I've been Horace's friend for a long time. A long time, indeed. We've spent many close years together and shared much. I was there when he first cried out to the physician who cradled his infant body. I was there when he first strode across the wooden floor of his child-hood home. When he first broke his skin and shivered from fright under the covers, I stood by him. I watched him grow, stubbornly yet surely, into the young man he has become.
We had many good times, Horace and I. The glade and adjacent woods knew of no finer warriors. Goblins and Dryads fell before our great swords of silver and steel. Over time, the number of fair damsels whose lives were saved by our bravery grew beyond an understanding of numbers; like the sprinkled stars in the heavens. Horace and I would talk endlessly for hours into the night. We would ponder the questions of life and philosophy; yet resign ourselves to a constant state of not knowing. I counseled him when school mates alienated him. I helped train him to best the older boys who teased him. I gave him the best knowledge he had about the fairer of the two sexes, that he might balance his bravery with chivalry. I was the closest friend he had and I cherished every moment of our time. But things slowly changed. Horace's parents became stern, once he aged past 13 years, and insisted he participate in both scholarly and religious instruction. As if by capricious providence, he was quickly identified as a prodigy in the realms of Scientific and Alchemical studies and spent hours researching, experimenting, and chronicling. As time passed, he had fewer free moments to spend galloping in the wilderness or conjuring truths to answer impossible questions. One summer he went to a boarding school abroad and there was no space to accommodate me. Every moment was to be spent with his head buried in intense study. I begrudgingly resigned myself to stay behind, at the family homestead, and wander the arena of nature on my own. Countless nights I spoke with him, but our conversations were imaginary. It was his shadow in my memory that assaulted ignorance with me. It felt almost real for a short time as my thoughts of him were vivid and authentic. Horace returned after the hot summer, older and wiser. But it became all too clear that he had nothing to say to me. He entered his home, strode immediately to his growing study, and sealed himself inside. Never before had I been disregarded by him. One evening, as the leaves began to blaze with the end of summer, I approached Horace while he studied in his father's library. I requested he suspend his bookishness for an evening and escape with me. I claimed that the voice of a distressed maiden could be heard upon the listless breeze and we were honor-bound to investigate. He continued reading in his father's wingback chair, oblivious of his oldest friend. I withdrew my gallantry and simply called his name, demanding the respect that was due to a friend, whose status may as well have been antediluvian. Again, nothing. When I raised my voice, the echos slapped back from the stone walls and caused a brief high-pitched whine. Still, he didn't even raise his head. It was as if I were not there. His impudence was nearly too much to bear and I was no longer willing to allow my oldest friend to treat me in such a distasteful manner. I strode over to Horace, seated in his haughty repose, and moved to knock the book from his hands. It was then my horror became complete and palpable. As my hands made to disrupt the distracting tome, they failed to make contact - nay, they passed completely through as if the book were filled with the pages of phantasm. I watched the air ripple and sparkle like the twinkles on sun-kissed ocean waves. I brought my hands to my face and briefly saw the room through them as they sparkled like the air near the book. A thousand shudders lurched through me as a wave of understanding came over me. It was I, the lifelong companion, the true and trusted friend, the ever-loyal servant, who was the phantasm. As this knowledge coursed through me like poisoned blood, I began to wither. How ironic, indeed! Weeks I spent conjuring Horace and his intellect, imagining conversations and contentions. I pretended he was inside my mind that we might continue our adventures despite his absence at study. But the truth was that it was I who were not real. I was the imaginary companion of Horace! My sparkling hands disappeared to thin air and I saw the floor gradually take form where my body should have been. I saw wisps of my form being torn from me by the fall breeze as it slithered through the house. Then, without warning, everything around me quickly dissipated into nothingne--- Many a person in the fishing town of Haleysville would often happily offer their time and kindest conversation to stranger and friend alike. The people were a simple lot and were known throughout the parish for their hospitality, humility, and selflessness. However that hospitality is no longer known to this world. There are few alive now who remember it but on September 9th, 1899, the town of Haleysville, Louisiana disappeared forever. Being of the age I am now, I feel the need to record the events that led up to this horrific event before the account goes with me. Though I struggle with the thoughts, as they are still clear to me as if they just happened, I must share the events that transpired on that bizarre and terrible morning.
In the year 1899 I was a restless young man, many years before meeting my wife, and I set out to travel and get to know the country. I was determined to see the world unlike my sheltered parents who, despite their love and affection for me, could not satiate my desire for adventure. Being immigrants from the island of the Philippines, they had escaped oppressive Spanish rule and chose to live a simple life in the Americas. I arrived at my first destination, Haleysville, quickly, being that it was only a few miles away from my native Mandeville. Haleysville was a small town not far north of Lake Pontchartrain, just east of the Tchefuncte River. In the year of 1800, it was founded as the village of Cocquille but was later renamed. Upon arriving, I made my way to the square to inquire about housing overnight, but had stopped in the Postal Office to write my first letter home. While I was only a handful of miles away, I thought that sending a brief letter was symbolic of the beginning of my journey. While there, I met, and briefly spoke with, a wonderful couple named Martin and Allison Gamboa. They were middle-aged and just recently married. They were also of Filipino descent, which we agreed was unusual in the southern states. Their two families had come over on the same sailing vessel from our native land and they hand grown up together here. We talked about our homeland, and of other non-important things, and quickly established a friendly rapport. When I inquired about when they planned for children, they immediately became bashful and reserved, waving the question away. Martin gave Allison a look that I could not read, she nodded, and he offered me rest at their home just off the river. Being that I had not yet begun to acquire a bed for the night, I was glad to have a secure place to rest before conveying myself overland once more. We spent hours on their porch which sat upon the bank of the Tchefuncte River, not far from the Pontchartrain delta, sipping whiskey and talking about the hugeness of the