"Ever pining for an end that is never to come"

Golden rays stabbed and tore through amber air, followed by a tinkling explosion. Scion strode out of its epicenter and into a mob of alders, hollies, and mournful firs. Each held a jaundice luster as they caught the light from a baleful sun. She scanned the horizon and the voice that accompanied her in her helm informed her, "By the Core's reckoning that sun has yet to set in the last millennia."

"Ever pining for an end that is never to come," she mused.

She brushed her metal fingers across a branch and noticed the trees' brittle limbs moved like arthritic fingers. The suit examined the cells and told her what she instinctively knew: every ounce of every living thing existed in perpetual torture. The audio-radio enhancers strained out to nearly a kilometer. It only registered the stifling silence of this living mortuary.

"Liv, do you have his signal?" She asked.

"There is a trace of his imago within a 30 hectare region of this dismal forest," the suit replied.

"Dismal is a proper description for this place," Scion quipped.

Liv's matter-of-fact voice answered, "Dismal Forest is its proper name. Long ago is was Forêt de Désir, 'an emerald in the midst of a beautiful realm.' Or so the travel logs declare."

"That was a long time ago," Scion mused. "And that is a long distance to cover."

"If we sustain a five kilometer rate, we will reach the signal within three to five days," Liv answered.

Flaxen fabric billowed in Scion's periphery. Her hand strayed to her holster. She knew no wind blew and yet she did not hear a sound in her sensors. She switched to a different spectrum and the world lit up with energies. Rich yellow waves flowed in lazy currents toward and away from their source. She turned toward their center and gasped.

Thirty meters away stood a fell figure with a crown of horns extending from his scalp, one set of ivory like a rhinos in a radial like sunbeams. Another stretched out on either side like starched stag antlers that smouldered on their tips. These bone branches all rooted in a smooth face that appeared to shift and writhe in an unsettling manner. Long, noble fingers stretched out of bony hands and ended in talons. Liv identified the energies even as waves of it swelled within Scion's stout heart.

"Panic."

The warrior woman turned and ran. She shattered limbs off sympathetic trees in her flight. The weeping garden closed in as if to shield her from the following terror. Wisps of yellow traced after her like banners on a breeze. The seasoned hunter felt what she assumed her prey usually did. In the shrinking logical part of her brain, she wrestled to regain control. The best she could do was latch onto the breadcrumbs Liv provided: The distress beacon.

Somewhere in the fog Scion heard the suit say, "At our current rate, we will arrive at Deep Six's location in two days if you don't die of exhaustion."

Simultaneously she heard a song plucked on her very ligaments like a bone fiddle, accompanied by a dreadful melodic voice:

Suits of iron in a wooded glen

Should not have gone,

King upon blood-soaked lawn

Should never have been,

Death welcomes you both to
Lost Carcosa

Art Source: "The King in Yellow" by Grivetart
Story and Characters: (c)/by Corey Blankenship, King in Yellow (c) Robert W. Chambers

"From Beyond"

Allison sat crosslegged on the floor of the old barn, sobbing. "I can't help I miss you so much. You left so young. I just wish you could come back. Even if it was just for a day." Even tear stained eyes seeing between snot covered fingers couldn't miss the flickering light. A chill wind blew her brown hair back and dried some of the moisture from her face.

"Here, sis. Coming to you." The voice was crackly, like static from an old radio.

Allison fought to her feet, ankles and toes complaining from the loss of circulation from two hours of sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce. She giggled at the saying from when they were kids, even as she looked into the jagged black hole in space. Through it, she could just make at a girl dressed in blue, dark hair covering her face. "Mel. Melissa is that you?" The dress looked like the one she'd been buried in.

"Yes. Keep talking. Helps me." The voice was stronger, but there was still some kind of distortion.

"I've missed you so much, honey. How is this even possible?" She shook her head. Now wasn't the time to worry about that. "I've come here every day since the accident. I felt so bad about what happened. I know part of it was my fault. Playing with that game we found in the attic was my idea."

"Couldn't have known. The game was older than anything. Opened the gate." Her voice was stronger and the glow increased.

Allison could make something else out behind her sister. "Run, sweety. I think something's chasing you. Come faster." Her voice took on an edge of panic.

