship of his small armada, its brilliant red sails filling with a gentle wind as its flat bottom floated atop Father Tiber, bearing a heavy load of stone up towards Roma.

As Lucius' father talked on, young Lucius himself found his attention wandering – he was, after all, still a young boy – and instead watched the numerous ships passing by, his father's words sounding almost like incomprehensible Gallic to him. Roma was by no means a seaport, and its associated empire – in the loose sense of the word – had never shewed much interest in the sea, despite its prime position at the center of the Mediterranean. Only the river mattered to the Latin peoples, and the flat-bottomed barges that glided by so smoothly reflected that ignorance – no Roman ship that young Lucius saw could have lasted a single day out at sea.

To the young heir, though, all of the boats were marvelous – especially that one of midnight black that floated towards the open sea beyond Ostia. Had the boy more expertise in the art of shipbuilding, he would have noticed several things about this vessel that separated it from the lesser ships around it. This vessel was a seafaring boat, the like of which few Romans had ever seen in their lives. It caught the boy's eye due mostly to its imposing colour and size; its obsidian black hull easily could have held three levels belowdecks, and it spanned forty or fifty meters from bow to stern. Its black mast sported a massive sail of the same dark colour as the hull, and it billowed out in a direction opposing that of the wind – but the boy did not notice this. What drew his eyes first was the massive spike jutting out of the bow, clearly an effective tool in ramming other ships.

Just behind the bow-spike were two strange devices, towers four or five meters high, with hooked tops that reminded him of a raven's claw. Had not they been held up by ropes, the towers would have fallen until they were horizontal, creating a flat plank wide enough for two men to stand abreast with ease. These towers fascinated the imaginative mind of young Lucius and held his full attention for quite a while. Had he paid more attention to the water near the bottom of the great vessel, he would have seen both keel and rudder hovering slightly above the river's surface, causing no ripples or waves.

Verus did eventually notice his son's lapse in attention, and questioned him as to what was so important that he would not respect his own father. Lucius immediately pointed at the silent black vessel, but his father saw nothing but the sky and distant mountains. He immediately berated his son for acting in such a foolish fashion; the boy was growing up rapidly, and he would soon need to start taking a more active role in managing his father's work. Trained well by his father, Lucius apologized for his transgression and ashamedly confessed that the vessel was a product of his overactive imagination – something that Verus had tried so hard to drive out of his son. Verus sighed and wondered what his heir would come to, but forgave him. The pair walked to his personal vessel to begin the trip back to Roma.

As Lucius walked behind his father, he looked back one last time. He had lied to his father. He knew that the black vessel was no product of his imagination, for it had not faded like his other imaginary visions had when his father brought his attention back to reality. It steadfastly held onto reality, solid as ever, gliding serenely above Father Tiber. In his final glance back, young Lucius saw something that caused him to almost cease breathing: the vessel, before his very eyes, passed through two smaller boats, and all three ships carried on like nothing had happened. The ship with the midnight-black sails moved onwards, finally leaving the Tiber behind it and heading out to sea. Lucius blinked, believing that the ship would vanish then, but it did not, instead sailing off into the distance and eventually out of sight.

The vessel soon slipped to the back of the young boy's mind, however, as he stepped onto his father's boat. He delighted in the sensation of being on top of the water and river that he loved so much, and forgot almost all else in the moment. It would be a long while before he saw the vessel again.

II

When Lucius grew older and attained the age of sixteen years, he stepped fully into the realm of men and into the family shipping business, as his father's lesser partner. He had, in the last eight years, learned to keep his imagination in check and focus his mind, to the point where he became known among the equestrians in Roma for his intelligence and keen mind. The equestrians said that one day he would proudly carry forward the family tradition and become an asset to his father.

And an asset he did indeed quickly become. Lucius had never lost his fascination with boats, and as more and more ships began to flock into Ostia, he began to note the design and function of each vessel. At seventeen years of age, he confronted his father and explained to him an idea that would greatly improve the carrying capacity and speed of each vessel, making use of the various features he had seen on the larger vessels in Ostia. His father heeded his son's wisdom and ordered the Varian fleet, consisting now of sixteen vessels in commission and one under construction, to rotate into and out of the dry dock for renovations. Lucius himself was given the responsibility of overseeing the operation, and did so with the greatest of enthusiasm.

During the upgrading process, the Varius family took a small hit to their fortunes, but when the seventeen new vessels were finally put to work, their income shot up again rapidly, supplying them with the funding to begin work on four more boats over the course of the next few months. The rapidly accumulating funds were also enough for the family to purchase a smaller building in Ostia itself, near the docks, where Lucius and Verus could stay overnight and manage business from the Ostian end more directly. Lucius was given more responsibilities in this sector, and quickly became the Ostian partner in the company leadership. The number of ships under the Varius family grew larger with each passing month, until on Lucius' eighteenth birthday their fleet numbered twenty-seven functional ships and four under construction, acquiring the family a near-monopoly.

It was on the day before his father's death that the black vessel made its second appearance. Lucius, a week after he had turned eighteen, was in the Ostian house, going over financial records with one of his subordinate ship captains, when he happened to glance out the window. He immediately caught sight of its massive bulk, gliding silently above the river, slipping easily through the ships around it as if they were not there. The vessel was exactly as Lucius had remembered it, with its massive black sail, imposing bow-spike, and pair of clawed towers.

Now, however, the young man had a more trained eye. He could recognize the black ship as a seagoing vessel, and not one of any type he had ever seen in the port. It could have held three ranks of rowers, yet it was not a Greek trireme. It did not belong to the Carthaginians or to any other, smaller Mediterranean civilizations either – it was completely alien to Lucius. He noticed that its bow was raised slightly, providing a platform higher than the mid-deck, and the stern was even higher than the bow, giving anyone standing there a vantage point over the whole ship.

The sail itself was primitive, consisting merely of pitch-black cloth stretched over a black wooden frame, set onto a mast of the same colour. It was full of air, and its fullness never varied despite clear differences in the velocity and direction of the wind. No crew manned the vessel, and there was no visible mechanism of steering other than the rudder, which did not move at all.

Most disturbing to Lucius – other than its passage through other ships – was the fact that the vessel did not touch the water at all, and left no sign of disturbance upon the surface of Father Tiber. It also made no noise, and the sounds of the world seemed muted to Lucius as it passed by. The vessel quickly left Lucius' sight as it passed the far edge of the narrow window, and the sounds of the world were restored.

Before the captain opposite him could call attention to Lucius' sudden slip in attention, he forced his mind away from the thought of the vessel and returned to the figures as if nothing had happened. Moments later, he dismissed the phantasm as a strange resurgence of the overactive imagination of his youth. He did not think of it again.

The next morning, Gaius Varius Verus was found dead of unknown causes on the privy, and the whole of the Varius shipping company, as well as the family itself, passed into the hands of his son, Lucius Varius Magnus.

III

Under the hand of the young Lucius, the family business prospered greatly. By the time he was twenty years of age, he had been managing the family and its business for almost two years. His youngest brother and younger sister both looked up to him as an example of what a Roman man should be – his sister, of course, was more concerned with finding a husband that acted like her dear brother than emulating him herself. His eldest younger brother, Manius Varius Evodius, had been constantly jealous of Lucius, and so had never showed any interest in him or the business whatsoever. It was a cruel twist of fate that would cause the shipping company to land in his less than competent hands.

Lucius' mother had finally fallen to her consumption after a brave struggle two weeks before his nineteenth birthday, leaving no one to assist the still-unmarried Lucius around the home. More slaves had to be brought in to maintain the household, and Lucius had begun to look about for a fine Roman woman to become engaged to.

But alas, it was not to be, for two months after his twentieth birthday a call to war went up. The situation in Sicily had become unbearable for the Romans. More than twenty years past, a group of Campanian mercenaries, known as the Mamertines, had seized control of the Sicilian city of Messana. Over the following years, the unemployed Mamertines went wild and consolidated this control, killing the city's men and raping the women. The mercenaries began to expand their new "empire," burning and destroying the countryside around it, until they met the forces of King Hiero II, dread lord of Syracuse. A battle took place at the Sicilian river Longanus, and the Mamertines were driven back to Messana, from which they appealed both to Rome and Carthage for help.

Unfortunately for the Romans, the Carthaginians chose to answer the call, garrisoning their own troops in Messana alongside the Mamertines. But a second complaint from the Mamertines was soon heard in the Roman Senate, during the infancy of Lucius Varius Magnus' lifetime, pleading now for help against the Carthaginians in Messana. They were not treating their Mamertine allies kindly, and rumours of dark magicks and a powerful sorcerer were afoot.

A long, protracted debate resulted in Rome accepting the Mamertine's plea for help, and Appius Claudius Caudex led the first Roman expedition to Sicily and Messana, beginning the land campaign there.

But it was not to this engagement that Lucius was called, for his expertise lay not on the land, but on the sea. Lucius' own call came several years after the first, to combat the approaching Carthaginian navy. The Sicilian campaign had gone well for the Romans, but their victories had come at a price: they had awoken the dragon. As its influence in Sicily fell, Carthage reared its head and sent in its navy to retake the island. The Roman Senate could not allow this to happen; to do so would have spelt the end of Roma herself.