world. During our talks, Martin and Allison revealed a reservoir of local knowledge and history between them--much of which was rooted in the natural occurrences of the land surrounding the delta, the lake, and the brief history of the Halleysville. Martin claimed that his grandfather was a member of a local army who forced the savage Natives from this region and brought safety to the first Haleysville settlers. He even had trinkets that his grandfather kept to pass down through the generations, which he showed to me while in his study. There were tomahawks, pottery, feathers, and even a headdress that were saved, although, for what original purpose they were meant I could not say. The Native culture of the Americas was far different than that of my ancestors of the Pacific. However, all the trinkets were interesting and were things I'd not seen before. While on the subject of leaving memoirs for future generations, I asked again with curiosity why Martin and Allison had no children. While it was not unusual to not have children, I did think it was out of the ordinary with a couple at their age and newly married. Martin replied that they did want to have a child, admitting to having quite a bit of fun while attempting. He also admitted, much to my confusion, that sometimes, rather deviously, he would take a “last minute precaution” to avoid conception. At first I found this admittance rather odd; being that they were not young, it would seem they would be more than eager for their first child. My own religious and moral judgments did not appreciate his attempt at mischief, but I kept my judgments to myself. I was confused at why he would not conceive with his wife if they wanted children as they said they did. I also kept my own future plans to myself, as I did not want to offer them without invitation. As it was, I felt too young and wild to see my country than to be settled with a wife and child. Martin and I returned to our discussion about the folklore and legends of the Natives and this land they had lived in. He shared with me stories about a wild people that formed deadly war parties, where men would paint their faces in the images of their spirits to scare and intimidate their enemies. They would raid other Native and American settler villages, stealing the women and removing the scalps from whatever men were left alive. He spoke of them with as much reverence as he did with thickening disdain. He said that the Natives worshiped ancient Gods of the Earth and, while brutal and savage to those they didn't know, they took great care to preserve their land and traditions for future generations. This he learned from Natives who had been “civilized” by trade and whiskey. Martin told me of a time where he met a Native many years ago. He yielded that the savage was one of the most intimidating men he had ever met, who had a way of looking through people and “speaking with his eyes”. This fact was an uncomfortable admission by Martin, as he did not appear to be one who believed in supernatural occurrences. Martin said that the brute he met was named Awenasa. He said that Awenasa was like a guardian of the savages and spent his life teaching them honorable values and lessons, although he followed that these stories of Awenasa were overheard by him and not a first-hand account. Martin said that Awenasa was a tall, sinewy man who looked to be over 30 years old, with a gait that was as much menacing as it was welcoming. When he met Awenasa, Martin said that he had long black hair and was dressed in a loincloth. He carried a small water skin and a tomahawk at his hip and walked with an aura that either commanded attention or immediate egress. Aside from the things he carried, and his moccasins, he was naked to the world. Martin said that when Awenasa came through their village, he left an invisible wake behind him. A most perplexing picture came to my mind and I struggled to interpret its meaning. However, when I pressed him for more details, Martin was unable to comply. Martin said that even though his encounter was amicable, he felt an undercurrent of something very dark. This experience he felt in a matter of moments. He said that, looking back, he could never understand what about this man was so ominous. Martin said that his grandfather told him some of the more stirring accounts he had heard. While I understand that Martin and I had indulged liberally in his whiskey, I wasn’t ready to hear the stories he recanted. He told me that when his grandfather was working to save this area from the Natives, he saw that these savages were disappearing into the woods without a trace. Not a sound could be heard from the woods even in the dead of night. When they would send scouts and dogs to follow, those that did not disappear would come back bewildered and empty-handed. His grandfather also told him that he witnessed these savages moving across the Earth at speeds that would embarrass his finest hunting dogs. "Tatay said it was because they lived as the children of the Earth." said Martin. "The Earth yields to their passing like the coast yields to the rising tide." he followed. This was a troubling proposition to me. It was the most peculiar thing I had heard in my young life. We had also discussed the religion of these savages and Martin provided some insight into what was best described as “Earth Magic”. "There's not a thing that's right about what they do for those Gods they worship." Martin said. "Those drums they use....the dances....have you ever heard how young Natives become men? It's downright wrong, son. "It ain't right." Martin said that his grandfather believed that the Natives cursed the Haleysville settlers when they were driven from this land and told him of hideous events during the 1850's and 60's. During that time, there were many babies born with their legs fused and with skin between their fingers, like flippers. The infants would have rough or scaly skin along their backs and necks. His grandfather said that the babies looked like mermaids. Martin's own father was lucky since he was born in the Philippines, just before coming to America, so he wasn't afflicted. But many babies were lost during this time—almost an entire generation. "You'll see this if you stay in town for long. There's a good lot of older folks and younger folks, but there ain't that many of 'em in between." he said. "That generation was lost to the curse." This conversation ran late into the night of September 8th. My head was full of Natives and Gods, magic and the supernatural. I decided to retire to their guest room, feeling a horrible knot in my stomach and a spinning in my head. I did not know if it was from over-indulgence of whiskey or the heavy conversation through the night. I was woken by a strong wind that caused the nearby tree limbs to scrape the roof of the Gamboa’s house. I sat up in my bed and looked out the window to assure myself that there was no sudden storm approaching that would necessitate taking cover. I peered into the blackness, out towards the Pontchartrain and saw nothing except a gibbous light upon the lake and surrounding land. I was about to return to my rest, and was beginning to turn away, when I observed with immediate disbelief a large shadowy mass rise up out of the Pontchartrain and return below the water. At that moment, my mind could not conceive what my eyes beheld. I was almost overcome with a shock to my stomach and a foul taste in my mouth. I shivered violently