In the darkness, he dreamt. Around him there was naught but darkness, dense and thick, oppressive enough to drown out even the smallest hope. He could not tell if he was surrounded by a vast expanse or trapped in the smallest of space, the darkness betrayed no hint of his actual surroundings. All he knew was the fell. He heard no fluttering of clothes, felt no wind brush past him, but he could tell that he was falling. It was a familiar dream, one more akin to a nightmare as it left him with a sensation akin to a stone in his stomach. An uncomfortable lump that made him feel as if every inch of his being was pulled down into it, it almost made him nauseous. But surrounded by the darkness, even if he knew that he was dreaming, he could do nothing. So he simply fell, ever deeper into the darkness, ever deeper into the unknown.
And then, with a jerk and a twitch, Jacob jolted awake.
A shocked grunt, or perhaps a weary groan, wanted to escape his lips as he sat upright, but his throat burned with ache. The sound could not pass through the ache and reach the world, only a strained exhalation of air barely audible as he blinked repeatedly. His head felt heavy and sluggish, each blink carrying with it a disorienting sensation, it was as if he was blinking each eye individually by tugging on thin strings. It was only after a few seconds that the sensation started to slowly fade, his eyes synchronizing blink by blink until they finally acted in concert.
Bit by bit, his eyes started to adjust to the darkness around him, which was thankfully far less oppressive than the one in his dream. Another groan tried to escape him, but was once again caught by the ache in his throat, left as nothing more than an almost whistling sound of escaping air coming from his throat. His right hand rose to rub his face as the surroundings slowly came into view. He felt as if he had been struck in the face by a hammer, but he had no idea why. If it wasn't for the fact that he knew that he hadn't joined his classmates to the bar after the lecture on unconscious consumer habits then he would have suspected that someone had slipped something into his drink, leading to his current state.
His fingers covered his eye and he started to rub his face to properly wake up, a few tufts of thick hair entwining with the tips of his fingers as his palm filled a gaunt cheek and the joint of his fingers traced a pair of pronounced cheekbones. Slowly, truly it felt ever so slow, Jacob's movement started to dull. Tufts of hair around his fingertips, a gaunt cheek, pronounced cheekbones.
Jacob had just recently cut his hair. He couldn't afford a proper hairdresser, not with good conscience at least, so he had gone to a friend who happened to own a pair of trimmers. Now, with those trimmers, and his friends paltry skills, all he could hope for was a buzz cut, and he got just that, barely a step or two away from going bald.
And sure, his money was tight, but the cheapest food would often also be the one that was worst for you, so while he wasn't exactly the picture of health, he certainly wasn't so malnourished that he had gaunt cheeks. On the contrary actually, he could quite comfortably be called somewhat chubby, with plump cheeks ready for a pinching.
And therein lay the problem. He should not have hair long enough to entwine with his fingers, nor should he have cheeks that could be filled by his palm, nor should he have cheekbones defined enough to be casually traced by his fingers.
With a flash, his head ached violently, throbbing in tune with the ache in his throat. A scene flashed past his eyes for a brief moment. The flickering flame of an almost burnt out candle fighting against the surrounding darkness, a blank notebook flipped open on a small desk, a rather worn quill slowly writing strange words on the paper. Holding the quill was a thin and malnourished hand, faint quivers running through the hand at times.
As quickly as the scene flashed past his eyes, it faded and dragged him back to reality. And then, as his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, he could finally discern his surroundings.
A narrow room barely better than a nook, the desk in front of him took up just about half the space, going from wall to wall so perfectly that he momentarily wondered how it was even brought here. The desk extended slightly upwards with the addition of an elevated shelf, on which stood a row of thin books clad in leather , tied together by what appeared to be hempen string. They practically exuded a vintage air. On the desk itself stood an inkwell, something that looked like a pocket watch clasped shut, and a lone candle stand, the candle that once filled it already reduced to lumps of wax around it. A book reminiscent of an encyclopedia sat to the left of the candle stand, hand-drawn images with dense lines of texts next to them adorning the spread pages. And there, just as he saw it in the vision, sat an almost blank notebook with a few lines of unreadable text in a foreign language at the bottom, a worn quill lying on top of it all. With a tremble, his left arm rose, a thin and malnourished hand filling his sight.
Jacob's mouth felt dry, a lump akin to the one he had in his dream forming in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to hiccup, but that sound too was blocked by his aching throat, producing another whistling sound.
This… This wasn't his dorm at the university, even he could afford a better room thanks to his decent scholarship.
The thin rays of light that illuminated the room drew his attention upwards, to a small round window that was almost halfway obscured by the leather-bound books on the small shelf. The moon could be seen through the cracked and dirty glass, its pale white light fighting against the darkness in the room.
As his gaze lingered on the moon, his pupils trembled. It was large, far larger than he had ever seen it before. With just this cursory look it appeared to be at least three times, perhaps even four times, larger than even the largest full-moon he had ever seen. It was gargantuan, filling the dark sky as it gazed down upon the world with an unblinking stare.
This room. This moon. This thick hair. These gaunt cheeks. These pronounced cheekbones. This malnourished hand. None of it were his.
A desire to scream in fear overcame him, the nauseating lump in his stomach growing like cancer as it spread its sensation across his body. But even in his horror and fear, he did not have the freedom to scream, his voice halting at the base of his aching throat, reduced to a barely audible whistling wind.
The chair he sat on was pushed back as he shot to his feet, stumbling slightly due to his heavy head and the nauseating sensation that was encroaching on every inch of his body.
Clank!
A sound reached him as he rose to his feet, something metallic falling, bouncing slightly as it hit the wooden floor.