And so a second call was sent out. Unlike his younger brother Evodius, Lucius heeded the call and reported to duty. As an equestrian, Lucius was entitled to the rank of military officer, and to his surprise landed a spot commanding one of the few Roman warships in existence. Lucius had never been on a warship before, and he would never forget the first time he was able to step onto one. Its size, scale, and sheer power awed him, and it took him several minutes to descend back to Earth from the heavens, and to clear his mind of the resurgence of his childhood imagination.

As Lucius prepared for war, the family business naturally passed into the hands of his brother, Manus Varius Evodius, who did not have the skills his brother did. Evodius cared little for the business, and indeed, it collapsed completely after only two years of his administration, undoing decades of work in a heartbeat. He used the fortunes acquired through the industry to fuel his own hedonistic lifestyle, and by the time his income had vanished he had been abandoned by both his sister and younger brother. His life ended a year later, when he was no better than a beggar on the street, dead of the same disease that had brought down his mother.

But none of this dark future weighed on Lucius' mind – the thrill of finally being on the open sea held the young man's entire attention, and he forgot almost completely about the family business, and any possibility of finding a suitable woman to marry. No, Lucius Varius Magnus was meant to be a seaman, and so a seaman he would be.

Shortly after his call, the fleet departed for Sicily under the command of Quintus Valerius Burrus, to attempt to halt the threatening Carthaginian navy. Any sane man would have realized that it was a doomed expedition, for the land-based Roman Empire had no experience in naval warfare, whereas the massive Carthaginian Empire extended all around the Western Mediterranean, ruling the seas as much as they did the land. The tiny Roman fleet, consisting of a mere nine warships, stood no chance against the gargantuan navy of mighty Carthage.

Nevertheless, they went forth, sailing to Syracuse quickly, for the weather was good and the winds were with them. Lucius and his men were in good spirits on board the Hercules; the journey was good, the experience wonderful, and defeat seemed impossible.

Would that it had been so for Lucius and his men. As it was, the men of the first Roman offensive fleet would have preferred any other kind of death to the one that they would receive in less than a day, for the way that they died had no honor in it.

It was the night before the coast of Sicily was to come into view that Lucius Varius Magnus saw the dread black vessel for the third time. Only three men in Lucius' crew of thirty-five were awake, and one of them was belowdecks. The ship was easily thirty meters in length, and those who were on the top deck were scattered all about it.

Lucius was near the steering device and anchor when he turned his attention to the south, towards Sicily. He had expected to see nothing but the stars and open water, but there was something else out there. A cold fear ran down his back as he saw the phantasm from his past before him again, for the third time in his life, and this time he knew for certain that it was real.

The ghost vessel floated eerily above the water, with no crew visible, and as it approached, the terrible twin towers behind its bow-spike began to slowly lower. The Hercules was the closest to the oncoming ship, and it was for the Hercules that it made its course. Lucius ran belowdecks and awoke all the men, who hurriedly donned what fighting gear they could and rushed to the main deck. Once there, they stood in place, looking extremely confused, but not questioning the orders of their captain.

It was only a few minutes more before the terrible ship reached the fleet. The anchors on Lucius' vessel were being drawn up, but not quickly enough to save them. Remembering his earlier sightings of the ship, Lucius expected it to pass through the Hercules, but it did not. Instead, its twin towers, now horizontal so as to appear like walkways, loomed over the deck of the Hercules, and the black ship stopped impossibly quickly, its movement suddenly halted.

No one moved for a moment and the two ships sat there, doing nothing. Then Lucius saw a movement near the top of the mighty warship as the hooked walkways descended downwards, until they reached down from the deck of the black vessel to the deck of the Hercules. Then the things began to come down the ramps.

The sight of those things was another image that would never leave Lucius' mind – part spider, part human, and part something indescribable and unnamable scurried down that ramp, their twisted skeletal torsos seated atop gaunt spidery bodies, their hands replaced by wicked claws, like those of a lobster or crab.

Lucius could not control his fear then, and as warmth ran down his leg he screamed in terror. The other men on the vessel looked at their captain as if he was mad, and Lucius pointed at the things descending from above, shouting at his crew to kill them. For his part, Lucius struggled to regain control of his emotions and drew his blade, pointing it at the things. There were at least a dozen of them, hideously scuttling down towards the Hercules. His hand shook, and he again told his men to attack – and yet no man did as they were told.

Then they began to fall.

The fastest of the spider-things quickly reached the deck of the Roman ship, and neatly used its claw to decapitate the nearest man. Screams of surprise and fear began to come from the men on the ship, but they did not move to fight the spider-things. More and more of the horrible denizens of that black vessel descended onto the deck, and Lucius' men began to fall like flies, none of them making any remotely successful attempt to fend off the spiders. The last few survivors flailed about wildly, waving their swords at random, but the spider-things easily avoided their blows and dispatched them.

The things began to approach Lucius then, but he refused to suffer the same fate as his comrades. Abandoning what little dignity and décor remained to him, he dropped his weapon, turned, and ran to the edge of the vessel. He paused for scarcely a moment before leaping off the edge in full armour, hitting the water with a painful thud and a loud splash. He did not dare look back up, for fear that he would see the things following him. His armour dragged him down, and Lucius struggled to free himself from its oppressive weight.

The Roman equestrian captain had nearly passed out by the time he had escaped, and the current had carried him a good ways away... and down. He swam frantically for the surface, his fear of drowning overcoming his fear of what lay above, but his vision faded before he reached the water's surface.

IIII

By some miracle, Lucius Varius Magnus was discovered by a Roman scout, washed up on the shores of Sicily. He was quickly brought to the Roman camp and nursed back to health, being berated all the while for his near-drowning experience.

He was brought before the commander of the legion, who had served under Appius Claudius Caudex himself, and was ordered to tell his story. Lucius did so as best he could, but the disbelieving stares of the war council discouraged him greatly. In the end, he attributed the whole experience to some kind of delusion – likely he was ill and a Carthaginian attack had pushed him over the edge. He garnered slightly more sympathy after that, and was sent back to Roma on the next available ship.

Upon his arrival, he did not even check in with the struggling business of his brother, but instead devoted himself to deep thought. He heard, over the next few months, many tales of ragtag Roman navies being handily defeated by the Carthaginians at sea. The Romans were no good at naval warfare – the Roman army had always been a land-based one, and they had never had any need for a navy.

News of the demise of Lucius' fleet's defeat spread rapidly, and as the sole "mad" survivor, the young equestrian was avoided by his fellow citizens and blamed for the whole mess. He lived his life in misery and solitude, thinking about the futility of war and trying to drive that terrible black vessel and its spider-people out of his head. But he never could succeed, and the images never left him.

Another year passed before Lucius decided it was his duty to return to the fight – though perhaps he was no longer fit to act as captain. He was on his way to inform the war leaders of his decision when the idea struck him. Other than the black vessel, what had been running through Lucius' heads were thoughts of the Romans' inability to win at sea. But on that black ship, that terrible vessel that had come from nowhere to destroy the first Roman navy, there was a solution to their problems. Lucius hurried to the council chambers with greater speed, and hastily presented his idea to the council.

For his inspiration, Lucius claimed not the black vessel, but instead convinced the council that he had seen this on a beached Carthaginian warship on Sicily. Of course, this was not true in the slightest, but he thought it better to lie than tell the truth. He had come up with a way, he claimed, for the Roman infantry to have a place at sea.

He called it the corvus, or raven's claw, for that was what its tip reminded him of. That terrible ship that brought death with it had had two of them: those twin towers that, when lowered, allowed for things – in the case of Lucius' theory, Roman soldiers, and in the case of the black vessel, spider-monsters – to cross from one ship to another. This would allow the Romans' superior infantry to outshine Carthage's navy.

His idea was extremely well received, and he was forgiven for his shortcomings and failure in the eyes of the Roman people. Immediately afterwards, we was placed at the head of the new construction effort to build a navy worthy of Roma.

He and his team worked remarkably quickly, and a fleet of fivescore quinqueremes and singlescore triremes was built in about a year. Lucius was not, at his own request, to lead the navy, or even a single ship – he would act merely as a scientific observer on the rear flagship, making sure that the individual vessels remained in one piece.

He and the rear naval commander, one Gaius Duilius, were not present at the first real naval battle against Carthage at the Lipari Islands, but when news of the Roman defeat reached Lucius' ears he was greatly discouraged. He spent the next few days moping about his cabin until Gaius Duilius got him out of it by encouraging him with words of victory. The new system just had to be mastered, Duilius said, and it would be the two of them who would do it, for Gnaeus Cornelius Scipio Asina, the commander of the entire navy, had been captured at the Lipari Islands. This left Duilius the command of the fleet. Lucius was relieved to hear that no black vessel had been sighted – although he would have been less relieved to hear of several of the vessels' crews being found dead of strange, unexplained wounds while nowhere near the main combat.