"Already got me. Now going to get you." The body that might have once been her sister shuddered and whipped its head back. The eyes were little mouths with pointed teeth. When she opened her mouth to scream, tentacles with eyes instead of suckers wormed their way out.

Behind the horror that had been her sister, a massive creature moved in shadow. It had its own tentacles tipped with hooks and lined with barbs.

"No. No. It's not my fault. I couldn't have known." Allison walked back from the tear in space. There was no way her sister or the thing using her as a puppet could make it through.

The air shimmered and ropy, slime covered masses forced their way through and pried open the doorway.

Allison didn't notice the blood trickling from her eyes and ears. "Not my fault. Not my fault."

"You cheated at the game." The Melissa puppet's voice rasped from its eye sockets. "This should be you and not me. You would be the key. You would feel my terror and pain."

Allison whirled around and began running for the barn door. Instead of getting closer, every step took her further away. "I didn't want you to win. You always won at everything."

The Melissa Puppet sat foot on the cracked floor boards. "It's okay, my sister. It used me for the key, but you will win the consolation prize. It also needs food for its young."

Screams echoed off of the trees, frightening birds into the air.

Art Source: Horror by Kredepops on Deviant Art
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

#Horror, #Lovecraft, #Gateway, #ScottRoche, #Cheater

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?”

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?”

“These words our Saviour uttered on the cross. These words echo here today in these quiet halls of St Patrick's. Most would play a doleful note on the pipes and call men to mass. However,” the fiery-haired priest added with a spirited voice. “Our Lord’s words echo another, meaningful song.”

The priest gripped his lectern and stared out into the surprisingly mixed audience of congregants. Many Dutch-or-Italian-looking faces seemed out of place for this known haunt of Fenian brothers. This Sabbath promised to be a peculiar one, and the man of God counted on that. His powerful fingers flexed as he threw his voice to the furthest pews, which stood near the only visible exit. “Jesus quotes his earthly father David, saying in the twenty-second Psalm,

Many bulls surround me;

strong ones of Bashan encircle me.

They open their mouths against me—

lions, mauling and roaring.

“Today, we are surrounded as it were with the same ilk. Menacing. Vicious. Vile sorts. Full of murderous intent and violence of action. These “bulls” bleat and buck, tearing at our community. They slip like lions into our midst and hunt out our frail, our young, our weary.”

His green eyes flared with a flame of their own as a grim grin entrenched on his face. “We faithful few recognize the Lord’s appeal to David’s hope in the Divine’s deliverance. We hear His prescient nod to the Father’s tender care and eventual triumph. We see the bulls and lions for what they are and do not fear, for the Heavenly Warrior takes His place as our Advocate.”

The air crackled with tension, while the candles seemed to puff harder than usual in their hunger for oxygen. The pew creaked uncomfortably under their occupants. Shadows cast about the stone cathedral at odd angles and appeared to wriggle like the limbs of an octopus. The crowd’s slate gaze turned into pointed stares. He had their attention.

Adjusting his spectacles and stroking his beard, the priest glanced down behind his pulpit before continuing. “King David declares in that same song,

He has not despised or detested

the torment of the afflicted.

He did not hide His face from him

but listened when he cried to Him for help.

I will give praise in the great congregation

because of You;

I will fulfill my vows

“Today, I will fulfill my vows. I swore to rid the streets of your detestable spirits, your damnable fiends, who writhe and slink and glide through our alleys. Gotham has a better day ahead of it, and by Saint Olarus’ finely threaded loom I’ll have you hanged, Fallen, for darkening my pasture.”

The doors slammed shut as a shiver went through the crowds. An invisible current stripped away the masquerade, revealing the tentacled horrors and draconic terrors that crammed the pews in the sacred hall. A hiss reverberated from their many throats. Murder filled their minds. The veil had been lifted, but the trap remained. Feathered shadows fell over the priest as a pair of hands rested on his shoulders. A voice boomed from high above him.

“You’ve drawn out these defilers of the Curtain, Ó Braonáin. Our pact has been well met. Let me handle this from here.”

Father Brennan, as the English called him, picked up the thick cane from behind his lectern. “By all the saints, you will! These wolves will taste a bit of righteous fury from a Fenian’s hand this Lord’s Day!”

Art Source: “Asheron’s Call, set 2” by Shoomlah

Story and Characters: (c)/by Corey Blankenship, Olarus (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

DRIP. DRIP.