At that moment, a sense of horror he could not define or pinpoint struck him, gnawing at the back of his mind like maggots. It was as if every fiber of his being was warning him to not look down, to not question. To simply close his eyes and forget.
But he felt it. A wet sensation on his thighs and groin, as if he had been sprayed by a car that drove by in the rain. And then it moved. The wet sensation moved.
It. Moved.
Ever so slowly, it crept upwards. From his groin to his waist, from his waist to his navel, it kept rising, creeping closer.
The sensation of horror kept gnawing at the back of his head, drilling into his brain like it wanted to seek shelter in its deepest recess. And as the horror dug deeper, the wet sensation rose higher.
Finally, in the end, Jacob was no longer able to resist. The ironic thing about horror was that the more it warned you to not look at something, the more curious you got. The fear compelled you to look, to figure out if you really needed to be so afraid, to figure out if there was anything you could do.
So, Jacob looked down.
Drip.
Something struck the ground, a small drop, an almost imperceptible sound. It landed right next to the bronze butter knife stained with dried blood that had fallen to the floor when Jacob rose to his feet. But whether it was drool, tears, or blood, Jacob did not have the presence of mind to notice, his eyes glued to the thing creeping up his body.
It was blood. Thick and viscous, as if it was almost fully coagulated already. It clung to his body like a pest, sluggishly extending thin and thick tendrils that hooked onto him and helped it pull itself upwards.
Jacob was frozen, his mind blanking as he gazed upon the grotesque scene. The tips of his fingers quivered, a tremble running through his entire body. Once again, he wanted to scream, to shout, to roar, to do anything but stand there frozen.
But all he was met with was that indiscernible whistling of wind, no word nor sound able to escape his lips. And all the while, the coagulated blob of blood kept creeping higher, now so close that Jacob could smell its foul stench, a metallic taste filling his mouth. Combined, it almost made him retch where he stood.
But no, he was still just frozen there, almost chained in place as the blood crept higher.
And then, finally, after what felt like several lifetimes, one of the tendrils that extended from blob touched his throat. All of a sudden, the blob buzzed with activity, a faint tremble running through it, almost as if it was quivering in joy. Its previously somewhat sluggish movements immediately sped up as it latched onto Jacob's throat, tendril after tendril digging into him. A flash flew by his eyes, scattered scenes playing in his head.
His head was forced to lean back, tilting back further than should be humanly possibly. The blob of blood forced itself into his throat, he could feel its tendrils scraping against both his esophagus and his trachea, tiny hooks latching onto him as the blood forced itself down his throat. Another flash past his eyes, another collage of disjointed scenes. His throat bulged and expanded violently as the blob made its way past, descending through his chest before seemingly vanishing. But Jacob could feel it inside it, flowing in his veins, squirming beneath his skin and within his flesh. Another flash past his eyes.
And then, he regained control of his body, as if he had never been frozen, his head jerking forward.
He trembled as he stood there, a mixture of snot, drool, and tears flowing down his face.
Slowly, with stilted movements, like a rusted marionette, his head turned to the desk in front of him, to the pocket watch that lay next to the inkwell. His malnourished fingers clasped down on the brass item, fiddling with the button on the side and causing it to spring open. The main part was indeed a pocket watch, a very simple and unadorned one. But inside the lid of the case was a small mirror.
Jacob had seen it in the visions that flashed past his eyes, in the visions that were still flashing past his eyes, filling his mind with disjointed images. He raised the pocket watch and held it close, allowing the faint light of the gargantuan moon to illuminate the him reflected in the small mirror, allowing it to turn the disjointed and disorganized images into a single whole.
An oval head with gaunt cheeks, cheekbones that were clearly pronounced due to his malnourished state. A sharp nose and a bit of stubble around his mouth and chin, as well as lips that weren't too thin. Slightly sunken in eyes with dark bags from staying up late for many days, but even so the eyes had a deep dark blue color, reminiscent of the vast sea. A head full of thick and unruly hair that was a mixture between brown and dark red, almost resembling strands of rust. He looked to be in his mid twenties, just like Jacob. But it was decidedly not Jacob, it was a face he had never seen before in his life.
As he gazed upon the unfamiliar face that looked back at him in the mirror, his eyes slowly lowered with some trepidation, his heart pounding in his chest.
Finally, he saw the source of the ache in his throat, the reason no sound had been able to escape his lips so far. At the base of his throat, just above the point where it joined with his torso, was a horrifying gash. Uneven edges spoke of the great force it had taken to tear through the flesh and skin. And yet, the gash went all across his throat, to the point where part of him almost wondered how it hadn't decapitated him.
The bronze butter knife currently on the floor at his feet flashed through his mind for a second, the stain of dried blood at its edge almost blinding as it was reflected in his mind.
With a blunt object like that… he instinctively shuddered at the thought.
But as harrowing as that thought was, the scene that played out in front of his eyes was far worse. The grisly wound, the jagged gash, it was slowly stitching itself together. Tiny red strands remaining after the blob of blood forced its way into the wound were moving slowly and methodically, connecting the severed parts as they slowly restored his throat, one lump of flesh at a time.
His gaze slid slightly, landing on that almost blank notebook. The words at the bottom of the first page, the strange letters in a foreign language he had not been able to read. They were written in Ancient Elagian, a language Jacob did not know, a language Jacob should not know. But this body knew, so he could finally read them, the words dancing between the dried spots where tears had once stained the notebook.
"With one final act, it shall all come to an end. The nightmares, the horrors, the endless gnawing. My hell shall come to an end."
"Forgive me, Stranger, for dragging you to hell. Forgive me for transmitting the curse. Forgive me for living."
-Aldric Alain