V

Gaius Duilius was correct in his belief that victory was imminent – for it was, although Lucius was destined never to know of it. It was to occur off the coast of Mylae, and it was to be Gaius Duilius' rise to glory.

Lucius transferred vessels at this juncture, for it was not desirable for the man of craft and nautical science to be at the forefront of the fleet, which was where the flagship, of course, would be. Instead, Lucius stayed with the reserves, in one of the last vessels that would go forth. He was content to sit back and watch the battle from afar. He held no fear of any black vessels sliding across the sea, for the sun was bright, and he believed that no harm would come to him while there was daylight. If only he had remembered that the dreaded vessel had appeared to him the first two times in the middle of the day, when the sun was high.

Hannibal Gisco was Duilius' opponent on that day, and the battle was to be relatively swift. Lucius watched with pleasure as his vessels – and his corvi – went into action, hooking onto the Carthaginian ships and allowing the Roman legions to finally fight at sea. So enthralled was Lucius – and the ship's captain – by the sight that neither man noticed that their ship was slowly drifting away from the other rear vessels of the fleet.

It was just as the two men realized just how far they had moved that the black vessel came, this time surprising Lucius even more than before with its swiftness. One moment there was nothing, and the next there was the vessel. It no longer towered above the quinquereme; in fact, the black vessel was considerably smaller, being itself a three-decked ship. Despite the terrible fear running down Lucius' spine, he allowed himself to grin – the ship's corvi were too short to reach up to the decks of the mighty quinquereme.

Would it have been that he were not mistaken. Lucius regretted his thought an instant later as he saw the corvi's claws begin to stretch, the wood of the ship moving and bending as the very surfaces of the corvi began to stretch and expand, moving upwards, towards the deck of Lucius' vessel.

Lucius caught the attention of the captain and pointed out the vessel below him, but the captain said he saw nothing. The boatmaker's heart dropped into his stomach as the terrible claws of the corvi reached the deck of the ship, resting themselves lightly on the rail, and he saw movement down below. He could not bring himself to look at the spider-people, and instead began to shiver. The captain told him to go down below and take a rest, but Lucius remained unmoving.

Thoroughly confused and exasperated, the captain shook his head and turned his attention back to Mylae, even as Lucius' nerve finally broke and he ran screaming from the black vessel. The captain turned around to see what Lucius had been running from, and a filthy claw was thrust through his abdomen. When the claw opened, the captain's upper torso flew from his body, landing with a sickening thud upon the deck.

To all but the fleeing Lucius, it appeared as if the captain had been cut in half without any cause. The men all shouted for help and gathered their arms, rushing up to their slain captain, and as they ran forward, they were all cut down mercilessly by foes they could not see.

By the time the crew had all been dispatched, Lucius was curled up in a shaking mass at the bow of the ship, not believing what was before him. These things did not deserve to walk under the light of day – they were creatures of the night, of man's darkest nightmare. They had no business existing beneath the sun.

Lucius was unable to move any part of his body as the things scuttled rapidly down towards him – he couldn't even will himself to jump off. The things surrounded him, some even crawling over the edge to stand behind him, but made no move to hurt him. A strange hissing was traded between the members of the spider-thing pack, and after a minute or so of this hideous discourse, the thing directly in front of Lucius reached forward with an open claw, and the light slid from the Roman's eyes as he unfurled upon the deck.

He came to his senses only minutes later, chained to a damp wall in the black bowels of a filthy vessel. The shackles around his wrists and ankles were too tight, and they chafed him badly. Lucius grimaced and looked around him, but could find no features other than the high ceiling and curving floor to tell him where he was. All he knew was that he was belowdecks in some foreign boat. But whose boat?

He then remembered what had happened to him when he still dwelt in the light of day, and he lost his senses again as he lapsed back into unconsciousness, his mind not able to come to terms with what was happening. Like any good Roman, he was religious and made sacrifices to the gods and attended all of the appropriate rituals – but never before had he heard of terrible things such as these spider-beings, who travelled the waters in dread black vessels, taking the lives of innocent Roman men. What gods would allow such things to exist?

He regained consciousness again nearly an hour later, and found that things had changed. There was more light, for two torches had been placed in front of him, set at the top of tall iron stands. Between those torches was an ornate chair covered with titanic rubies, sapphires, and diamonds that glittered eerily in the dim light. White silk cushions rested atop the glimmering chair, and upon those cushions sat an old man with calloused and wrinkled skin, filthy black hair, and a skin complexion that was impossible to define – somehow both black and white, and yet neither as well. Upon seeing Lucius awaken, the man opened his mouth in a hideous smile, revealing his five remaining teeth, all but one decayed so badly that nothing could ever have brought them back.

The man's eyes were glazed over, cataracts having taken hold of them in their entirety. Yet for all that, he seemed able to see, and his eyes seemed to move up and down Lucius' body, his head remaining still. In his right hand he clutched a gnarled staff, and it took Lucius a moment to realize that the shimmering at its top was in fact a curved blade.

It was then that the man spoke in clear Latin to Lucius, his voice wheezy and gasping. "How is it that you have come to possess the ghost-sight, child?"

Lucius was still too petrified to move, and so made no response.

"I see how it is. All of the others are the same." The man waved his left hand, and the flames atop the torches grew brighter and taller, allowing Lucius to see, for the first time, what was around him.

Immediately, Lucius wished that he couldn't. Chained to the wall all around him and above him, on all sides of the massive chamber – which appeared to take up all three decks of the trireme – were other humans, some appearing to be almost apes. Their heads hung down in despair and defeat, their clothes having long since rotted away, leaving their naked bodies open to the musty air. All ages, races, and genders were represented: young and old, Oriental and Arab, Caucasian and African, Aborigine and Persian, Mesoamerican and Indian, male and female.

"They all went silent, too, when I took them. A rare gift you have, being able to see my vessel. Of course, I don't much come to the waking world – not much for me here except when a little extra coin is to be made." The man chuckled, and the noise that came out of his mouth was the most hideous thing that Lucius had ever heard. "Much as I enjoy posing as a Carthaginian sorcerer, my pay is now enough and it is time, I believe, to return to the underworld. Now that I have you, there is nothing more for me here."

The man leapt to his feet and clapped his hands together, his staff remaining upright beside him. "But of course, rules are rules! Do you happen to have any coins on you?"

Lucius still could not move, let alone speak, for he was still petrified. The old man hobbled forward when Lucius gave no response, and began to feel all around his tunic, causing the Roman to faint again. When he next awoke, the chair was gone, but the torches and the man were still there.

"No coins. My apologies, Roman, but you're going to have to stay with me until you can pay the ferryman." The man's rotting smile broke free again. "I believe that you may be staying with me for a very long time. But you'll have the company of the other dead who cannot cross over. Please enjoy your stay."

The man turned and began to shuffle away, and then turned around. "Oh, I forget my manners, how silly of me. If you ever decide to speak to me, I must tell you my name. I am called Caethagus, but to you Romans and your friends the Greeks I am known as Kharon, to the Etruscans I am called Charun, to the Maya I am called Lacandon, to the Celts I am Balor, and to the Egyptians I am named Anubis. Take your pick; I will answer to all."

Then the man Caethagus closed his hand and the flames went out, leaving Lucius trapped in the dark silence of Kharon's vessel, destined to forever be alone among many. Never was he again to see the light of day or feel the sun on his face, for Kharon would never let him go – after all, he was dead, and he could not pay the ferryman.

Lord of Carrion

Rot.

The rich smell of decaying flesh flowed up into his nostrils and his eyes closed as a wave of ecstasy shuddered to his brain. Gaunt flesh shivered and stretched as the master's body unfolded and reared to its full, magnificent height. Cracked bones jutted from tears in his leathery skin, and as he took his first steps forward, new gashes opened up along his emaciated torso.

Death.

The sky was was a faded yellow and the world was tense and silent. Brittle soil crunched beneath bony feet, baked under the harsh glare of a pallid sun. A long, thin toe brushed against a tiny clover, struggling to bring life to the barren landscape. Green turned to brown, and the clover began to decay and crumble into dust. The Lord of Crows paid it no need; his goal lay ahead.

Putrefaction.

A smile marred the face of the Rotted King, his leathery skin stretched even tighter over his narrow face. Lengthy strands of faded white hair fluttered to the ground, abandoning their perches on the Gaunt Man's crumpled head. Gleaming bone showed on his decaying scalp as the flesh peeled away, withering down to nothing. A dead tree appeared from the grey mists, and the sky began to take on a sickly ochre hue. The sweet smell of decomposition emanated from the base of a twisted tree. It was the only break in the endless monotony of the dead plains.

Decay.

The Count of Corpses lurched forward his final few steps and clumsily knelt before the putrid corpse of what had once been Man. The ravens and crows began to descend, a carpet of midnight covering all the land. Buzzards and long-necked vultures circled beneath the emerging flames of the sun, waiting in silence as the sun's bleak gaze baked the body of Man. The Master of the Fallen buried his face in the dry, stinking flesh, his fangs gleaming for an instant in the light. He reared back his head, strings of disintegrating meat wedged between his crooked teeth. His empty, hungry eyes glowed with a foul, beautiful life as he feasted, gnarled claws thrusting deep into the flesh of Man, the Baron's naked body convulsing with pleasure. Silence was broken by sickening squelches as the King's jaws tore open and ripped out the delicious meat. The juices of decomposition flowed down his haggard face, and the carrion birds all about him set up a raucous chorus as he gorged himself upon the desiccated remnants of what had been Man.