and succumbed to the immediate need to avert my eyes, almost convulsing into involuntary prayer. The thing had disappeared but I recalled, in my mind's eye, a glistening mass that appeared to be a large fin. How large, I could not – and still cannot – say, but it was immense. I took a hard swallow and returned my gaze to the window; struggling against my instincts. When I looked upon the field that led up to the lake, the gibbous light offered an eerie glow and I saw a person that looked like Martin gazing out towards the river. I couldn't be sure since his back was to me but it looked like him. He wore a long cloak which was buffeted against his body in the stiff wind. I immediately dressed and ran out to meet him. He needed to know of the thing that came out of the water. As I trotted up behind, I called out to him but he did not respond. I knew that the wind was not a factor because it was not nearly a gale nor tempest but stiff, nonetheless. When I was at arm’s length, I begged his attention once more. What sight I saw during the moments after must have been recorded in my mind by a miracle...or a chastisement from God. The being turned slowly to me and the first I saw of its face were two horns protruding out and up from its forehead, like those of a farm goat. I use the word "face" merely to convey the place where the horns came, as there was only a skull perched upon the hideous body that stood in front of me. Its teeth were sharply pointed and of all shapes and sizes, nonconforming to the usual teeth of man or beast. Despite the absence of flesh, the thing had the full beard of a man that was unkempt and full of leaves and twigs. What other disgusting collections that might be discovered therein, I dared not to think. Every frightened hair on my body stood on end and vibrated with adrenaline. My youthful knees begged me to either escape or fall to be devoured by this creature--but I could not move. I was paralyzed yet clamoring for my mind to give my body leave, but my mind and its density were encompassed by the horror that struck me. I recalled the story of Job, hearing a portion from a verse, saying "Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark: Let it look for light, but have none; neither let it behold the eyelids of the morning". I was sure that either my life was at an end or I was trapped in a nightmare caused by fever. When I felt I could no longer bear to look upon this monster, it spoke to me in a voice that seemed rise up from the depths of the lake beyond: "The Anaye come to claim their dead. Yeitso comes to claim his flesh. Ye-Tsan, Al-Tah-Je-Jay, Tah-Bahn, Naz-Tsaid". The beast then turned around, walked into the river and disappeared beneath the black stillness of the Pontchartrain. Reviving the courage in my legs, I ran back into the house and roused Martin and Allison immediately. After waking convincing them that I very well may be crazy, I relayed what I had experienced on the grass outside their home. Martin raised himself to a seated position in his bed, troubled in a sense that I did not expect. "Charles, this thing that you describe is of ancient Native folklore - a demon that brings ill tidings.” Martin stared at his bed sheets for a few moments and swallowed hard. “Charles...Allison...there is something you should know. Something that I think you may find important.” Martin began talking about his grandfather. His grandfather was responsible for ridding this land of savage Native. But the way he chose to ensure they would never come back was more horrible than anything I could have imagined. His grandfather was not a member of any local army or militia, although he had been at one time. His grandfather had hired men to clear this land at all costs so he could have access to the river and lakefront. He wanted to claim the free land and gain control of the shipping and fishing industry that was growing and spreading to the west. Martin's grandfather, and his hired militia, were responsible for the deaths of thousands of peaceful people - men, women, and children. When they had finished slaughtering or driving out all the Natives in the area, they disposed of the bodies by burying them in mass graves, burning them, or tossing them into the Tchefuncte and Pontchartrain. When neighboring Natives heard of this and demanded justice, they were either bought off with whiskey and horses or overwhelmed by force. "My new friend..." Martin said slowly, "...I fear that we are doomed.” I leaned back, sharply, as if he had tried to slap me and Allison gasped as she drew the bedding to her breasts. Then there came a swift pounding upon the door of the Gamboa house. Martin looked at me with pale-faced concern. The hour was late and Martin’s home was not a short walk from town. He dressed and walked to the door, demanding the identity of the person on the other side. I followed with Allison, who fought to keep herself composed, but we paused in the sitting room, trepidation oozing from all our pores. A voice answered Martin's request through the door. The hollow, muffled voice said: "You know who I am." As his hand approached the handle, it turned on its own and the door opened inward without permission. Martin turned to face us, trembling with fear. Martin started to back away, almost stumbling, with his eyes fixed to the sentient door. It eased opened fully and yielded a ghostly image of a tall Native man. He was dressed with a loincloth and bead dressings upon his chest. His hip was decorated with a tomahawk and water skin. From the stories Martin told me, I feared that it was Awenasa returned, for this man carried an ominous energy and matched Martin's descriptions. However, my reason would not permit me to believe, as the figure in the door frame appeared barely older than I was. It was not possible that this was truly the Awenasa that Martin spoke of. My mind was in a fierce conflict, with my logical faculties battling the instincts of my superstitious and reptilian brain. I blinked my eyes, hoping they would correct when re-focused, but there he stood as he must have when Martin was a child: tall, sinewy, and full of an inexplicable energy. He gave a hard stare at Martin that caused him to fall to his knees, raise clasped hands, and bleat out all sorts of prayers from the Holy Bible. Awenasa ordered him to stand and said: "You know why I have come?" Awenasa's voice was ethereal, like the sound of a breeze blowing through dead leaves on rotting trees. Martin shook his head quickly as he rose and stood. Awenasa continued to stare at him as the eerie darkness of his eyes seemed to reach out and push Martin. Martin trembled and yelped like an animal caught in a bear trap. He lumbered to his study and gathered up all the Native relics his hands could carry. While Martin was in the study, Awenasa looked at Allison and me. We were both shocked to stillness. Awenasa looked at me and his voice filled the corners of my brain: "Ye-Tsan, Al-Tah-Je-Jay, Tah-Bahn, Naz-Tsaid". I tried to block the sound with my hands, but still heard it ringing between my ears. Poor Allison collapsed to the floor--I am sure from the same affliction. I lurched to ease her fall and tried, without success, to revive her as I carefully laid her on the floor and placed her head upon a couch pillow. Martin returned from the study with a small cache of artifacts. As he ran across the sitting room, items escaped from his grip and either bounced or broke as they struck the wooden slats. He approached Awenasa and quivered while struggling to prevent further items from falling. Awenasa picked out a headdress and seated it on his head, adjusting it. When it was seated properly, Awenasa began to glow eerily with a faint blue aura. His back straightened and the faint outline of a skeleton could be seen beneath his flesh. Martin’s hands fell to his sides, dropping the treasures to the floor. Awenasa spoke aloud in a raspy, hollow voice: "Yeitso comes to bring justice for my people. Your people wanted this land and you shall have it forever more." He then turned from us and walked out of the house, towards the river. Martin heaved an exhale and doubled over, as if released from a vice grip, and followed Awenasa through the door. I followed immediately after. Drums could be heard in the distance in a rhythmic drone that sounded like a giant heart beating over the lake: "THOOM-thoom, THOOM-thoom, THOOM-thoom, THOOM-thoom!”