DRIP. DRIP.

Dagnia's eyes flew open. It was her first night in the Motel 7 and she simply could not get to sleep. She's wasn't sure why. (Not!) It wasn't like there was any lack of reasons: unlike money, of which she had only a little, she was in possession of plenty of reasons for her restlessness. First of all, she was thousands of miles from home and she missed her parents and older sister terribly.

DRIP. DRIP.

Originally from Latvia, she was spending her summer going door to door in Florida selling textbooks. Last summer, she'd gone to Alabama and she'd been able to make enough money that by the end of the season, she'd paid for her entire freshman year of college. This year was not going so well, however.

DRIP. DRIP.

The young woman sat up in bed, pushing her short-cropped blond hair out of her eyes. She hated this new haircut, but it was so hot in the southern United States in the summer, especially in Florida, that she'd thought it would be a good idea. It had wound up being more of a bother than anything and for some reason, everyone made fun of her because she was different.

DRIP. DRIP.

That was another one of her issues - everyone she'd met in Florida seemed to be so negative and so unfriendly. She hadn't sold very many books at all and what little money that she'd saved was being consumed by the hotels she was forced to stay in...normally she was able to meet people who would let her stay for free in their homes, but not this year.

DRIP. DRIP.

And now, it sounded like something in the bathroom was leaking. Dagnia sighed as she padded toward the cold, white tile floors. This crummy hotel had taken almost everything from her; she just knew now that the manager would blame her for whatever was broken and charge her for the repair. She almost had nothing left to give.

DRIP. DRIP.

She flipped on the switch, blinking rapidly from the light glaring off the white tile walls and floors. Dagnia scanned the room but everything looked perfectly dry. There wasn't a trace of water anywhere. The young woman rubbed her head--perhaps the stress of the summer was getting to her after all--and she moved to flip off the light and head back to bed.

DRIP. DRIP.

Something plopped on the edge of the sink and splattered onto her arm. Dagnia reached out and dabbed her finger into the liquid. On instinct, she rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Grimy. Greasy. She sniffed it and it stank.

It was not water at all.

DRIP. DRIP.

She heard something shuffle behind her, it sounded like a towel slithering off a towel rod. She turned.

It was not a towel at all.

Dagnia screamed.

This crummy hotel had taken almost everything from her.

Art Source: "Visitor From Nowhere 2" (c)/by Alejandro-Mirabal

Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #spooky, #notagoodday, #notagoodnight, #horror

Things of the Water

Even as they unbuckled Nemo from his excursion suit, he felt the Nautilus ascending. "Secure the moon pool." Even as he leapt to the deck, Vasquez and Miko worked to swing the immense plate into place. While it wouldn't cause their progress any issues, there was a chance some creature could take advantage of the opening.

The captain flew past crew members to his bridge. Klaxons sounded throughout the ship. Soon there wouldn't be anyone in the halls. You would either be at your duty station, or in your bunks. In minutes, he stood, looking out the front view port in a robe brought to him by the steward. Around him, men and women worked at their tasks. Moving up from the depths at their current speed wasn't perilous on its own, but every set of eyes looked for any creature large enough to do them harm, if they encountered it. Given the lack of natural light, they relied on a mix of sonar and the massive lanterns on the Nautilus' prow.

There were also crew members monitoring from the aft of the ship. An observation deck there, in addition to rear facing sonar, would give them some warning if the creature followed. Weapons crews made sure all the torpedo bays were full and that the lightning canon was fully charged. The hum of people working was subdued compared to its usual volume, as though everyone knew how hard their captain was thinking.

He'd seen nothing like this thing. At least not in person. Still, some half-remembered tidbit nagged at his subconscious mind. When it began to take shape in his memory, he shook his head. "No. It's not possible." He muttered the words as though they were a prayer. He hurried to the large desk where he saw while on the bridge. It only had a few of his most used books. In addition there were some new volumes he perused in what little leisure time he had. It was there in which he found his memory in all of its horrible glory.

The treatise in question, Things of the Water, was a translation of a much older work called Cthäat Aquadingen. This particular translation was done by a Doctor Skinner. He knew little about the man, other than the rumor that he’d gone mad upon its completion. The book concerned itself with what seemed to Nemo like fantasies. He couldn't deny the similarities though between the woodcut in the book and the thing which had eaten his crewman.

