I’ve been wanting to post more, to keep up this blog as a document to the things that happen here, but it has been so difficult as the shadows grow longer and the nights grow darker…
Autumn in New England is a spectacular thing – it’s probably one of the most amazing places in the world at this time of year. The trees explode with color and the air has a particular crispness that I don’t think anywhere else can match. People come from all over the US, I’m told, to see the foliage and take day-trips through the forested areas looking at the changing colors. It has a different affect on me, however – and not just because of the things I’ve seen, the madness that has become my life, but because I feel such an overwhelming sense of melancholy, a sense of impending doom as the trees shed their leaves and the bare fingers of branches scrape the grey sky. Continue reading
Terrible dreams last night. I followed all my rituals too – the wards, the herbs, the stones, all there, all in place – but my dreams were dark, heavy, screams and shadows and pain. I remember noise – not the mad piping I am used to, but a rhythmic banging, something very heavy against something dull, like thick wood; definitely not metal. The banging seemed to go on… for a long time, I don’t know, time gets so confusing in dreams, then it stopped. The silence was more terrifying than the banging – it seemed more sinister somehow. More things happened; I ether can’t or won’t remember them directly, but I woke up drenched in sweat, my legs cramped, my chest tight… I was shaking.
I sat in my kitchen drinking tea when I heard something in the front of the house. I grabbed my phone – it’s just habit now, I suppose – and started to record. I called out, hearing what clearly sounded like footsteps creaking on the hardwood floors, and then I just froze… I saw it, something.. some ‘thing’, hunched, black, totally inhuman. It was fully transparent, but it somehow had weight to it… it seemed like it was physically there, but somehow not. The temperature dropped sharply and I felt that sickly black malevolence as it made its way across the hallway, and then it just left… Things suddenly returned to ‘normal’ and all was quiet…
Things are happening again, more escalations. I wonder – do things get worse and escalate because I am adding more relics and spells and strange objects to my ‘collection’? Or do I add these things to my collection because of the escalations?
The moon is up, I can see it between the buildings as I walk through downtown, Empire Street. Lots of people out tonight, taking in the summer night. They just walk along, laughing, smiling, talking on their phones, living their lives. They can’t see what’s out there, the darkness between the cracks, The moonlight sheds a cold light across the city.
The traps haven’t been working – they’re still moving around sometimes, but I haven’t caught anything, and I haven’t had another ‘incident’ like the other night… I still hear the scratching, and the whispers… movement behind the walls, under the floors. It’s worse at night – everything is worse at night. That’s why I’m out here, walking through the moonlit streets, searching for peace. Searching for answers.
I know the answers are out there. I’ve seen them in the books… heard them in the whispers. Sometimes I’m just afraid I’ll actually find them.
I was diagnosed with a persistent ringing in the ears; the doctors said it was a common malady, tinnitus, and nothing to be concerned about. Many people have the condition to varying degrees, I was told, and it was relatively harmless – one can live quite normally, even. One can live normally.. as long as you don’t listen to the sounds, the terrible, cursed sounds…
I lay awake in the darkness of midnight and hear what starts as a light hum, barely perceptible in the late night silence. It grows slowly though though, gaining in volume, changing pitch as I lay there. Soon, in the darkness, I begin to hear the piping, the mad discordant piping that fills my mind with dread and black thoughts of dark galaxies and dead worlds spinning around dim, burned out stars.
We are nothing, the hum tells me. My life, each life, is just a brief spark in the infinite void, and the universe feels nothing for us or our passing. I can hear civilizations burning away, see a thousand suns burning out and being born… The limitless gulfs of the universe swallow my thoughts as I lay there, listening to the sounds of galaxies collapsing.
In my youth, my great grandmother was still alive, a fixture at all of our family functions and traditions. I remember her being so small and frail, but so vibrant and full of energy, especially around the children. She was a natural born storyteller and, even as aged as she was, her voice was strong and conveyed a passion and depth. I remember always looking forward to great-grandmas’ storytimes and hearing the seemingly fantastical tales of her life growing up, and the amazing tales of magic and monsters she would spin for us in the too-warm living room as we sat cross-legged on the floor, enraptured by her stories. As a child you never think of stories as ‘fact’ or ‘fiction’, they all have the same level of truth; it’s only when we grow older that we start to separate truth from fantasy… or at least we think we do. It is only now, in my later years, that I call into question some of the stories I was told – were they truly just ‘stories’ or was there something more to them. Lately, however, I have seen things that call into question many of the ‘facts’ I had come to believe as true…
I have been… out of sorts. Things got pretty bad a few weeks ago. Was it weeks? I’m not sure, to be honest, I have a hard time concentrating. I needed a break, we both needed a break from… everything. We took a road trip, and we just kept driving. We drove south first, down the coast, then turned West. We ended up in Miami at some point, then Alabama. I remember a motel in Arkansas where I woke up screaming in some different language. I don’t remember checking into that motel, actually, but we had to check out in a hurry. I think someone called the police. Or maybe that was Oklahoma? We slept in the car too, a few times. Maybe a lot of times. We didn’t speak much, as we drove. Wendy cried a lot, at first, but eventually she got quiet, contemplative.
No I won’t. I can’t. No. No. Damn them all to hell.
Things are getting more clear in ways that don’t entirely make sense. I remember things that I have never done, but the memories are clear and defined – I can remember smells, sounds, and sensations that I’ve never experienced, or at least I don’t recall them. Could these be some kind of dream memories, recollections of things I’ve experienced in that blasphemous dreamscape that are somehow merging with my waking world? Or are these memories something else entirely?