. As Martin reached the grassy field in front of the house, he halted his pursuit of Awenasa and turned to look at me. We were standing on the field that extended toward the Tchefuncte and Pontchartrain. Martin was looking to his left, past me, toward the black water. I was about to insist that we return to Allison and leave this place at once. That was his gaze fixed upon something in the distance behind me and his jaw slackened as it fell open. I had never before seen a human being express the palpable terror that I saw on his face. My empathy for him made it simple to feel the horror within him, but it also added to the depth of my own. It was then that his eyes opened so wide, I could see not only my reflection in them, but a giant black shadow behind me. I turned to look at what had shocked him and was soon struggling to control my own mind as well. There, at the lake shore, rose a thing that I still struggle to recall and describe with modern language. The thing I saw earlier in the night had risen out of the water once more, but this time it refused to sink! It continued to rise up out of the depths of the Pontchartrain, casting a gloom over the shore as it stood. It grew to be the size of a small mountain and its presence demanded nothing short of fear-stricken awe. It was a dark, green, perversion of nature, pushing black slime and soggy decay over the shore as its ascent displaced the formerly serene waters. It was almost humanoid in shape, with fins along what could be considered its arms and legs. Its hands were equally gigantic with fingers armed with huge claws. Its entire body was covered with large, black scales that reflected unique prisms of murky moonlight that were tainted with glistening sea-green shades. While I did see the monster's head and face, it is almost beyond my constitution to describe it. It is enough for me to say that I will not communicate this supreme horror to any living person so long as I live. The depths of the inky waters had born a monstrous hell-spawn of Pluto's worst nightmare. I had started into its maw and am grateful that I can live to keep the thing from invading the minds of humanity. It was when I struggled to retain my sanity that the most unholy and sickening sound erupted from the belly of this aquatic evil. The sluggish and deafening bellow that issued forth from the inside of that abomination was nearly of mythical stature. The Israelites and their horns would have been soothing songs for babes compared to the awesome power the lungs of this beast issued forth. I clapped my hands over my ears but was soon nearly incapacitated from the awful smell that followed the roar. The stench was worse than the decay of all the Earth's living things combined, had they rotted together under the water. Somehow, I survived this assault to my senses and turned to yell at Martin. Escape was beyond dire, but when I looked to Martin I saw that he was beyond reach: His eyes were stuck, frozen in fright, while beholding this thing. His skin rivaled the moonlight in its alabaster shimmer. His arms were flaccid, loose at the sides of his body, trembled uncontrollably. He did not acknowledge my summons, only repeated the following phrase: "Abandon, Shore, Attack, Beach, Kill". I went to him, shook him violently, and pleaded for sanity to take over his actions but he would not respond. Martin only repeated this phrase louder...and louder...and louder! The Earth shook beneath my feet and I could hear the creaking of wood and shattering of glass. I looked behind me to see the behemoth had taken a full upright step towards us, though still in the grasp of the Pontchartrain. It started toward the Tchefuncte, avoiding land. When it stepped forth, a wave of inky water splashed over the river banks. In my panic, I instinctively left Martin to his devices and ran inside the Gamboa house to retrieve Allison. She did not deserve the fate that lurched itself up the river. I stopped short at the doorstep when I saw two decaying skeletons, dirt and rotted flesh gripping their bones, wearing tattered loincloths and head dresses hovering over her motionless bodies. I screamed out for Allison but only roused the attention of the undead beings, which reminded me of vultures. They stood to full height and began making their way to me. They glowed with a light blue aura that had the most intensity in the hollow eye sockets. Each carried bloody skin and knives in their hands. I looked to see Allison and saw that her face and neck were dark, glistening and oozing all over. I took no time to guess her fate and I darted from the door. I had no part in the horrors that tainted this land and was unwilling to become an undead minion myself. As I ran around the house, I could hear the monster shambling up the river as it roared. The deafening roar was accented by its stride, the sound of water splashing, and the house twisting after each monstrous step. I ran around the house and was making my way to the stables in back when I saw sections of the Earth, in several places, buckle as mounds formed and writhed. Rotting, skeletal hands darted out from the fresh Earth and started to scrape away the surface to allow the rest of the body to follow. Several more re-animated dead were pulling themselves out of the Earth and lurching towards me and the house. There was also a multitude of undead shadows rising from the water, rotted clothing and gore hanging from them. They moaned as they moved toward the house and their utterances, accentuated by gurgling, only intensified the adrenaline that pushed through my veins. As I made it to the stable and saddled a horse, I knew the great beast was very near. I bade the horse to flee with all possible haste and began to make my escape, no, to scurry with great force away from the Gamboa house. I traveled east a quarter-mile, away from the Tchefuncte, when I saw that the Earth was no longer vomiting its dead and I slowed the horse. I was able to look at what was behind and, in the moonlight, I could see a sickening mob of shadows converging on the Gamboa house, with a mountain looming over the entire property. With a maddening roar, the thing brought down one of its massive arms and flattened the house with one strike. The Gamboa house exploded and splintered wood in all directions. The sound of the destruction arrived shortly after my eyes beheld the scene. It was if the Earth snapped into two pieces as Zeus unleashed all his thunderbolts in a single stroke. The sound shook us with such violence that the horse