No name was given nor information about its nature explained anywhere in the book he could see. Under the illustration was simply the note “tentacled horror”. According to the few entries the book did have on it, the horror had been seen by sailors off and on for centuries. Nemo imagined that anyone who read this would assume it was a misidentification of a squid or octopus.

Having seen the creature himself, he couldn’t deny it was no normal beast. The eyes, that horrid mouth, and a lack of any symmetry made up nothing less than a breathing nightmare. If the book had the right of this, then what else was it correct about? He put the book down and rested his head in his hands. Where there was one creature like this, there were no doubt more. He would devote some of his vast resources to finding out what other beings haunting Skinner’s book could also be found in his domain. He owed nothing to the men and women above the waves, but these abominations should be hunted down and killed, lest they breed.

He stood and walked over to his command chair. “”Helm, make all speed for Tabor. Keep us at periscope depth.” Once back at his base of operations he could send out word. Perhaps this Dr. Skinner wasn’t mad. It could be he was still alive. He would have that man in front of him if at all possible. There would be answers and a reckoning for his lost crew member.  

#horror, #ScottRoche, #Cthulu, #Nemo, #19thCentury, #SciFi, #Verne, #Lovecraft

Art Source: Ace of Cups by Brass And Steam at Deviant Art
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

Nemo's Revenge

"Captain, we have an alarm coming from Melchior's air hose." The announcement wasn't strictly necessary, given that the alarm was audible throughout the bridge of the unique vessel.

Nemo made a slashing motion, a perpetual scowl on his bearded face. He stroked the length of black hair. After the alert was silenced, he spoke crisply to Keller. "Let us know if any of the other men have him in sight." He sat on the throne dominating this section of the bridge. From here, lights and paper tape gave him immediate knowledge of the Nautilus's current whereabouts, status, and any other vital statistics he needed. With the press of a button, he connected to the moon pool. "Ready three heavy suits, including my own."

"Aye, captain." Rasheed answer was instantaneous.

"Well, Keller? Any word?" His hand had moved from beard to blade as he fingered the hilt of one of the many daggers he wore on his person.

"Aye, captain. There was an unusual sighting in Melchior's last known position. The crewman who saw it suspects it may be a squid."  

Nemo grunted. It was unlikely to be any species of squid at this depth and in this part of the Pacific. Still, there was a possibility. His knowledge of the deeps was as good if not better than any man alive, but there was so much to yet learn. "I will be stepping out to see this myself." He thumbed the button again. "Rasheed, I will be in the moon pool in three minutes. Make sure the crewmen on rotation are ready to go. Recall the workers."

"Aye, Captain. They're suiting up now."

Nemo smiled and made a note to increase Rasheed's share for this month. He rose from his throne and walked down the dais to the main floor. Glass windows looked out into the deeps and gave them a hundred and eighty degree spherical view. Without specially crafted lights and a coating that amplified those lights entering the windows, it would be impossible to see anything more than a few inches in front of them. He couldn't see where his men worked, but they would be there in minutes. "All ahead half power. Make for Melchior's last known position. Mister Tim's, you have the bridge."

Moving as quickly as he could, Nemo headed for the moon pool. He could make it there in two minutes under the best of conditions. Even in pitch black, he could be there in five. He'd designed this craft and had a hand in its construction. A similar level of knowledge was required of every man and woman on board. As he moved, he began to undo the buckles on the leather harness he wore and the button on his shirt. By the time he arrived at the moon pool, he was shirtless in seconds, brown skin shining from the sweat of exertion. Scars criss crossed his chest, including a number of strange, puckered marks more than an inch across. The damage was old, but the memories of how he got them were keen. If this was a squid or some similar cephalopod, and one large enough to attack a dive suit and rip it free from its moorings, the beast would be formidable.  

Two of the heavy suits, with their own air tanks, armor, and sharp taloned claspers stood ready. Their pilots, Vasquez and Miko, were buttoning down the glass domes that would encircle their heads. Rasheed had Nemo's personal suit ready. The armor and air tanks were intended for longer and deeper dives. It also had a few built in weapons the other suits did not. In seconds, all he wore was his turban and undergarments.