Pleasure.

The Prince of Putrescence got to his feet when the flesh was finally stripped from the gleaming bones of Man. He took with him a bone and cracked it in two, pouring the dried dust of marrow down his parched and aching throat. Tossing aside his last meal, the King of the Scavengers gradually stretched to his full lanky height, taking a deep and shuddering breath.

Rot.

The heady stench of putrescent flesh seeped into his nostrils, and the Lord of Carrion smiled, staggering away from the bones of Man. The carrion birds descended upon the dulling bones as the primal god of aeons moved onward, his dead, vacant eyes set upon another feast, a lifeless body lying beneath a lifeless tree, nourishing only scavengers and Time.

The Derelict

[Originally Published in Space Adventure Magazine, Issue 1]

"Going in – this is a big one, Reggie. Wonder what took it down."

"Scans show very little surface damage; just an abrasion portside, near the rear. Not a large one, though – looks like it's only a meter or two long. Nothing serious."

"Then whatever got them came from inside," Diana murmured.

"Aye, looks like. Probably just bad air filtration or something. But be careful anyway."

Diana rolled her eyes. As if she was ever not careful. She finished placing the charges around the airlock's exterior lock, and then moved a few meters down the length of the derelict ship, pulling herself along using bright orange cables that she had pinned to the hull. Once she was a safe distance away, she pressed the big red button in the center of the remote held in her right hand. The charges exploded silently, blasting open the airlock's exterior door. The flames from the explosion managed to survive a few seconds in the outpouring of oxygen before their fuel supply was cut off and dispersed.

"Right. Time to see what we've got here."

Reggie didn't say anything as she watched Diana move back towards the now very open airlock from the safety of their ship. Her ship. The Buzzard, she was called; an apt name for what her crew did. Reggie preferred to think of her current day job as that of a recycler, making sure that nothing went to waste. More polite members of society would probably have called her a salvager, a derelict stripper, or a vulture. What she did for science.

"Is Diana in yet, cap'n?" called a voice from behind Reggie. She swiveled around in her bright orange plush chair and shook her head as a rather large man stepped onto the bridge.

"Just about though," she added, pointing through the window behind her with her thumb. She shook her curly black hair out of her eyes. The man looked over the captain's shoulder and nodded.

"She's in now."

Reggie swiveled back around again and watched Diana vanish into the airlock. Her voice came in over the communications channel a moment later. "Place seems empty – I'm in a side corridor, looks like. No signs of life – or death, even. Not here. Surprisingly clean, really... I'll sweep this side of the ship and see if it's safe for us to dock."

The captain pushed one button among many on the control panel laid out before her. "Alright. Take your time; we don't want another booby-trapped ship waiting for us." Bloody Terran law enforcement, Reggie thought. They look rather different from the lower side of life. She released the button.

"Is the engine still running fine? Will we be able to get close?" Reggie asked, not turning to look behind her at the olive-skinned giant. If she had, she would have seen his bearded face break out in a grin.

"She's runnin' smoother than I ever seen her," he responded. "Y'should have no trouble t'all bringin' her in. Even the microthrusters are all up and running."

Reggie smiled and slowly turned around. "All of them, Jorge?"

"Damn near's I can tell," he continued, still grinning. "Just got 'em all up and goin'."

"I don't think we've ever had them all working at the same time," Reggie murmured, her brown hand hiding a mischievous grin. "Are you quite sure they're all working?"

"D'you doubt my mechanical prowess?" Jorge said, an affronted look crossing his face. He puffed out his chest in a way that clearly showed that he was the biggest and baddest bird on the beach. "When I say I got somethin' workin', that somethin's workin'."

Reggie swiveled around and rested her hands on the ship's wheel. It was a U-shaped affair, stuck on the end of a shaft coming out of the floor at a forty-five degree angle. She tilted it back, forth, left, right, and slid it forward and backward, admiring the way the ship turned at the slightest movement of the wheel. She checked all of the microthrusters' functionalities, and couldn't find fault. He did well. Her grin widened. But if you give a man a compliment, he'll think he's lord of the universe. Her thoughts flew back to a moment three years ago, and she saw her protégé's face laughing at her as he accepted what should have been hers. Reggie's expression darkened for a moment. She'd show him.

"P40's out," she said vaguely, coming back to herself. "Doesn't seem to be responding properly."

"What? No, you've got to be..." the mechanic was out of the room in a flash, running back down to the engine room. Reggie pushed the past aside and counted. One... two... three...

"Reggie!" came the shout from below, and the captain grinned. She loved her crew. She had promised herself she'd keep her distance – this was only a temporary affair, after all – but it got lonely out in the cold reaches of space.

She'd picked them all up in various dead-end jobs; Jorge had been a chronically unemployed hovercar mechanic on New Eden, Diana had been a security guard for a whorehouse on Demeter, and Jon had been a quack physician on Terra. Or Earth, if you preferred the old name, which Reggie did. It had been risky, running the ship by herself for those few weeks before she picked them up, one by one, but it had been worth it. She now had a handpicked crew who owed her everything. She needed unquestioning loyalty if she was to get done what she needed to, and that was what she had. Jorge walked by the door to the bridge and glared at her as he walked by, en route to the galley to pick up a snack before the docking.

Jonathan Dallies – M. sort of D. – served as both the ship's cook and its physician. He had received half of a medical education from the premier institute on Earth, but had been expelled after an event he will call only "the giraffe accident." His practical experience was phenomenal and his results had almost always been positive, but his lack of formal accreditation had doomed him in the medical world. After saving Reggie's life after a nearly-botched mugging in Cayro, his healing skills – not to mention his cooking talents – become readily apparent, and he leapt at the chance to be paid what almost was a salary to practice.

He stood behind the galley's counter as Jorge approached, constantly adjusting his ill-fitting spectacles. The glasses were an affectation of his; laser readjustment could easily have fixed his eye problem, but he believed that the presence of glasses somehow enhanced his status and reputation, and so he refused to give them up. Jorge was reasonably sure that the things actually impaired his vision.

"Whatcha' got there, Jonnyboy?" Jorge said, sitting down at a stool in front of the counter.

Jon adjusted his glasses again and didn't look up from whatever was cooking on the stove before him. "Flapjacks." As he said the word, a pancake flew up into the air, flipped seven times, and then landed back down on the pan.

The cooking doctor looked up, his glasses fogged over. "Ready, just for you!"

"Can you make anything besides flapjacks?" Jorge rumbled good-naturedly.

"Don't think so," Jon replied. "Or at least, so I've been told. I should branch out some, huh?"

Jorge didn't even bother to nod as the plate was placed before him. Why are there three flapjacks? He was only cooking one... If there was anything that Jorge had learned as a boy, it was never to question anything – or anyone – that supplied you with meals. He wolfed down the buttery trio in a matter of moments.

Jon stepped out from behind the counter, wiping his glasses on his shirt. "You heading out soon, then?"

Jorge nodded as he slid the plate over the counter, where it landed in the sink. "Prob'ly. Diana's clearin' the area for us."

"Good call, that was," Jon said approvingly. "Don't want a repeat of the booby-trapped wreck we hit last week."

"Aye," the mechanic said as he stood and stretched. "Hopefully this one'll be the big hit Reggie's been promisin' us. Certainly th'ship itself 'is big. It's huge, I tell you; y'should go see for yourself."

"Already have," Jon said, placing his glasses back on his nose, ignoring them as they immediately tilted to the right. "It's quite a beauty; it probably has something of value on board. Assuming whoever took out the ship didn't make off any of the important functioning bits."

"The exterior scans showed it to be mostly intact," Jorge responded. "S'there seems t'be a good chance of gettin' a lot o'good parts outta' this one."

"We'll find out soon enough, I suppose," Jon said.

"Aye," Jorge replied. There was a brief moment of awkward silence. Neither man was particularly good at talking with the other.

"So if it is the big one, what are you going to do with your share?" Jon asked politely.

The big man shrugged. "Dunno. Booze. Maybe some women." He said the last bit conspiratorially, winking. Jon nodded; Reggie was a staunch opponent to the use and existence of prostitutes, and might withhold payment if she thought money would be used on them.

Jorge thought more seriously for a moment. "Maybe some new parts for the ship, too. Trick her out a bit."

"But this is Reggie's ship," Jon pointed out. "She owns it; if you trick it out at your own expense, whatever you do will become hers. Plus, she always sets aside a part of what we get for keeping the ship maintained."

The mechanic shrugged. "She deserves it," he said. "Plus I don't see myself leavin' anytime soon. D'you?"