fell over. I narrowly escaped the weight of the beast upon my person. I scrambled to recover, but before I could remount the animal, I heard what sounded like more thunder approaching. It was still a clear, gibbous night which made the sound an anomaly in the midst of so many others. As the horse stood and I mounted, I was able to see what was making the noise. The great monster struck the Earth with such amazing force that it ground began to split from the impact like ice buckling from too much weight! As I watched, the cracks in the ground were shooting away from the river, and towards me, like bolts of lightning. I turned the horse around and made it run as fast as it would go, barreling away from the river. This land was still attempting to ensnare me in its fury. By the Grace of God, the horse and I returned to Mandeville that morning and I made my way to the Sheriff’s office. I alerted the authorities to the calamity I witnessed, trying to convey my story with the least amount of insane zeal possible. Despite our familiarity, they did not believe my accounts. I begged them to follow me to Halleysville, that I might demonstrate the proof of my claims. Two Marshalls were visiting Mandeville that day and offered to take the short ride and investigate on the town's behalf. We left for Halleysville just after noon, for it was insisted that I give myself and my horse the necessary respite after the ordeal I described. When we finally returned to the outskirts of Haleysville, we were struck by bewilderment and confusion. The first Marshall turned the other and asked "Isn't this where it ought to be, Jonah?" Jonah looked around with squinted eyes and said "Yep. Where the devil is the town at? The town markers should be right here!" We made our way down the dirt road that should have lead us through the square and saw nothing except bare Earth. There were no buildings or homes anywhere. Not a trace of any human existence to be seen. We then made our way to the Gamboa property and were forced to stop. Immense fissures snaked their way in every direction, preventing our passage. It was an artificial boundary erected by Nature. This must have been near the distance where I saw the Earth reaching out with its crooked fingers, to pull me into its depths. In the light of early afternoon, we could see where the Gamboa property should have been. We could see the Pontchartrain in the distance, as well. There was no house in the distance. No stable. Not even the trees that dotted the once pristine property. Everything was wiped clean except an inlet of water; a cove. It was difficult to understand, but we all were certain that body of water never existed before. From the edge of the cove, crooked rivulets and streams radiated from it like the rays of the sun. I was certain that these creeks were the fissures created by the destruction of the house; those that I nearly did not escape. The most disarming feature of all was the Tchefuncte River. One of the Marshalls told me that in the bright light of day it was always a greenish brown color. On the late afternoon of September 9th, 1899, however, it ran red like a canal of blood. The Marionette crashed upon the surface of the Pacific and sent mist in the faces of some of her crew. They barreled through the night, hoping that their timing would be right. Dr. John Barr wiped his face with a handkerchief and re-focused on the darkened horizon in front of him. If his coordinates were correct, and the writings of the Mad Arab* could be trusted, he would be meeting a cyclopean hell soon. Despite his excitement, he still kept the accounts of his great, great Uncle Francis in the back of his mind. He never spoke with his great Uncle but wished, desperately, that he had. So much of his encounter was as fantastic as it was terrifying.
Barr could picture the slimy monoliths and bas reliefs in his mind. He could see the other-worldly glyphs, and the hideous ruins they were carved into, as clearly as he could see the darkness that surrounded him. He also saw the threat of knowing too much about the antediluvians beneath the water, trapped in their tomb of living death. But it was just too much for his morbidly adventurous mind to leave, alive, under the sea. While the warnings his uncle left behind were plain as day, John's resolve was untouchable. He knew of the terrible things that happen to people who search for R'lyeh and mean to disturb the sleep of cosmic giants; how their fates unfolded before them. That was why he hired a crew of men not native to the Pacific islands, or any island from this hemisphere. The Marionette bounced atop the watery froth that Barr so desperately wanted to pierce. He walked the perimeter of the Marionette and took his compass readings to ensure he was on the right path. Once satisfied, he relinquished command to his first mate and retired to the boat's cabin, then further to the cargo hold. He stopped at a steel door and tapped a finger sequence onto a lit keypad at shoulder height. Some beeps and flashing lights signaled the correct sequence and the door hissed open on its own. This sound pleased Barr, as it reminded him of watching Star Trek as a child. He descended downstairs to the hold and the large cargo container therein. He approached another door with another keypad lock. A swift dancing of the fingers and the door hissed open, revealing a container that was 30 feet long by 10 feet wide. Barr fiddled with and opened the 6 combination padlocks and then eased the container latch open, which offered access to its contents. Barr surveyed the interior briefly: there was a small desk with a computer and a rather large object covered with that was almost the size of the container itself. The sheet was decorated with the combined image of the American and Norwegian state flags. He sat down at the computer desk and ran a quick diagnostic program. The computer's progress bar slowly filled up with small green squares as Barr followed the cables from the back of the computer across the floor and under the sheet. He smiled as he thought of the lovely present that he was carrying. So many families were ruined because of the monster beneath the Pacific and Barr gritted his teeth as he thought about the final chapter of his story---That ancient, shambling mass of evil and horror: Cthulhu. The Great Old One from the stars who waited for the stars to be right so that he could unleash madness and chaos upon the Earth once more. In a few short hours, Cthulhu would reap the rewards of his actions. Today, a single star would visit the giant abomination to liberate him, scattering him into base elements. Barr rose and walked over to the sheet and patted the object under it. It responded with hollow, metallic, pangs that reverberated within. It sent shivers of excitement through the hairs of Barr's body. In less than 12 hours, he would give this monster the chaos it wanted. It would get white-hot chaos in the form of 20 megatons. Finding R'lyeh was almost as hard as acquiring his weapon. Clthulhu would be bathed in heat that was hotter than the surface of the sun. Barr returned topside in time to see the impending Atlantean city approach. Once he saw a giant monolith jutting from beneath the ocean, he began chanting the words that so haunted his Uncle Francis many years before. "Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn". Barr hoped that Cthulhu dreamed a lovely dream tonight because, soon, the monster's dreams would be full of super-heated hydrogen. Standing before the behemoth, Carl straightened and shouted "I am not yours, demon! My soul is my own before anyone, or anything, in this universe claims it!"