With the strength and speed of a man half his age, he clambered up the built in handholds and stepped into the suit's harness. Rasheed was already closing the section Nemo couldn't on his own. In the middle of the room a pool ten feet across was ready for them to step into. Before he pulled the dome on over his still covered head, he shouted. "Are we close to where the creature was spotted?"

"Aye, captain. By the time you are ready to step out, we will have come to a full stop." According to his word, a shuddering announced the engine's reversal.

Nemo pulled his helmet down and sealed himself off from the ship. Miko and Vasquez were already moving to the well. "Sailors, be ready for anything. Melchior may have been taken by a cephalopod of some kind. But we don't know for sure." he knew the sailors would hear him over their wireless systems. As long as they were within fifty yards of one another, no hardline was needed for communication.

"Aye, captain." The answers were in synch, though Miko's higher pitched voice was easy to discern. The slid into the water using short ramps. The suits wouldn't allow them to swim, but they would be able to walk and take bounding leaps thanks to a clever spring system built into the exoskeletons. Thanks to their oxygen cylinders, they were untethered from the ship save for spare lines they could use in recovery or to be recovered.

Nemo was a few seconds behind them. As soon as water and pressure had him in its icy grip, he activated his suit's lights. He was ready to be amazed by the life that survived even at this depth, but nothing shone back at him except the reflecting patches from the suits Miko and Vasquez wore.

He reached down to his hip and freed the harpoon gun. It held six barbed projectiles, the length of his forearm. With it, he tracked back and forth.

“Movement. Three o’clock..” Miko barked.

His eyes went to the noted spot and just outside of their vision, something did appear to be moving. “Go towards it but stay close together.”

They began moving as a unit. At first, Nemo though they found Melchior, but it was only the top half of his suit. Judging by the state of where it stopped and the sea began, whatever had cut it in two did so messily. Blood and viscera swirled in the water and stained the leather.

To his crewmembers’ credit, neither reacted with the disgust a surface dweller might. At least not audibly. “Attach a line to that and ready it to be retrieved.”

Miko hopped forward to follow the order.

Vasquez watched the area around in case she needed any assistance.   

“The suit’s empty, captain.” The woman clipped one of her spare cables to a heavy steel ring sewn into the suit. With two sharp tugs, she signaled the ship to begin retrieval.

Nemo watched the suit go by. Melchior would be missed. His death would not go unavenged if they found the creature that did this. “Spread out, but stay in wireless range. See if we can locate and salvage any other part of his suit.”

Without question, the followed his orders. Soon, all he could see where the reflections and the occasional sweep of yellow light. He began his own observations. The ocean floor here was covered in silt with the occasional rock or bit of coral protruding. There were rivers of current under the surface and Nemo learned to read them when he was a lad. The silt had been disturbed by something massive. A being that moved like no man.

When the eye opened, spoiling the illusion, Nemo was ready. He brought the barrel of his harpoon gun up and triggered it.

The barbed projectile hit the orb dead center. Viscous fluid, denser than the water around it, spilled onto the things skin. Now that flesh was the color of a long drowned sailor, the bulk of it was visible.

Nemo had seen many things in his long life. He’d killed those things when he had to. He hoped he could kill this one. It was as unlike any squid he’d seen as it was like it. It had a similar shape and the tentacles. Rather than having eight arms and two claspers, this thing had dozens and all of varying lengths and girth. There were three more eyes, each one its own color, one of those a color he had no name for. The mouth at the center of all this reminded him of a whirlpool with teeth made of broken ships.

Without thinking further, he fired the remainder of his harpoons at the eyes he could see. “Miko. Vasquez. To me. Nautilus, take aim on this thing and fire.”

Nemo bounded backwards towards the ship as best he could.

The thing’s arms whipped the sea into a froth of sand and bubbles. Black blood competed with the water around it for darkness.

A series of vibrations made Nemo’s teeth rattle in his skull. The teeth became visible in the form of a rare smile. “Let’s see if you can burn.”

Roses of light and fire bloomed in front of him. A chemical compound, invented by a Chinese man of Nemo’s acquaintance, on contact with the seawater became hot enough to burn even at this depth and for a time could split the water into its component parts.

The scream came from the center of the maelstrom and threatened to burst the eardrums of all those present.