Jon shook his head. "Even if I did, no one would take me. I'm nothing out there. I'd be arrested and thrown in prison for the rest of my life. Reggie's been good to me." He leaned back, expecting to find a wall, but instead nearly fell down to the floor. Catching himself, he continued. "And with my share of the profits, I'd get this thing a better operating room. There's bound to be a serious accident at some point. And more food," he added. "Food just for me. Real food. Sophisticated food."

Jorge shook his head at the long word and began to head back to the engine room. "We should be leavin' soon; might be best to talk t'the cap'n."

"Will do in a moment," Jon called. He retreated back to his counter, sent Jorge's fork, knife, and dish through the washer, and returned them to their proper places. Satisfied, he hurried to the bridge to speak to the captain.

As it was, he arrived just in time to hear Diana give the all-clear. "We're going in," Reggie said, not turning to look at Jon, focusing instead on the controls. "You'll take my seat, as always. Keep an eye out for Terran patrols. Give us assistance if we need it. Make sure we're all in contact with you at all times. The usual. Got it?"

"Aye aye, captain." Jon straightened slightly and saluted. She didn't see his gesture, as she was carefully guiding the Buzzard in towards the new hole in the derelict's hull. Jorge really can do his work, she thought in admiration as she gently guided the ship towards the gap in the derelict's hole. When the ship's lower sensors started blinking, Reggie stopped the ship, noting with a passing interest that the derelict seemed to not be moving through space at all, which was unusual for a wrecked vessel; they tended to exhibit momentum from whatever had last happened to them. This vessel, though, seemed almost fixed in space. But a wreck's a wreck, Reggie reasoned. And this one looks very promising. Maybe enough to get me a new batch of equipment.

On the derelict, Diana had made her way back up to the hole she had made, and watched the Buzzard float in. The ship really didn't bear any resemblance at all to its namesake, the crew's self-proclaimed "commando" thought as it floated closer. Her eye slid over its clunky curves, and she noticed that each of the tiny microthrusters positioned about the hull – to allow the ship to make minute adjustments in space – all seemed to be working. Jorge did well, she thought. All of them working at once. Imagine that.

Her hand moved down unconsciously to rest on the handle of an E-7X energy pistol strung through her belt. Her pride and joy. She knew every imperfection and stain on its gleaming chrome surface, and could drop a body from a hundred yards away without aiming. Not that she ever had a real chance to use the thing, of course; Reggie was earnest in her belief that weapons were only to be used when there was no other option available. At least this job pays a helluva lot more than Giorgio's did, even if the paychecks are farther apart, Diana thought. And the company is much better.

The Buzzard was beautiful in her own way. There wasn't a smooth curve on her, not like you'd find all over Terran police vessels, but she had a rugged charm that no shiny government ship could ever hope to match. She was a mostly a dark brown, though she had several very light brown splotches scattered across her hull, and was shaped like a bent thumbtack. The front of the ship was vaguely hemispherical, and a window in the center let the pilot see out into space. The front contained all of the living areas, the gravity drive, and the engines, and was actually able to detach from the rear in times of need. The rear of the ship was a cylinder bent at a forty-five degree angle at the end, mainly used for storing whatever they could cannibalize off of derelicts like this one. The very end of the cylinder could open up and create a vacuum-seal, effectively connecting any breach in the hull of the target ship to the Buzzard herself. It was a beautiful design.

Reggie was gently moving the ship's crooked end towards the hole Diana had made, making extensive use of the cameras placed strategically about the Buzzard's hull to let her see places that her window wouldn't let her. The tip of the cylinder drifted slowly towards the commando, who floated over to the edge of the breach she had made. The Buzzard stopped moving, and the end of the cylinder unfolded, shooting a thick black plastic tube that hit the derelict's hull with a satisfying thud. There was a faint hissing sound as the vacuum seal was established. At the far end of the tube, Diana could barely make out a blinking light and a door. She floated back to the far wall, waiting for the rest of the team and wishing she could get out of the rather uncomfortable bright orange spacesuit. What is it with Reggie and orange, anyway?

"Right, Jon," the lover of orange said as she hopped out of her chair back on the Buzzard. "The place is yours. The computer should be able to get into whatever systems the derelict had that are still running. Tell us when it gets through, and look up the blueprints and schematics."

"Aye aye, cap'n!" Jon saluted again, and Reggie returned it this time. The doctor sat down in Reggie's chair while the captain scrambled off to get into her suit. A few minutes later the speakers on the bridge played Reggie's voice, and he ran her through a communications check. He did the same with Jorge a few seconds later.

"Right, Jon, we're heading out," Reggie's voice said. A light lit up on the display in front of the doctor as the captain opened the door leading to the airlock at the end of the crooked cylinder. The light went out as she closed it again, and then a second light blinked on as she opened the door on the other side, leading out onto the derelict. Good luck, he wished them, then said it out loud. "Good luck."

"No need for that," Reggie replied. "We'll be talking to you the whole time. Can you patch Diana into our channel?"

Jon nodded, said "Aye," and carefully pressed the proper buttons – just like Reggie had shown him the year before – to patch Diana through, allowing all four members of the crew to speak to each other at the same time.

The door at the end of the black tube slid open, and Diana watched the medium-sized form of Reggie glide through it, followed by the gargantuan Jorge. The pair floated gracefully down the tube and touched down in front of Diana. They both flicked their suits' headlamps on, further illuminating the place. A few moments later, Diana was patched into the conversation.

"Right, Diana. So do we have breathable oxygen levels in the rest of the ship?" Reggie looked around the small airlock of the derelict, her eyes missing nothing.

"Aye, cap'n," she said. She gestured to the leftmost door leading out of the airlock. "At least down that way there is; I was able to turn off the air supply and open the suit's ventilators and not die. It's perfectly breathable, at least for a short period of time."

Reggie sighed. "Don't go taking risks like that, please. There could have been trace elements of poison in the atmosphere that your suit wouldn't pick up. You could be dead."

"But I'm not," Diana said cheerfully. "So you can stop worrying."

The captain just shook her head. "So, was there anything down that way?"

"Not of value, cap'n," the commando replied. She pointed at the rightmost door. "My guess is that the bridge is that w-"

"Got it!" Jon said triumphantly over the communications channel. "There's a faint residual digital network in the ship still. Scans show the bridge is down the door that would be to your right, assuming you're facing me."

Diana nodded, slightly annoyed. "Right. Like I said. Or was saying. The bridge is that way." She pointed half-heartedly.

"There also appears to be... a cargo bay? A large one... uses up most of the ship's interior space. If you take the door directly across from the breach, you should reach it," Jon said.

"What t'hell kinda ship has an airlock wit' three doors leadin' outta it?" Jorge muttered.

"That is strange," Reggie murmured. Diana nodded in agreement, and turned to look curiously at the door next to her.

"The manufacturer is... unlisted." Jon sounded curious. "Huh. No records of it anywhere." There was a moment of silence as the doctor peered more closely at the blueprints. "And the layout is like nothing I've seen before..." The airlock isn't the half of it, Jon mused. But I shan't worry them.

"Well, there are three of us, and three doors," Diana said. "I've already gone down one of them, and couldn't find anything useful. Clear of booby traps, though. Not a single one! We're the first ones here, I think."

"Good, good," Reggie said distractedly, thinking. "No signs of life, Jon?"

"Aye, captain. Nothing. Well, nothing other than you three, I think..."

"You think?" Reggie's voice was sharp. "Can't you tell?"

"Negative, captain. I'm pretty sure, though. There's a sort of... interference. Like something's trying to decide if it wants to be alive or not." On the Buzzard, Jon frowned at the lifescanner. His three crewmates showed up as clear as daylight, but there was a fuzzier something else there as well. But anything larger than a mouse would show up at half the magnitude of the three of them – and there's nothing that large here. Most of the time.

"Interference? How on Earth does a lifescanner get interference?"

"Not the faintest," Jon replied, staring at the green lines on the monitor. "There's a sort of... err..." he struggled to find the words. "There's a wavy green line beneath all of your spikes, only about a twentieth of the size most of the time, fluctuating rapidly between nonexistence and... being off the charts..."

There was silence at the other end. "Captain?" said Jon hesitantly.

"Mmhmm?"

"Do you have any clue?"

"Nope. Seems like the equipment's just malfunctioning. You say you can read our spikes loud and clear?"

"Aye. It's just a wavy-"

"I think we're good then," Reggie interrupted. She took a deep breath. "We're in a rather deserted sector of space, but I had a report from a trusted source two days back saying that there was a Terran cruiser in the area. I'd like to get this done as quickly as possible."

"The engines are near the cargo bay," Jon said helpfully, eyes scanning the schematics of the ship on the main display.

"Alright," Reggie decided. "Diana, go with Jorge down the center door. Start moving any valuable shipments in there. Jorge, follow Jon's instructions past there to the engine room. See if there are any valuable bits in there. I'll head to the bridge and get what I can there. Understood?"