The monster rose from its crouched haunches, looming fifty feet above Carl's puny body. It looked down with its massive eyes and spoke with his mind: "Mortal, I am Mu'Fkutraeion, the Great Priest of K'lgtaa-Phkrom. I am older than time immemorial and am capable of administering pain and death to you a million times over until the End of All Things. My power is not to be disrespected and I will not be insulted by your ignorance. Instead, I will bestow upon you the gift of knowledge. Knowledge of my incalculable power. Observe a droplet from my ocean, human:" Where Carl stood, the air in front of him seemed to rip open violently. Carl looked at the tear, dumbfounded, and saw nothing but blackness, galaxies, and fire inside. He saw a shape take form in what Carl perceived to be hundreds of feet away, inside the tear. As it grew closer, the shape grew humanoid. As it came into focus, Carl gasped. It was the body of a man, lifeless, held by smoky tendrils that whipped about it. The dead man's stomach was split open and his entrails were gone, leaving a void like the inside of a bloody pumpkin. The corpse's arms and legs were burned into nasty stumps only a quarter of their original lengths; his nose and ears removed. As Carl looked over this body, the mans eyes shot open in horror, focused on Carl, and expressed a pain that made Carl sick to his stomach. The now alive corpse began screaming a guttural, bloodcurdling scream that increased with wild intensity. Carl backed away, almost stumbling, and covered his face with his forearm as he struggled to keep his footing on the ground and food in his belly. Carl watched, with mounting terror, as the missing ears and nose began to grow back as if they melted in reverse, blood spilling from the wounds. His arm and leg stumps split open like over-eager flower buds that permitted new limbs to suddenly burst out. Bloody hands and feet formed, flexed, and shuddered violently. The man screamed like an animal, nonsensical and primitive, and bleated out words that Carl didn't recognize. However, the tone of the words was more than enough to understand. The mans gut suddenly heaved as his skin started to ooze over the gaping maw of his stomach. The man's skin moved over the wound and Carl could see organs growing from nothing; blood issuing forth like a babbling creek. Within seconds, the man was whole again and his maniacal screams subsided. His breathing stayed quick as it rattled. For a few moments, he spoke clearly but Carl still couldn't understand. The man looked right at him and Carl knew he was pleading to be rescued, to be saved. As the undead man spoke, his voice rose higher and higher then was further strained as if he were lifting something too large for his body to carry. His straining voice became wild and soon devolved into screaming fits once more. Carl watched while his eyes filled with tears as the man's nose and ears started to melt away; blood tricked down his face and neck. His new arms began to smolder and smoke then suddenly burst into flames while his gut ripped open and his innards spilled out. He convulsed wildly, flopping like a screaming fish on fire. He bellowed until the breath of his lungs had extinguished and his eyes rolled back into his head, which flopped forward upon death; chin to his chest. Carl fought to keep himself conscious as he watched this unbelievable display. The lifeless body began to withdraw into the blackened fire whence it came when the man's eyes shot open and began screaming again. As this process started anew, the undying man disappeared from sight and the hole in front of Carl slowly sealed. The screaming was, at first, muffled then could be heard no more. He looked up at Mu'Fkutraeion and was unable to conceal his horror. "Was he familiar to you, human? He should be. He is the ancestor from which your entire race was sprung. The progenitor, the precursor, the Alpha. Do you see now, human? Even Death bows his rotted corpse to me. I am time. I am space. I am eternity. What I am not, however, is your end. I am the beginning of your suffering until time itself grows tired of existence. Heretofore and hereafter, I remain to provide my order and judgment in this and every one of the infinite universes of the cosmos. They are all mine." While the beast laughed, Carl was washed in the most horrible cacophony he had ever heard. He shot up out of his bed while screaming at the top of his lungs. He looked around frantically about his apartment and knew he was home; free from the nightmare he was trapped in. It was the middle of the night and he was alone. He calmed himself and then buried his face in his hands to weep. He walked into the grocery store to buy a dozen eggs, a quart of milk, and a loaf of bread. It was a special evening and he planned to make dinner for his wife as they relaxed to an evening of Quantum Leap. After completing his purchase, the man waved away the sacker. “No worries, kid. I got this.” The sliding doors opened and he made his way to the car. The man was halfway across the parking lot when he was stopped by a shadow with a voice. "Hello, Jared." it said.
"Um, hi, do I know you?" asked Jared. "Yes and no. My name is Joseph Raymond Bowman. I just wanted to make sure that everything was going fine for you. How is your family? Are Martina and the kids doing well?" he asked. Jared’s spine was seized with adrenalin and fear. He took a step back and thrust his hand into his pocket, searching for the pepper spray on his key chain. Mr. Bowman was about 6 feet tall with squared shoulders. His back was to the light and Jared couldn't make out his face clearly. All he could tell was that Mr. Bowman had dark, close-cropped hair. "Jared, you don't have to fear me at this moment. What will happen to you has already been done. I just wanted to look you in the eye and tell you that you didn't deserve the past 15 years, you son of a bitch. Remember my name when your life has ended and God won't hear you. You’ll see my face soon enough." he said coldly. The strange man, Bowman, turned around and walked away in a peculiar serenity. He was whistling. Jared caught a glimpse of his face. He looked...Asian? Jared stared at his back, blankly, as he watched Bowman disappear from the glow of the Kroger shopping center and into the black of night. He was adrift in confused thoughts when a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Jared shrieked and almost jumped out of his shoes. He fell forward and scurried a few feet away while twisting around and up to see Death chasing him...only it was a Kroger employee. "Sir...? Are you alright?" asked the pimply faced teenager. He was definitely more scared than Jared. Jared stood up and dusted himself off. "I....I.....I just lost place of my car and...I just lost my car. Thank you." The employee turned slowly, not averting his eyes from Jared. Yes, the boy was definitely spooked. Jared got up, dusted himself off, and opened his car door. He crawled inside and drove off with his mind already racing. He arrived at his house quickly and pulled up to the garage, hit his opener. The garage door didn't open. He hit the button again and two times after that with no action from the garage door. He looked at his opener, puzzled, and removed the battery cover. There weren't any