My mind is a silver river, my memories the running water—still at times, but mostly thick and coursing. Currents and directions are chaotic, yet always moving forward. Its reflection shows me what was, but when I sink in, a whole new world opens beneath me. Simultaneously omnipresent, yet unaware of my thoughts and consciousness. It feels as if I've blended with the background itself, losing all sense of self.
The permanence of verticality is replaced by a breadth of perspective. There is no me here, no "I"—only the bliss of non-cognition, a suspended awareness of self. This is my special place.
Above the lake, at the point where water meets wind, thousands of wandering spectres suddenly appear, drifting, ethereal and aimless. They collide, separate, and coalesce in layers of shifting luminosity. Through their transparent bodies, faintly glowing conduits can be seen, while writhing tentacles seep from their forms, weaving a chaotic, tangled tapestry.
Thunder rolls across the sky above them, lightning splitting the surface. The water ripples in a swirling, holotropic mosaic, refracting the storm's otherworldly presence.
A hand, alien and foreign to this place reaches through the reflection, grabbing me.
No—I don't want to go. I claw, I scrape, but it's no use. I am pulled downward, sinking.
I fall into the shade, the dark. Water churning around me, cold and viscous, dragging at my limbs.
The lake's surface dims, reflecting my struggle in kinetic blur. Arms flail, legs kick, screams bubble to a muffled stop—nothing responds.
The depths crawl. Pressure mounts, my body entombed and shackled, lake-bound. My eyes eventually meet the true black below, just before impact.
"Wake up!" — a piercing cry.
My body jolts. I lurch upright, ears burning with frost.
So cold. My arms clutch tight around myself, muscles shivering violently. Every breath condenses in shallow gasps; each inhalation a burning vapor.
Above, the sky still hangs bruised and swollen, black ichor raining down with a thunderous sigh of deference.
Tilting my head back, mouth agape, the droplets land on my tongue — cold, metallic, tinged with a musky flavor. Mmmmm?. My lips smack as I swish the flavour around, sucking and slurping, letting it linger. Wet dog… perchance? Not very pleasant. Unable to swallow or spit, I just… let it sit there.
Then. I feel warmth. A brackish soup leaks across my cheek — thick globules congeal down my jaw, dripping down collar and neck alike.
I wipe my face. The cold rain instantly pricks at damp skin. With slick strands dribbling from my fingers, I shake my wrist, flinging away their unwanted burden.
Looking down, a dog's muzzle stares back, inches from me— teeth bared, spittle dangling in loose strands. I swallow in disgust at the sight.
"You did this… thanks" I spit spitefully
My hand finds the matted fur behind his chewed ears. I ruffle it, wiping the last of the slobber from my palm with a rough pat.
He barks,
"Not…So loud." my thumb and forefinger pinch between the knot in my brows.
He lowers his head, ears flicking, humming a soft whimper. Slowly, he rises onto his hind legs, paws dirtying my shirt by gently digging, claws prickle against chest hair.
"What is it, boy—?"
And then I see. I'm at the front of the cart, must've been dragged here.
Investigating further I squint through the bulkhead. At the back old Jimson kneels, torch clutched in one blood-slicked hand, shield dented and scarred. His face is pallid — lips tinged with color — yet around his neck hangs the pendant, pulsing faintly with a sickly light.
At the edge of the torchlight behind the wagon, shapes stir. Bodies mostly concealed, linger in the shadows, their glossy eyes preying on the pendant's glow as if it were a delicacy.
"Bad dream?" Tim's voice calls out.
"Yeah."
"Dad gets them too. He also says we usually can't trust strangers… but please—Help him."
I nod.
"Need a hand, Grandpa?" I call out.
"Tsk… took you long enough, princess." His voice responds brittle and gruff.
"No help needed! The front… lose weight… quick!" He jerks his hand violently, pointing behind himself.
Bones, ligaments, muscles — all frozen stiff. Creaking as I force myself in an uptight stance. The world lurches, and I almost fall into the yonks ahead. I steady myself, scanning the chaos. To my right Timmy's white-knuckled hands grasp the leash, eyes wide, staring past me. I follow his gaze. A toolbox, large and made of iron.
My legs creak, muscles spasm, every step, a clock-work of frozen gears.
"Over there" Tim says.
"On it."
I approach the toolbox, sweeping the clutter from the top in a clattering spill, wrenching the box open.
My dexterity fades in the cool rainy air. I fumble around— items slip, greased in wet mud: Rope. A clouded bottle. Dried meat gone hard. Wire. Scissors. Cloth and a sewing kit. I chuck them all into the nearby sack.
Stripping the container bare, I toss aside the iron cover and dig into the bottom compartment: Two spare wheels, some strange shell and a sack of yonk feed. Off the plank with you. The cover too.
"Done yet"
"Yeah"
"Good," the old man says, voice fraying. "That'll buy you enough time. Take Tim and leave."
"Don't listen to him!" the boy yelps from the front. "Save him. You promised. Please!"
I freeze between them.
"Go on. Get."
Fuck what do I do? I don't wanna orphan the kid, but. I hope he understands his fathers love.
I turn back. Tim stares at me, eyes shining. My chest aches. I press his head to my chest, hiding the wet in my gaze.