Without waiting around to see, Nemo hauled on the cords binding him to his ship three times. Soon, he and his crew were being pulled home. As they sped backwards through the water, Nemo barked orders. “Prepare to make for the surface. Bring all guns to bear. If anything moves, boil the sea around it.”

#horror, #ScottRoche, #Cthulu, #Nemo, #19thCentury, #SciFi, #Verne, #Lovecraft

Art Source: Hunter 2 by tooth-w at Deviant Art
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

Death From The Deeps

Melchior scanned the floor of the seabed with the cyclopean faceplate of his diving helm. The sturdily designed suit kept the waters at bay so he could do his job, but the whole rig did a number on his peripheral vision. He always had a tickling suspicion in the back of his mind that someone or something was alway just behind him. Some days it was worse than others. Today was a particularly bad one.

None of those fears could keep him from his work, though. The Captain was as mad as the maddest hatter. There was no room for those who didn’t carry their weight. Whether the need was food, treasure, or collecting unique sea life to fill the banks of aquariums - his will was absolute.  

He was about to turn around and head back, when he saw the tentacle flicker on the right edge of his vision. There was no denying his feelings this time.

His hand went to the thick blade secured at his waist. Clumsy gloves kept him from any fine manipulation, but all he had to do was get his fingers through the loop of metal. Then he could close his hand and magnetic clamps would engage. It would make the knife difficult for anyone to rip away. Once free from its scabbard, he turned as quickly as he could. That was no easy feet, dressed as he was and at the present depth.

Yellow lights, surrounding his porthole view, tracked from the sea floor and up into the water which swirled around him. His own breathing echoed in his ears as panic threatened to take hold of him. An experienced diver of many years, he knew that would kill him before this creature, whatever it was. His quickest movement was slowed by the water's death grip.

One of the thicker tentacles wrapped around his waist. Even through the layers of canvas and leather, he could feel the crushing grip.

That the tentacle was so close to his knife belt may have saved him from death by constriction. He brought the knife down towards the grasping arm. A dark haze filled the water around him, reducing visibility even further. The pressure around his middle slackened. With his left hand, he tugged on the rope and hose, his only link to the ship. Three tugs meant "pull me the hell in, now".

Arms moving, his body kept spinning. Once the motion began, it was hard to shift. When he saw the eye, he wanted to do nothing else but unsee it. A swirl of fiery colors made it stand out from the surrounding blue green. The thing's blood did little to cloud the hellish light of that immense orb.

Breathing came hard and fast now, but more from panic than exertion. They had to pull him back from here. The third tug found the rope and hose rapidly slackening. Water began bubbling into his air hose. His left hand went to a valve he couldn't see. It turned off the feed of what would soon be nothing but sea water. The part of his brain still operating on survival instinct knew he only had three minutes of sweet air, before he began breathing his own exhalations.

He screamed when he saw the massive maw, not a beak but a vortex of gnashing bone splinters. Nothing in nature bore this thing to term.

His knife hand slashed frantically at incoming tentacles, while his left hand continued to work at his only salvation. It ripped the cord free from his waist, loosening the weights at his feet. He kicked like a dervish, struggling for a ship that seemed like it waited in the next galaxy.

A tentacle grabbed at his foot, well beyond the reach of his knife. It had him and began to draw him towards the nightmare mouth.

His breathing became more and more ragged. The edges of his vision began to cloud. Frantic, his left hand beat at the glass eye separating him from the cold embrace of the sea. The pane shattered and shards pierced his skin. Frigid, salty water screamed into his wounds and he opened his mouth to suck in the death giving liquid. It would be merciful compared to what awaited below. The last thing he felt was tearing as the creature bit through his knee.

#horror, #ScottRoche, #Cthulu, #Nemo, #19thCentury, #SciFi, #Verne, #Lovecraft

Art Source: Into the Depths by preilly at Deviant Art
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

"No, the light will call them!"

"No, the light will call them!"

"I know, Myra. That's the reason I lit it, foolish woman." The man's wrinkled lips, covered in hoary whiskers, split into a feral snarl.

"You cannot do this, Caleb. There are innocents here: women and children!" Myra's red-rimmed blue eyes were beginning to fill with tears. Her thoughts were centered on Bailey, who she prayed was still safe, hidden in her mother's basement.

