It’s spring now, at least according to the calendar. I’ve spent a lot of time indoors, between the biting cold and the rain and sleet, just sitting and reading, surrounded by stacks of books. I read until my eyes ache, drinking wine, sometimes listening to music. The books and music are practically random, not tied to any specific topic or genre any longer – I just pick something up and start reading it; it could be a Harry Dresden book, or a book on birdwatching, or some ancient tome written in Latin or Lemurian – it doesn’t matter any more, I just need something to keep my mind engaged, keep me focused so my thoughts do not wander. When thoughts wander there have been… negative consequences.
I still need to sleep, however, and when I sleep, I still dream. I have my evening rituals, my sigils and spells and candles to protect me from the black wings and the madness and the pipers. I can still have ‘normal’ dreams though – the things in my subconscious can still spill out before my eyes as I drift to sleep, and my own thoughts and twisted memories can still torment me and drive me mad as I embrace that cursed slumber.
I found myself walking down an unfamiliar side street yesterday. It’s strange, but in a city as small as Providence there are always unfamiliar side streets; narrow alleys and hidden grottoes full of old shops and weathered old homes that you may only find once and never see again.
I was walking aimlessly – the day was dour grey but warming, and the huge piles of snow that covered the city were slowly melting, feeding streams of sickly meltwater into shimmering rivers that ran sluggish and dirty though the streets. I saw a figure standing at the end of a narrow street, just a smear of grey against a slightly darker grey, and I felt an unnatural chill that had nothing to do with the early March weather. I could feel it looking at me and, as I walked in it’s direction, it turned and moved away from me, slowly, as if taunting me to follow. Was I in my right mind when I decided to follow? Certainly not, but it has been so long since I have felt in my right mind, I’m starting to think that was the dream and this is my true reality. Continue reading
It’s a question I ask myself often, in the dead of night, listening to things slither and crawl in the darkest corners. I know there was a box, a steamer trunk. It was old and full of things, so many things… Terrible and wonderful things. It was real, I know that it was – I still have photos and videos of it, proof of so many things. I would say that at first – to my doctor. ‘But I have proof, look at the proof’ I would say, and she would shake her head and sigh. I have proof, but proof is not what the world wants. Evidence of a thing is meaningless if you are the only one who believes it.
I walked home from work and passed beneath an overpass. I have a new job now, after everything that happened. I get to work alone, mostly, and that’s soothing to me, comforting. I was walking home, as I said, through the streets of providence, and was walking under and overpass, when I heard the sound – that terrible, high pitched piping sound, discordant and maddening. I stood there, under the overpass, listening to the sound as it cut through the sounds of traffic, the cacophony of the city. A woman passed by me as I stood there – she looked uncomfortable. I asked her if she could hear it, and she stood for a moment, listening, her eyes squinting to focus on something that wasn’t really there.
“It’s just the wind, blowing through the structure’ she said to me, not sounding convinced at all. She stared for a moment longer then turned and hurried on her way. I heard her mutter ‘just the wind’ again as she moved away, and from behind it looked like she made the sign of the cross.
As if that would help her. As if it would help any of us.
As the snow-filled winds howl against my windows, icy fingers slipping through crack and crevice to chill me as I lay in the dimly lit living room, I remember stories from my youth, tales of the Yeti, the abominable snowman, even the bumbling snow monster portrayed in that old children’s holiday show we watched very year, huddled together under blankets and stuffed animals. Stories, of course – fictions created around firelight during winters’ dark chill to chase away the boredom and the cold – but like most stories, there is basis in facts, lost to the centuries, more terrifying than any made-up tale of winter horror.
In my studies, seeking Yog Sothoth and his kin, I found other stories speaking of a terrible creature, massive to behold, a god of ice and frost. The Norse tales of Ice Giants may reference this demon, which goes by Wendigo, Wind-Walker, and by the terrible Ithaqua, unspoken for so many generations for fear of the power of the word, the summoning of the old god himself. Continue reading