There were two "ayes," and then they went their separate ways. Reggie closed the airlock door behind her and smiled. She loved her crew dearly, but sometimes she needed time alone. Or at least as alone as you can get with a communications system in your helmet, she thought drily. She kicked her way along the zero-g corridor, noting several doors set into the interior hallway. If there was anything of value in them, Jon would have said something. Personal possessions left behind didn't count. The Buzzard didn't hold a gang of thieves. Jewelry, personal items, and valuable recreational electronics were always left alone. They weren't robbing from the dead; they were recycling parts that otherwise wouldn't be used, and managed to earn a little money doing so. They took the valuable parts of dead ships and whatever market cargo they carried to sell on the black market back in central space. Then the crew took a few days holiday on whatever world they happened to be on, and then took off again. It was a better life than the other three had ever known; Reggie had descended from the skies and offered them salvation. And they had offered Reggie the chance to prove that those who doubted her back home were worthless.

The captain took out a small device from her pocket – looking much like a small computer screen, and pursed her lips. It seemed as if the phenomenon had moved on. Ah well. I'll find another one to study. She replaced the device and kept moving down the corridor; she had to pay the bills somehow, and this ship promised her half a fortune.

She continued to float past the closed doors. Probably the crew's and passengers' personal quarters, she thought. A ship of this size took as many passengers as they could, mostly refugees, in order to supplement their already considerable income. The captain of a freighter like this one could make him or herself a very rich person rather quickly; big freighter captains retired faster than they could be replaced.

Reggie hoped that Jorge and Diana weren't breaking into any rooms and ransacking them. She had never been overly superstitious, but she still felt wrong about taking the personal belongings of another – even when they were dead. Her crew was explicitly forbidden from committing that particular sin, and they usually had no problem with that; she paid them the same share she got, and did as much work as they did. Besides, they all owed her.

Jorge had been mostly unemployed and wanted for petty crime – and a not-so-petty crime – on New Eden. She'd managed to lift him out of his home before it was raided by the police. She smiled as she remembered the grateful look in the giant's eyes, and the delight that lit them up when she had offered him an actual job. Jon had been released on bail after being imprisoned for the death of one of his patients – of causes completely unrelated to his treatment, Jon would hurriedly add every time he was questioned on the matter – and Reggie had scooped him up before he was due to face a jury that would have undoubtedly sentenced him to life in prison. Reggie had saved Diana's life when she was fighting off a large group of drunkards wanting free admission to the brothel she guarded; the Amazon-like security guard had jumped at the chance to go on an adventure and had packed and been ready to go within the hour.

Reggie's reveries were interrupted as she passed by a door that was half-opened. Curious, she used a microthruster on her suit to stop her flight. She mostly tuned out Jon's relaying of instructions to Jorge as she approached the door. So they've reached the cargo hold. The captain peered into the room, and found it completely empty. Not even a bed. An empty cargo room? She floated over to the next door, and fiddled with the keypad on it until it hissed open. There's still some residual power somewhere, it seems. The ship probably hasn't been dead long. The room was empty. She moved another one down. Also empty.

Reggie kicked back and thought for a moment. Why would a ship of this size have empty rooms? The captains of larger ships especially tried to cram as many people and goods as they possibly could into their vessel. Ships like this one tended to be filled to the brim. So why are the rooms empty? Did the inhabitants have a chance to flee with all they had? But then why no beds?

She decided to not risk further unnerving herself by opening more doors, and so kicked off against the floor and sped purposefully down the corridor. The door at its end soon came into sight, and Reggie used the microthrusters to slow herself down. When her fiddling with the keypad didn't open the door, she took a plasmaslicer from her belt and flipped it on.

In the center of the ship, Diana looked curiously around the gigantic cargo hold. It really did take up most of the ship's interior, with the other rooms on the vessel all spread about its edge. The hold was filled with aluminum crates, arranged into two rows of disturbingly neat pyramids. The crates were all unlabeled, and try as she might, Diana couldn't open a single one of them; the lids appeared to be welded on. After a few minutes she gave up pulling at them and drew her plasmaslicer from her belt. She turned it on, and a burst of controlled plasma about two inches long came out of its hooked tip. She ran the plasma through the box's side, making a circle. She closed the circle, turned the slicer off, and stepped back, expecting a neat disk to fall out onto the floor.

It didn't.

"What the hell?" she muttered.

"What's up?" Jon's voice replied.

"These crates... they're solid! They're fucking solid!"

"What?"

"Exactly!"

Jon leaned back in his chair and stroked his remarkably hairless chin. Solid crates? "They don't move either!" Diana said as she tried to pull one away from the others. She peered at the thin crack between two crates. It was only a couple of inches deep. "The things are fused together! The crates are fake!" She turned her gaze to the floor, and got down on her hands and knees. "And they seem to be fused to the floor, too. What the fuck?"

Reggie had broken through the door at this point, and was looking confusedly at the scene before her. Her mind finished processing Diana's words. "And the bridge..."

After a moment of silence, Jon asked, "And the bridge?"

"It's all wrong." Reggie cautiously advanced forward. "The control layout doesn't make any sense... and the steering wheel is upside down!"

An astonished noise came from Jorge's throat. "And there's no gravity drive! There's t'spot for it, but there's no drive there! Just a silvery pyramid!"

Diana slowly backed away from the crates. "Something's not right. I thought that this catch was too good to be true. Huge freighter, in the middle of nowhere, not moving an inch... it's almost as if someone was trying to lure us out here."

"Aye," Reggie said, pondering the controls before her. "Diana?"

"Yes?"

"You don't have your air supply disconnected and the ventilators on, do you?"

"Nope. Should I -"

"No. Don't you dare. Same goes for you, Jorge. Something is very wrong here."

There was no response.

"Jorge?"

Silence.

"Jon, is Jorge still in communication with us?"

Jon peered over at the communication readouts. "As far as I can tell, he is..." He peered more closely at the data.

"Sorry!" Jorge's voice came back, and Reggie and Diana both sighed with relief.

"Why didn't you reply!" Reggie said.

"Thought I saw something," came the reply. "Didn't want t'say somethin' and startle it."

There was a brief pause. "Two things," Reggie said. "One, we're the only life on board this ship, and two, I don't think the sound would carry through your spacesuit anyway. Respond immediately the next time you're spoken to."

"Aye-aye, cap'n," Jorge said.

"Good. Now, Jon?"

"Aye?" Jon replied, leaning forward.

"The deep-space scanners are on, yes?'

"Of course, captain."

"Watch them carefully. This ship is clearly some sort of trap; we just don't how and who for yet. Someone might be coming for us soon. The instant you pick up anything heading towards us, you say so. Understood?"

"Clear as day, cap'n."

"Good." Reggie nodded to herself and turned back to the control panel. Who uses an upside-down steering wheel? She floated closer to the controls, and tried to make sense of them. She failed. They seemed to just be a random mass of levers, buttons, and...

"...springs?" she said incredulously.

"Pardon?" Jon's voice said.

"There are springs on these controls," she said. "And there's not even anything on top of them!" There was no response. Reggie shook her head and turned around. "I don't think there's anything here for us – and this place is giving me the creeps. I'm going to check the rooms on the corridor leading here, and then we're all going to get back on the ship." She couldn't have her triumph if she was arrested or kidnapped... or killed. "Jorge, how's the engine?" After a moment of thought, she added, "And what is it you thought you saw?"

There was silence.

"Jorge! I told you to-"

Someone gasped. "He's gone!" Jon said.

"What?" said Reggie. "What do you mean?"

"He's gone. Just... not here anymore. He was there – and then suddenly his communicator stopped working. And this instrument lit up funny..."

"What instrument?" Reggie said sharply.

"Err... it's sort of a small circular monitor at the top of all the other ones... it flashed blue the instant before Jorge's communicator went out."

"Shit," Reggie swore. The phenomenon is still here – and it's malignant. These things aren't safe close up! "We're in over our heads. Let's get back to the ship." I need my instruments! And my crew – I'm not losing another one.

"But what about Jorge?" protested Diana. "Maybe his communicator just died-"

"No," Reggie said flatly. He's gone. Trust me."

"How do you know?"

"Trust me, I said!"

There was silence for a moment. "I'm going after him."

"Diana! Stop!" Reggie knew it was hopeless. Diana didn't reply.

"What does that instrument measure?" Jon asked quietly.

"Interdimensional shifts," Reggie responded, equally as softly. Diana didn't appear to hear. "When it flashes blue, there's some sort of interdimensional activity going on." They might as well know what they're up against.

Back on the Buzzard, Jon paled. "Are you saying... that Jorge fell into another dimension?" It didn't even occur to him to question the instrument's presence on the ship. Reggie hoped he didn't find some of the less benign equipment she had stored on board.

Best case scenario, Reggie thought.

"Diana! Don't follow him!" Jon was leaning forward now, looking intently at what he could see of the derelict. He glanced nervously behind him. The empty ship seemed much more menacing all of a sudden.

Diana didn't listen. Her breathing was still audible, but she made no verbal response.

"Reggie... how do we get her back?" Jon's voice trembled slightly.

"I go get her." Reggie closed her eyes and offered a prayer to whoever would listen. I put their lives at risk. I killed Jorge.

But they're just tools, said a nasty voice in the back of her head. They're just here to let you continue your studies independently and unwatched. If they die, they die for science.

