My mind is a silver river, my memories run like water—still at times, but mostly thick and coursing.
Currents and directions run chaotically, but always moving forward. The surface reflection shows me what was, my past, but when I sink within, a whole new world opens beneath me.
Simultaneously omnipresent but unaware of my consciousness, I feel as if I've blended with the background itself.
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 the self.
Above, at the point where water meets wind, I see thousands of wandering specters. They drift, ethereal and aimless, colliding before separating again as they coalesce in layers of shifting luminosity.
Through their translucent forms, faintly glowing purple orbs can be seen, and behind the writhing tentacles that seep from them, a tangled web of hallowed tapestry weaves by itself.
Thunder rolls across the sky, lightning strikes the open surface.
Water ripples in a swirling, holotropic mosaic, refracting the storm's otherworldly presence.
Reaching out, an alien hand grabs me through the reflection.
No—I don't want to go. I claw, I scrape.
It's no use.
Downward I go, sinking into the shade, the black.
Dark water churns around me, cold and viscous as it drags at my limbs.
I watch as the reflection dims, hiding my struggle within distant blur; arms flail, legs kick, screams bubble to a muffling stop.
But the depth crawls. Mounting with their pressure.
Entombed, shackled, and lake-bound, my eyes witness the true nothing below.
"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 in violent motion. Every breath of mine condenses into shallow gasps. Inhalation becomes a burning vapor.
Above, the sky hangs, bruised and swollen. From it rains down black ichor with a thunderous sigh of deference.
Awake?
My head tilts back, mouth agape, letting the droplets land on my tongue — cold, metallic, tinged with a musky flavor.
My lips smack as I swish the flavour around, sucking and slurping, letting it linger.
Wet dog... not dreaming, then.
Unable to swallow or spit, I just… leave it there.
Then, Warmth.
A brackish layer leaks across my cheek—thick globules congeal down my jaw, dripping onto and insulating both collar and neck alike.
I wipe my face off.
Rain then stabs at my exposed skin.
Yuck.
I shake my wrist to fling away the filth, only to accidentally smack a dog's muzzle staring only inches from my face—teeth bared, spittle dangling in the same threads.
I swallow disgusted by the sight.
You did this… well thanks, and sorry bout the smack.
A sheepish smile escapes me.
My hand finds the matted fur behind his chewed ears.
I ruffle it, wiping the last of the slobber from my palm with a roughly gentle pat.
He barks wildly,
"Not… so loud," I pinch the bridge of my nose between thumb and forefinger, massaging the knot tied between my brows.
He lowers his head, ears flicking, humming in 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 colour — 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 those visions 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 need! The front… lose weight… quick!" He jerks his hand violently, gesturing 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, pointing to my left.
"On it."
I approach a toolbox, sweeping the clutter from the top in a clattering spill, wrenching the box open.
My dexterity fades in the cold 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 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.
My mind sluggish.
"Go on. Get."
Fuck, what do I do? I don't wanna orphan the kid, but. I hope he understands his father's 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 eye-lid with my thumb.
"Now pass me the hatchet… Please."
His hands hesitate — He slowly presents the hatchet, trembling, 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 through the quaking shifts — His big forearms are my only 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 widen. 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. A ragged hand in retaliation swoops the matchbox from my grasp, dropping the torch in its stead.
The flame then blossoms in his grasp.
"I 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 beast. Nothing else suffices. Its aura plunges over us with the certainty of man's first predator, steeped in its ancient dominion. Its presence doesn't request to be felt—it demands it.
An instinct older than eating the forbidden apple.
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 feel '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 finally give way and 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 explode to flying shrapnel.
Retreating, I haul the dog up, turn and leap. Samuel groans under our landing while Cindy, carrying Tim and Jimson, surges ahead
Behind chaos ensues.
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 as the cart is swallowed whole by the cold, wet, and dark. Brown turns to black. Clear becomes Blur; the horizon chokes, smudging in smoke.
The cradle's embers kindle to flame, its frame withers, decomposing in the mouth of the ever-hungry blaze.
Howls ascend, indescribable still. All lamenting beyond their fiery grave.
Finally, I breathe out; the world holds in momentary respite.