The old sailor snarled, "You call 'em innocents, but ain't no one innocent, Myra. They get what comes to 'em."

Myra thought she was going to lose her mind. This whole night had been one topsy-turvy nightmare after another. She still could not believe the things that she'd seen. Her mind still could not accept that some kind of Doorway had been opened and that now there were Things out there. She ran a blood-stained hand over her weary face. She heard the words come out of her mouth, but they seemed like a scene out of a bad movie. "Then so do you, Caleb."

Myra shot her husband in the heart.

His blood splashed across the wyrdlight that her husband had lit in the lighthouse tower. The blood turned the yellow light a garish orange.

Outside, she could hear the watery, gurgling howls of the things Caleb had called Deeper Ones. She knew she could not put out the wyrdlight but began fishing through Caleb's pockets for a clue. Inside an inner pocket, she found an ancient book, tiny and yellowed, with a strange scar-like symbol carved into the cover. Her fingertips tingled as she touched it. There was power in this thing.

"Perhaps this can help," she said as she cracked the ancient spine-it sounded like bones breaking.

Outside, the Deeper Ones howled and their backs began glowing with garish orange lights--the same color as the wyrdlight--each displaying the same symbol on the cover of the odd, archaic tome.

Art Source: "Merman" (c)/by cobaltplasma
Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #HPLovecraft, #horror, #StephenKing, #lighthouse, #wyrdlight, #DeeperOnes, #TheYellowSign

The storm was only getting worse.

The storm was only getting worse.

Ichabod knew he'd made a horrible mistake. If only God would allow him the time and the strength to make it up, to right the wrong he'd perpetrated...then perhaps he would be able to face his beloved Amelia in the afterlife. The thin man's rail-like frame rattled with a stifled sob as he picked up the cast-off shovel. He cursed himself for making the deal, for even considering a partnership with Amol. He'd known, deep in his soul, that the man was something far more sinister from the moment he'd first laid eyes upon him. How could he have been anything but a devil from Hell? Amol offered the unthinkable: the return of Ichabod's cold, dead wife.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

Outside the church, the storm howled like a thing with a life and a sorrow of its own. Rain rattled against the leaded windowpanes with the sound of bony fingertips rapping--the skeletons of Ichabod's deepest fears given grasping hunger and unending locomotion. With trembling hands, Ichabod lit the hooded lantern. He whispered a prayer, fervently asking God to forgive him. The professor wasn't sure if God was even listening tonight, and if he was, then Ichabod could only hope that the Almighty was feeling particularly magnanimous.

The wind's keen reached an ear-splitting pitch, followed by an instantaneously and seemingly universal vacuum composed of utter and complete silence. It was like being trapped inside a dark and noiseless cave, in the bowels of the Earth, in the perfect pit of despair. Ichabod's fear rose. The professor knew that the ritual had reached it's zenith. The ancient rite that he himself had discovered and translated at the request of Amol--it had been Ichabod's part of the devilish deal--was being consummated with unholy energies and baleful fire.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

The dead were about to walk.

The categorical and cavernous silence lasted for another heartbeat and the sensation was one of the whole of Creation teetering madly on the edge of a terrible and deleterious precipice, but it was suddenly shattered by a titanic thunderbolt and a blinding, sizzling flash of eerie green lightning. The deed was done. Somehow, Ichabod knew it.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

The dead were about to walk.

This had been the fiend's plan all along!

"No!!!!" the spindly professor screamed, hating himself nearly as much as Amol, the minion of the Dark One, who had beguiled him and made this gut-wrenching, soul-defiling moment happen. Ichabod charged out of the church, dove into the pouring storm, his only weapons held aloft in his still-trembling hands and his overly long scarf whipping in the hell-borne wind. Ichabod was ready to strike down every single being of undeath that Amol had called forth from the church's graveyard, or he was at least ready to die in the attempt. Of one thing, he was sure: Amol would have far fewer minions to command when he was done this night.

Ichabod ran into the storm, into the dark graveyard, barking his shins on cold, craggy crosses and slipping amid the ice-like gravestones and slick tomb markers. Then, the entire sky was lit with a bolt of bright-as-day lightning...

...And Ichabod had no doubt whatsoever that he would indeed die trying.

Art Source: "Walking Graveyard" (c)/by RM73
Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

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