No one should have to die for science! Reggie raged against herself, and won. "What's the fastest way to the cargo bay?" she asked the doctor.

"The way you came," Jon responded. After a moment, he added, "Be careful!"

"I always am," Reggie murmured. She launched herself down the corridor she had come from, shooting by the empty rooms, almost slamming into the airlock at the far end. She hurriedly opened the door, floated to the central one, and hurried through that too, leaving it open for the air to fill. She zoomed down a short corridor and came out between two large pyramids of crates. She could see a row of identical structures across from her.

"Take a right," Jon's voice said. Reggie pushed off the floor and zoomed right once her path had cleared the first row of pyramids. She flew between the two rows of crates, passing by a dozen or so of the boxed structures. She quickly approached the end of the room. In front of her was a doorway, with stairs leading down into the darkness. "It's through that door at the end of the room," Jon said.

"Of course it is," the captain muttered, drawing her pistol. "Of course it is."

She slowed herself down as she approached the door, and used the ceiling to send herself careening down the stairs, her headlamp casting ominous shadows at the edges of her vision. Did something move over there? She didn't have time for childish fears, and immediately used her feet to send herself speeding to the left at a right angle. She stopped herself before she whizzed through the engine room, which the corridor she was on passed through. The space that a normal gravity drive normally would lie was indeed occupied by a pyramid of chrome, about a third of Reggie's height. "What the hell...?" she whispered. She looked at the engine, and she saw that it did not appear to be made of moving parts; it looked as if someone had just taken an image of an engine and made a sculpture from it. It looked the same as its model, but couldn't function in the same way. Or at all.

It seems as if this entire ship is a poorly designed copy of a Terran freighter, Reggie thought. She remembered the control panel on the bridge. Very poorly designed.

She continued down the corridor, and called Diana's name into her communicator again. There was no response with words, but Reggie heard a change in the commando's breathing – followed by a shrill scream.

"It went off again!" Jon shouted. Reggie was not concerned with that fact at the moment. There was something far worse here than the interdimensional phenomenon. Something bad enough to make Diana scream.

Diana never screamed.

The corridor took another sharp left, and Reggie slowed herself down as she approached, turning to face the inner corner. As the continuation of the corridor came into sight, she almost collided with the commando, who was careening down from the opposite direction.

"What's wrong?" Jon said, his voice nearly breaking. Back on the Buzzard, he had swiveled his chair to face the rest of the ship. Maybe the interdimensional anomaly can come here!

Reggie looked through Diana's visor and saw a panic that she never thought she would ever see in the woman. She grabbed the commando. "What happened?" Reggie asked, repeating Jon's question. Diana didn't respond, but instead tried to break out of the captain's hold. "No! Not until you tell me what-" Reggie was suddenly jerked forward with enough force to cause her to let go of Diana. Reggie cried out and prepared to kick off after her but then stopped short. That's a tentacle wrapped around Diana's leg! No sounds came from Diana's open mouth as the tentacle dragged the commando effortlessly away. Reggie raised her head, and her headlamp allowed her to see most of the way down the corridor.

She immediately wished it hadn't. All she could see were tentacles and terrible, translucent fangs set in a yawning maw that opened up wide as Diana hurdled towards it. And then the eyes... the three eyes stared right through her, seeing not just her skin, but her internal organs and her veins, and then not just that. Reggie felt her very soul being observed, and even then the thing's gaze kept going, piercing her very essence of being. She wanted to cry out, but found she couldn't. She couldn't even move as a second tentacle shot out towards her.

Then there was a blue flash of light and the thing – and Diana – were gone. The captain's head began to hurt, as if she had just seen something impossible. That direction doesn't exist... Reggie suddenly became aware of Jon shouting at her. "Reggie! Are you alright? The thing went off again! And Diana's gone! What the hell is going on? Reggie?"

The captain didn't waste her breath replying. She kicked off the wall and headed back the way she had come as quickly as she could. She zoomed back up the stairs, into the cargo hold, and then back to the airlock's interior door.

It was closed. She slammed into it, and it knocked the breath out of her. "Jon!" she said as soon as she could, as she began trying to get through the airlock using the keypad. "Check the life-signs! Something else is in here with us!"

"What is?"

"Check the fucking signs!"

Jon checked the signs. "There's nothing wrong! Just you and the interference!"

The interference. If there was a life-form from another dimension in the same space as the ship, would the lifescanner pick it up? Reggie's scientific mind revved up in preparation to go into overdrive. No. Otherwise they'd pick up beings all over the place. Right? Which means...

"Reggie." Jon said calmly. It was very clear that he was barely in control of himself. "What the hell is going on?"

Reggie's mind was racing. She could figure this out. She was Regina van Heuten, Nobel-prize winning physicist and dashing space captain to boot. She could do this. Her body tingled with simultaneous fear and excitement. I ran away from the life I could have had to study things like this! If only whatever it is wasn't trying to kill me...

"Reggie! It flashed blue again!"

"Check the life signs!" Reggie whipped out her plasmaslicer and turned it on. She began trying to slice through the door.

Jon obeyed, and he paled. "There's something else in there with you! And it's much bigger than you are! Get the hell out!"

"I'm trying!" The cuts she made in the door began to weld themselves shut. "Shit!" It can't end like this, Reggie thought. I have a Nobel Prize in interdimensional physics – I proved the bloody existence of other dimensions! I founded the field! And then got laughed off of Earth when my own students surpassed my theories. I'll show them! She gritted her teeth. I can't die now! Her thoughts began to run in circles as her marbles all began to flow out of her mind. I spent all of my money outfitting the ship! My entire fortune! I gave it the best sensors, the best equipment, and the best computers! It can't have failed me! Why didn't it warn me? I can't waste that investment! I have to get out of here! She tried the slicer again, but the door healed itself as before. What was that noise?

Reggie took deep breaths. Stop panicking, she ordered herself. Figure out what's going on and you can beat it.

"Okay," Reggie said, turning around to face behind her.

"It's not okay!' Jon's voice came back. "You're-"

"Shut up!" Reggie shouted. Jon shut up.

"Okay," she continued in the calm voice one uses when they're screaming silently on the inside. "The ship. The ship is fake. It's a fake ship. It doesn't work. It's as if someone unfamiliar with a ship was trying to copy an image of it. An image of it... a three dimensional image of it... it could see enough of the internal mechanisms to make some of it work, but not enough for it to be fully functional." Jon was listening in rapt silence to his captain. He had never heard her talk like this before. Who was she?

"As if the creator had seen a ship once before – but had seen all of it at once. Like I see all of a drawing on a sheet of paper at once. Like drawings on paper... it lives in a higher dimension than us. Okay. Higher-dimensional being... no. No. The life-signs... the interference... if only part of a being was in one dimension at a given time, that's exactly what would happen! Say like, an arm or a leg... while the rest of the body is in another one. Then it would give off strange, half-life signals..."

Jon was staring fearfully at the interdimensional activity instrument. It was glowing a solid, steady blue.

"It's an interdimensional being. Yes! It can exist in multiple dimensions at once, and perceive itself as existing in multiple dimensions... which means that we're only seeing a part of it..." Her brain was running faster than it ever had before, dusty neural pathways firing wildly. "But what part? The mouth? No... the head would be too close... and we're only perceiving a cross-section of whatever it is... and the cross-section looks like a mad, fanged, tentacle fish thing." An angler fish.

"No..." she said, a look of horror dawning on her face. Jon would have crumpled could he have seen it. "The ship! The derelict is part of the beast! Not created by it! Unless it can change the shape of its body parts at will... And the thing... the fangs... the eyes... the tentacles... that was its head! Or one head... the ship is part of the thing! Like a lure on a motherfucking angler fish! It was a trap! A trap designed specifically for us!" Three doors out of the airlock. Three people raiding the ship. "It's like it read our minds..." She thought back to the thing's terrible eyes, staring through her soul and into her essence of being. "That wouldn't be a problem for it." Her voice quavered. "It's a giant interdimensional angler fish! The derelict was its lure!"

Jon sat silently at the controls, not knowing what to make of his captain's rant. Reggie's sudden display of knowledge made it very clear, however, that someone was not who they said they were. But that can be sorted out later. "Captain, can you get through the airlock?" he asked urgently.

Reggie laughed. "No. Not at all. It can modify the derelict at will. It can heal itself. We don't stand a fucking chance. We just walked into the biggest booby trap ever." Her laughter took on a maniacal tone, and Jon began to panic. He didn't know how to fly the ship. "And it wasn't even the Terrans that caught us! Bloody bastards. They never could have caught us. Just like you lot never caught onto me!" Something snapped in Reggie's fraying mind. "Never questioned me... never wondered why I chose you... never thought to ask why I chose to go where we went... well I'll tell you!"

She's lost it, Jon thought. I'm going to die out here, all alone with a giant hungry space angler fish.

"I was following the interdimensional anomalies!' Reggie was almost singing. "Every time something weird showed up on my instruments, I followed it to its source! It was just our fortune that those sites were also rich in derelicts..." Reggie's maddened mind paused to think for a moment. "No... it wasn't! Those sites of interdimensional activity... those were what caused the derelicts to be there! The beings from elsewhere are malign! I-"

The instrument abruptly stopped glowing blue, and the captain's communication link vanished. Jon was all alone.