batteries, which was impossible: the opener worked fine when he went to Kroger a mere 30 minutes ago. He shut off his car in the driveway and entered his home through the side door. He placed the groceries on the counter and headed through the living room. His wife, Martina, was watching the television on their sofa. She turned around to greet him. "Hello, Aking Mahal" she cooed. He kept walking towards the rooms of his children, compelled to check in on them. His son, Michael, and his daughter, Diwata, were both sleeping soundly in their beds. He went in and kissed them both while trying not to tremble. He left the children to their dreams and joined his wife on the sofa. He let out an exasperated sigh while the local news reviewed the day. "What took so long?" she asked. "There was a weirdo in the parking lot." he responded. "It's good to be home." he said. "I tell you what: let’s forget the French toast, watch a little T.V., and go to bed. You look tired." she said warmly. Jared took her hand warmly. “No way. I love having French Toast with you and Al.” he said with a smile. The news was somber. Today marked the 15th anniversary of the end of the Vietnam War, April 30th, 1975. There was a small program dedicated to the U.S. Armed Forces and a brief history of the war. It all but ruined a quiet evening of French toast with Al and Ziggy. Jared was irritated by the news broadcast which told a one-side story of The Vietnam War. The reporter characterized it as a political power struggle and a waste of American lives. Jared scoffed after almost every statement by the news anchor, that didn't look old enough to remember why Americans were sent there in the first place. "My love, don't forget that if it were not for the War you and I would not be here. Our babies would not be here. Don't forget how many lives were forever changed because of that War." she said in a loving but sure tone. Jared rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his T.V., trying to let it go. He shook his head as he tried to shake away the memories. She stood up and blocked his view of the T.V., which was replaced by her frame. The light from the T.V. pierced the sides of her nightgown and he could see the voluptuous curves of her hips. He could see the faint outline of her breasts, which confirmed that she was naked underneath. She extended her hands and said "Come, my love. Let's go to bed." Jared accompanied her and took off his shirt as they crept into their bedroom. They made love and fell asleep naked in their bed. Tomorrow was another day. --- Jared woke up to an empty bed. Martina must have gone to work already. He stretched and got up, walked to his bathroom, brushed his teeth, and flossed. He dressed in a suit for work and exited his bedroom after making the bed. He walked into the hallway, towards the kitchen and almost noticed that his umbrella holder by the front door was missing. He stopped at the entry to the kitchen and looked around. The breakfast table was gone and so were the chairs. The chandelier and the Van Gogh print were gone. He scanned the rest of the kitchen and found that dining table and refrigerator were also missing. He started to wonder if he was in a dream and pinched himself. The counters were bare and there were no pictures of his family above the range. He opened the cupboards and they were empty, as well. Jared's pulse was racing. "Martina?!" he called. No answer. "Michael!! Diwata!!" No answer. He walked into the living room. Empty. Not just empty, though-- It was as if they never lived there. There wasn't dust on the floor. There weren’t blank squares on the wall that pictures normally leave behind. It was as if the house were as new as it was empty. Jared ran to the kids rooms as his panic level heightened. He ran so fast, he didn't notice that ten years' worth of pictures weren't on the walls of the hallway. He flung open the door to Michael's bedroom. Empty. Diwata's room: empty. The house was empty except for the master bedroom and bathroom. Jared ran to his dresser and grabbed his cel phone. He speed-dialed Martina's work, hoping that there was an answer on the other end of the phone. "Hello?" said the phone - it was a man's voice. Jared was confused. "Is...isn't this Stephens and Associates?" he asked. "Is this who?" asked the man on the other end of the line. Jared squeezed his eyes shut and said "Stephens and Associates. The law firm? My wife Martina is an executive admin for Stenny Steph--." "Sir, I don't know anyone by that name." the irritated man interrupted. "I believe you have the wrong number. This is the BFI Waste Management HR department. You may want to check your number." The man hung up. Jared didn't understand what was going on. There was no way he got the number wrong. He called Martina's cel phone and it was another person who claimed he had the wrong number. He called his best friend, Max, a war buddy from 'Nam. He had known Max longer than anyone else. He and Max did a tour together, spending weeks in Viet-Cong tunnels. They killed boys, smoked cigarettes and opium, and brought Freedom to Indonesia. After a brief and confusing exchange, Jared hung up his cel phone and screamed out at the top of his lungs. This was impossible. Jared went through all of his phone numbers. All wrong--no one had ever heard of him, his wife, or his family. It was like he had never been born. He walked out onto his front lawn and looked at all the houses. He felt reality was slipping from him. In an act of desperation, he called his mother. When the phone picked up, his mother answered the phone. "MOM!!" he cried. He began babbling and crying, recanting the last evening all the way up to now; not giving her a chance to speak. "...Hello? Yes, I believe you have the wrong number. I don't have a son named Jared. My son died in the Vietnam War many years ago. I don't know who this is but if this is a joke, it isn't funny in the slightest. Please, do not ever call me again." she said curtly. The phone clicked and Jared was given the choice to either hang up or talk to a dial tone. Jared fell to his knees and pulled his hair to the point of yanking it out. He felt like his mind was breaking as he cried in the middle of his yard. The neighbors started to come out of their houses, hearing the noise. The neighbors from across the street walked over to his lawn, stopping at the sidewalk. It was Harry and Amy Struthers, fellow members of the PTA and avid racquetball players. Amy looked over to Harry with a smooth, blank face and said "This will be sufficient, don't you think?" They were both looking down at Jared. Harry nodded as he watched Jared spill tears onto the St. Augustine. Harry called Jared to look up at him. As Jared did, Harry's face started to ripple and contort. Jared recoiled. It was the most horrific thing he had ever seen. Harry's eyes started to move around his face to places they were never meant to go. Jared could hear bones breaking inside the man's face. Harry opened up is mouth wider than Jared had ever seen. Harry's tongue shuddered and clumsily toppled out of his mouth. It made a “splat” sound and writhed briefly. Harry’s teeth snapped and popped out of his mouth then tinkled upon the concrete sidewalk next to his tongue, in a pool of fresh blood. The muscles on his face writhed and twisted as if his face were floured dough that was being kneaded for baking. Jared covered his eyes, suppressing a gag reflex, unable to look any longer. He kept his