I reach for the hatchet in his small hands about to snatch it… then remember my regret. The last time I didn't help someone. The kids. Fuck.
No. Not again.
Not like this. Fight goddamn it, Fight.
"You get on Cindy — I'll go get him back. I promise."
Foreheads touching; I gently smudge the tears from his undereyes with my thumb.
"Now pass me the hatchet… Please"
His hands hesitate — He slowly presents the hatchet with a trembling hand gently placing it in mine.
"Thanks," I whisper. Patting the top of his head.
Turning back I grab the bottle. The hatchet chews through the seal with a dull pop, emitting turpentine stench, sharp and chemical. Hope it's not fire season.
I vault the wooden divider — knees gruff in squat, kinetic shock splinter up spine and sinew.
"What the fuck are you doing? Go… save my son."
"Foolish Jim. If anyone dies here, it's me."
I stagger forward, grasping him though the quaking shifts — His big forearms are my frail anchor in this seismic storm. With a powerful grip I stabilise myself, turning to look beyond.
We stand there, shoulder to shoulder, sweat trickling down our tense faces under shallow illumination. Facing us, they hide. Their monstrous outline is betrayed by the grim torchlight. Looming. Snapping. Snarling.
"Hand me your match."
"Why—?"
"Do it. Now." I command
His eyes widened. Hands fumble through his belt pulling out a matchbox.
Snatching it I strike once — dud. My hands are wet, the box soggy. Another strike — the match snaps.
"Useless" he breathes.
His ragged hands in retaliation swoop the matchbox from my grasp, dropping a torch in its stead.
I look over, witnessing the flame's blossom in his grasp.
"Comes with practice. Pour… Now!" He spits through clenched teeth. Eye demanding.
Handing the torch back, I shake the bottle. Turpentine dribbles in sluggish, oily ropes. Skin splatters; eyes shut, shadows snap, gurgle and choke at the oncoming deluge.
Eat up, my little cuties… drink deep.
Then—cutting through my malicious thoughts, I see it: a lone ember, flung high, arcing through the rain like a frail star hurled into the abyss unknown.
The match has been cast.
Bang.
The world detonates in a blinding cataract, their forms all captured within a guilty frame. A screaming firework of skyburst crimson, unfurls against the blackened moor behind.
Heat bludgeons my face with a fatalistic strike. I squint, teeth bared, breath evicted from my lungs, unnoticed. Then—seeping through the blaze—we feel it.
Fear.
Not of fire, nor death. But something much, much older.
This is a Monster. Nothing else suffices. Its aura plunges over us with the certainty of man's first predator, steeped in ancient dominion, its presence doesn't request to be felt—it demands it,
An instinct older than thought itself.
No, no time to think. Die later. Live, now!
The old man is faltering too. His legs tremble, giving way beneath the weight. His body falls, gaze staring up at their visage, wide and burning in the firelight.
"Hop on" I sputter, breaking the silence, crouching beside him.
"But…"
He pauses. No explanation needed—we both felt 'it'. His pasty face regains a scratch of colour, as he turns back to me.
We nod. Lifting him up, we leave. No words uttered.
I lunge forward, retreating back through the stilted quagmire.
Thump — my boot slams the front of the carriage. Nothing. The wood holds. Pain shoots up my knee, jagged and electric. So much for a quick escape.
"Climb, quick" I growl, dropping to one knee.
He plants a boot in the cradle of my thigh, heaving himself over. I follow — vaulting the barrier — my left knee buckles with a sharp crack upon impact. A curse tears loose.
"I told you, just leave me" he snaps.
"Never!" I hiss
I seize his collar, hauling him, as I limp along; Reaching the yonks. I throw him on— His back collides with a dull, meaty thud.
"Hold him."
"I… can't—"
"Try. For his sake."
Timothy twists his waist in an awkward mount — one arm cinches around his father's collar, the other still wrenching on the leash.
"It's… it's climbing on," the old man spatters, pointing backward with a finger trembling.
Fuck.
The hatchet's in my hand before I think. I swing at the carriage tongue.
Thud. Thump. Splinters fly. My hands blister. The grains tear. Again.
The cart groans beneath their added weight; the yonks continue dragging forward, hooves kicking up mud, breath chafing like rope.
Faster
With each new strike, skin splits and sweat sears flesh, raw.
More!
The nails give way, the partition behind begins groaning like a butchered swine dragged to the slaughter.
With a final heave, all my weight drives down, splitting the wood. The bulkhead erupts too, planks combust to shrapnel. Timber croaks with heavy strain. I haul the dog up, turn and leap. Samuel groaning under our landing.
The tongue snaps, the cart pitches backward violently, throwing us off balance. Driven by terror and the sudden shift in momentum, the yonks lurch forth, muscles taut, a guttural 'noor' bellowing from their throats, dry as they surge forward.
Over my shoulder I watch the cart as it's swallowed whole by the cold, wet and dark.
Brown turns to black. Clear becomes smoke; The horizon chokes, smudging in smoke.
The cradle's embers kindle to flame, its frame withers, decomposing in the stomach of the ever-hungry blaze. Howls ascend, indescribable, from beyond a fiery grave.
Finally, I breathe; the world holds in momentary respite.