He panicked.

He pushed every button he possibly could, desperately trying to dislodge the ship from the derelict. It didn't work. He looked behind himself every few seconds, waiting for a monster to materialize in the room beyond, but there was nothing. Maybe it can't get here. He turned his attention back to the derelict. The ship shimmered, and then it changed. Jon could suddenly see all of it at the same time; he could see both sides of the walls, what was inside the walls, and what was beyond the walls, all laid out before him. He saw a terrible head, miniscule and yet massive, both inside and outside the derelict, attached to it via a long, thin tube. And there was a neck, stretching almost as far as he could see into the distance. And further than the distance, in a direction he could not comprehend, he could see heads. More heads. All the same creature...

The nearest slimy head turned and looked directly at Jon. It opened its mouth wide...

And then the entire thing vanished, pulled in a direction that Jon couldn't hope to even begin to conceptualize. He had only seen the whole, terrible thing, for a moment, and yet in that moment he was able to perceive the truth. Mere humans could only see part of it. But it could always see them. It could see them more than they could see themselves. Jon began laughing and crying at the same time, slumping over in his chair. It could always see them...

It was always watching.

The Wolf's Key

My father had been a professor of history at Tullas University, which was right down the street from where we had lived, for as long as I could remember. I actually lived in that house after I myself graduated from the same university, as my father decided to move out, to a place across town, closer to the its ancient library. My mother had died seven years before that, and now that his only child was self-sufficient, he only had to worry about himself.

Unfortunately, he passed away not five years after my graduation. He left most of his estate to his colleague and greatest friend, Professor Deary, but did leave me with one item. I received said item in the post from Deary himself, the executor of my late father's will. It came in a large manila envelope. The first thing I saw upon opening it was a sheet of paper, with a note from the still-living professor:

Dear Brockton,

I am sorry to say that your father did not leave this world with much, and he left it with even less to leave to you. He did, however, express a deep desire in his last words to have this key passed on to you after his death. I could not for the life of me determine what the key is supposed to be used for, but it is yours now. My deepest condolences for the passing of your dear father.

Best Wishes,

Jonathan Deary

After reading this, I drew out the second item in the envelope. As had been hinted at in the letter, it was a key. It was six or seven times the size of most keys in this day and age, and looked rather archaic, but other than that it had no features of note. Nonetheless, I inspected it carefully, hoping to glean some information regarding its use.

Five minutes later, I found what I was looking for. I took a magnifying lens from my desk drawer and peered at the bottom left corner of the key's handle. At that spot, in miniscule writing, was a message in the secret code that my father and I had shared since I was able to read and write, so that we could pass each other messages without my mother knowing what was said. I smiled at the memories of the havoc we had together wreaked upon her as I read the code, written in black ink upon the key's silver surface.

It was a very simple message. All it said was "Go to the library of your own hometown and open the door on the lowest floor."

I had the day off, so I decided that I might as well go then. I left the house, locked the door, and walked down to the library. My father had spent a lot of time inside that building when he had been a child; he said it had been one of his favorite places.

I stepped into the lobby and looked around. I had only ventured in here once or twice, not having been particularly fond of books myself, taking after my mother in that regard. Still, it was a pleasant building, and I could see how a man such as my father would have loved it so deeply.

There was a descending staircase on the left side of the room, and I walked towards it and then down. It spiraled downward for longer than I would have expected, and eventually led me to a decently large room. Several rows of long bookshelves greeted my eyes. I advanced down the center row between shelves, trying to be as silent as I could. The atmosphere down there was stifling and ominous; it gave me chills just to be in the room.

The books on the shelves were old, and many looked like they should have been destroyed ages ago. I saw Greek, Latin, and Arabic titles on their spines, but did not pause to peruse them.

I found the door moments later, as the rows of books ended. There were a series of tables set out where the bookshelves ended, all of them placed about twenty feet away from a large silver door. I walked forward and stopped at the edge of the tables. I had no doubt that this was the door that my father had written of. I took the key out of my pocket and glanced at it. It seemed to grow warm in the palm of my hand. My gaze drifted from it back to the door, and I took a step forward. The strange aura of the room intensified as I took that step forward, and I almost immediately stepped back again. I ignored my increasing sense of dread and approached the massive silver door.

The door was exquisitely detailed, covered in all manner of strange symbols and horrific images. With a shock, I realized that the writing on the door was identical to that which my father and I used for our code. I began to tremble as my eyes read fearsome words and dark prophecies, and then moved on to look at the images illustrating these foul divinations. The most striking of these pictures was one of a large wolf-like figure attacking a primitive village. I peered at the clearly carved faces of the people, and drew back in horror when I recognized the image of my father among them, cowering in fear near the back. The wolf-beast appeared to be looking directly at him.

The next shock was even worse, for then I saw the figures on the door begin to move. The human figures began to flee as the wolf leapt forward and attacked, heading directly towards my father, who was running away. A man stepped in front of the monster and waved his hands around, and then I saw the wolf imprisoned in some kind of cube, which sank into the ground.

At that point, I believed that I was hallucinating, and that perhaps I had not had enough water earlier that day. But what came next chilled me even more deeply: I heard a voice speak, whispering in my ear. "The time has come, son of he who is not of his own time. My will must be free; let me loose upon the world. All things must end."

My hand, the one tightly clutching the key, began to move of its own accord. I paled with terror, and struggled to stop the inexorable movement of my hand towards a keyhole design etched into the pattern of the door. The key slid through the solid silver and into the keyhole. A menacing laugh filled my ears as my hand turned the key.

Both the key and the silver before me vanished. My eyes widened and I screamed as I saw a massive form standing in the darkness of the room beyond, throwing off the shackles that had bound it for many dark aeons. It gave a triumphant howl that mingled with the sound of cackling laughter. It regarded me then with bright yellow eyes. "You shall be witness to what will be done to this world, young son. Watch me, and learn."

With that, the wolf-beast, just like the one depicted on the silver door, leapt through the wall, coating me with dust and covering me with pebbles and rocks as the wall collapsed behind it. I fell onto my back, knocked over as one of its paws sent me flying into a bookshelf. The last thing I remembered before I lapsed into unconsciousness was the thing's dark laughter, and its darker promise.

"All things shall end, and this world will not be excepted. Watch me, young son, and learn so that you too can become like me."

Dark Aeons

In the beginning there was darkness

In the middle there was light

And at the end of endings there was eternal night

In the beginning there was darkness

Of utter midnight black

From nothingness it came

To fill the void of light

It seeped into creation

And tainted life's faint glow

Reminder of the nothingness

Come forth at start of all

It hid in shadows and the night

Ever lurking, ever there

It watched from seas and caverns deep

Ever watching, ever waiting

It darkened stars' fiery birth

And led them to oblivion

Where they found creation with open maws

Ever hungry, ever greedy

It told of destruction and ultimate end

But waited silently in space between

Letting the song of stars flow through it

Adding their screams into the light

It flitted between the specks of dust

And fled as dust came together as one

Circling the lights that heralded life

And waiting for a chance to grow

It watched from the heavens as fire reigned beneath

On a thousand worlds, on a thousand moons

And the flames of creation subsided and died

Letting cool water do work for it all

It sat idly as thought and life took their forms

It watched and it twisted the figures it saw

Into the grotesque, foetid and macabre

And the nightmares that haunt both our days and our nights

In the middle there was light

As the spirit of darkness was driven far from our selves

And we lived in bliss under the warm rays of our stars

Reveling in the life and the light we had gained

It watched from dark spaces where we dare not look

In the backs of our minds where insanity lurks

We knew it was there but pushed it out of our heads

For fear that its knowledge would doom us all in the end

We built up our temples to our gods and our thoughts

In hopes that the gifts given us would be great

Seeking ever more from our generous creators

Failing to see the lurking darkness within

We ordered ourselves with logic and light

Forgetting the midnight that filled up our past

Instead seeing only the brilliant light of the stars

The darkness without never crossing our minds

Civilization arose and peace rang out true

Except when the darkness came out into light

And the beings of the light became beasts of the darkness

As the forgotten spawn of midnight came out to play

And light did then win and the darkness was banished

Though it lived on in the minds of the poor and the stricken

And those souls untouched by the light's glowing warmth

Cursed forever to live with the darkness inherent

As time passed us by and our decadence soared

We forgot then completely of what we were born

And denying the darkness that lives in us all

Gave it the power it needed to rise

And so again it appeared, the primordial darkness

Just as the pendulum swings 'cross the pit

And the wingless bird plummets down to the ground

So did civilization fall to its knees

And all that there was did succumb to the shadows

In the back of the mind, behind the light of the lamp

In the darkest of cellars and the shadiest trees

And we wept as the stars winked out one by one

Light swallowed by darkness that lurked in it all

That consumed all the light and left none for itself

And so did dark aeons come then to pass

To bring everything that ever was to its end

And at the end of endings there was eternal night.