eyes averted until he heard a familiar voice. "Look at me, Jared. You will look at me now." the ice cold voice said. Jared looked up and took a brief moment to focus. "Do you know who I am now, Jared?" he asked. Jared squinted briefly and then the man’s identity came upon him like a flood. It was Joseph Raymond Bowman, the mysterious man from the parking lot. Mr. Bowman was clearly of Asian descent and had a stern, hard face on him. His eyes glittered but he had the most soulless glare that Jared had ever seen. It sent chills up his spine. Jared looked at the ground and squeezed his eyes shut. "No, I don't! What are you doing to me?!" he screamed. Jared heard a whistle and his son screamed "Daddy!" Jared's head flung around to see his wife and children running out of the front door of his house. "Martina! Kids! Oh, God! Where have you been?!" he bleated. As he got up off his knees to rush to them, but the sound of gunfire erupted and Jared instinctively fell flat on his stomach. He didn't take his eyes off his family as they started to stumble toward him. Jared saw liquid flames shooting from his peripheral that reached out and consume his wife and children. They were being burned alive by giant, hulking men wearing bizarre uniforms and wielding strange flamethrowers. They aimed the orange death at his babies. They were killing his family! Jared heard his loved ones scream gurgled noises and he could smell petroleum along with their flesh cooking. Martina reached for him as the flesh on her arms blackened. Jared’s family fell into mounds of burning meat as other uniformed giants riddled them with gunfire, finishing the job. Jared screamed and whirled around to see a sick smile on Mr. Bowman's face. Jared screamed again but under those screams, the voice of Mr. Bowman resonated: "Wake up, Jared." --- Jared's eyes opened and he was blinded by lights on the ceiling. His screaming choked slightly as he tried to get his bearings. He tried to look around but his head was fastened by something and unable to move. He was lying on a cold, metal table and the rest of his body was tied down as well. Jared heard Mr. Bowman's voice: "Jared, welcome back. As I said earlier, you didn't deserve these past 15 years. It is with great pleasure that I announce that your sentence has been reversed. The courts no longer feel that living the rest of your life in Subconscious Timeflow is acceptable. It has been a long, long 15 years, Jared." he said. Jared struggled for words but could find none. Only a moan came out. "This is perfect! Jared, you don't remember that I was originally your defense representative 15 years ago. I fought for you to be placed in a drug-induced coma for the rest of your life as punishment for your war crimes. I wanted you to die, Jared, but your family paid me well to let you sleep forever as your mind created a life for you. They paid for you to be placed in that Timeflow. What you all didn't know at the time, Jared, was that it was my family that you had killed: It was my family that you slaughtered when your platoon burned my village to the ground. It was my life that you destroyed, war criminal!" Mr. Bowman was panting, but he took a few deep breaths and composed himself. "I decided that it would be more poetic for you to sleep while I used your family's money to pay my associates to have them all killed. While you lived your life inside the dreams we created for you, your life was being slowly erased in the real world. Make no mistake, Jared, I had every intention of avenging the deaths of everyone I loved. You killed them all and you celebrated as the napalm burned them to ashes. Jared, you must pay for the lives you took." he said, sincerely. “It is time for justice to be paid in full...for my family.” Jared couldn't understand what was going on. He started to ask questions, but his mind was still trying to adjust itself. He couldn't get his bearings. "Jared, you don't remember any of this because you are so fresh from the wonderful life inside your mind. You must remember that it is not 1990 in the United States of America: It is the year 2009 and you are in The Socialist Republic of Bảo Đại, what was once America. America does not exist because the 'Joes' lost the war. I have waited 15 long years for you to live the life you wanted inside your head. For 15 years I have had to live with the sickening thought of you sleeping peacefully in this complex." Bowman said. "Last year, after the last of your family had been eliminated, I lobbied the High Court to prosecute your case. ‘New Evidence’, I insisted. When that didn’t work, I paid off judges and officiators with your family's money and was placed in charge of your care, Jared.” Bowman said proudly. “After being placed in your care, I deleted your records from the Central Data Hub. You no longer exist. But don’t fret, Jared. You will still answer for your crimes.” he said. “You are to answer for your crimes by living out your days in a Life Extruder as the Republic slowly drains and uses your life force as consumable energy. You will become a human battery and once your body has been sufficiently used, we will mount your dried husk on Hanoi Bridge--- er, Golden Gate bridge." he smiled. "Lastly, while your life's essence is leeched from you, you will watch the footage we have recorded as we killed everyone in your family. You will see your family again, Jared, but only as an observer." he said with a smirk. Mr. Bowman turned to two giant men dressed in strange uniforms - like the ones who killed his family not long ago. They were puffy, hulking beings that looked like massive pillars made of hard foam. They wore orange-colored outfits with strange insignia that was a mixture of Vietnamese and unintelligible symbols. He was able to make out the Vietnamese word for "Refuse" on one of the uniform lapels. "Take him to the Extruder, but be sure it is set to the lowest possible setting. I want this to take a while." he said. Mr. Bowman started to walk out of the room but stopped and turned at the doorway to say "I will be checking on him in 5 years and he had better be alive.” “Oh, and Jared? My name is not Joseph Ray Bowman. My name is Phong Vo. Your name is Joseph Raymond Bowman." he said, coldly, before walking out of the room. Jared screamed Mr. Vo's name over and over as the giants wheeled his metal table out of the infirmary and down the sea-green hall. He screamed as each light bulb passed over his head. His body strained and heaved against the restraints, bruising his body. His screams could be heard for almost a minute after the magnetovator closed and descended down to the Extruder Complex. Mr. Vo consumed those screams as if they were audible food and he shuddered every time he drew a breath. Mr. Vo called for another magnetovator and pressed the "up" button upon entering. When he arrived at the roof of the Ho Chi Minh Royal Containment Facility, Mr Vo walked to the ledge and stared across the Bay. Mr. Vo wept briefly, then wiped his nose and composed himself. He watched the black helicopters fly through the smog. He could smell the industrial pollution mixed with salt water. “Five years.” He chuckled to himself. “He will last at least twenty.” Mr. Vo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He smiled. Then, Mr. Vo pulled out Joseph Raymond Bowman's army-issued pistol from his jacket, placed the barrel inside his mouth and blew his own brains out. |
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